The Black Banner Rises

[In passion, patience]

There stood a shadow amidst shadows.

Smoke permeated from the tips of her heated digits and ascended softly into an incense-laden air. The fog was thick, and yet, in the distance, the plinking noise of sanguinary drops striking against the obsidian, marbled floor reinvigorated her senses. There was death; she was surrounded with it. A hand reached forth to instinctively adjust her tiara. She paused. She had parted with it long ago. An arcane-laden command swept the fog out of the room, and the throne, far ahead, could finally be seen.

And go wonder - that far above the throne towered the Queen in Her might, Her marbled visage twisted in glee to the spilled blood splattered across Her lithe features. This was neither the blood of the darthien nor the blood of the celestials. This was Ilythiiri blood. Her favourite blood. Her most precious blood. The blood whose shedding roused in Her a mighty roar of laughter that shook the manse to its very core.

The Princess had spent the entirety of her upbringing beneath the shadow of the Black Banner. She donned and hoisted its colours with pride unmatched, and yet, her path to the Throne was carpeted by similar shades of darkness, accentuated by golden and scarlet hues yet clutched by the charred corpses of retainers that had been too blind to know when to let go. The sigils of the House were strewn across the walls and likewise lathered across the necks of many among the dead and dying. And yet, the Princess did not mind; the path ahead was clear.

She stood before the pretender to the throne. Her hellfire-brimming eyes stared intensely at the object of her wrath. She hissed out a command - rise, abandon the throne and begone. There was no answer. The pretender remained slouched over the bloodstained cushions that neatly padded the throne. Her eyes were sullen and empty. Her darkened lips left ajar. Her chest so gravely caved in by a bolt of hellfire that the wind freely passed through. Her right hand bore a chalice; a familiar chalice, one tipped by the tremors of death, and from which dripped a very, fine, Wine.

. . .

A pact forged in blood needed now be answered for. A throne dislodged, and a crown rightfully taken. A House unified in blood, by blood, and through blood. A Kiss taken, a chalice granted. A world crashing around a Princess, as reality ebbed, waxed, and waned. As the walls around her were torn down to a starry, night sky. There stood the Queen, not too far, and yet ever out of reach. The Princess realised what the sight ahead meant. She prostrated, and soundly made her demand.

. . .

The brushing of intertwined lips turned into droplets of sanguine delicately versed into a chalice. A golden chalice, ornate and pristine. A precious artefact well beyond the reach of mortality. The nectar of the Divine wrought upon the Lesser. The mingling of the self, the senses and the mind. The surrendering of the soul. The birth of a child - a Daughter - in blood, by blood, and through blood. A germinated flower of murderous might and boundless youth. A heiress to the throne. There, stood Alyrae, and before Alyrae the Princess, and before the Princess the Queen. There, Alyrae stood, having never known life, and yet having been brought to life all the same. She regarded the Princess, jolted by impatience and ecstasy alike.

"Head yonder," spoke the Princess,
"Beyond the seas, and the hills, and the cliffs,
Beyond the furthest reaches of the Dark,
Where Light and Darkness mingle and intertwine,
Yonder are debts unpaid,
Are debts unpaid,
Are debts unpaid."

. . .

She knew what to do.
Alyrae bowed and left, but remembered to curtsy to the Queen on her way out.

[In passion, patience]

Secrets Of A Strange Wind

A little groan; a frown. Frantic shifting about the bedsheets; sweat. A dream, no; a Nightmare. There they are, once again - the spear, the heads: lined like macabre dolls before her carmine gaze as a strong wind sweeps the breath from her lungs. Alyrae shivers and beholds. They jeer at her; they mock her for who she is, or, rather...

Isn't.

And yet, a distant murmur brings stillness to cacophony. A soothing voice; a lullaby. It is carried by a strange wind, one bearing the stench of roses and the sweet scent of blood. It calls out to the Princess with the pathos of a grieving mother:

When you were yet young, I was there for you.
When you were blooded, I crowned you with thorns of my own.
When you were made young again, I refused to let you go.
And when you left Home, I followed you.
And I still linger by your side, as you squirm within the throes of...

Agony.

Look deep within you; the pangs of a fallow heart might not be so empty, after all.

[In passion, patience]

Temptation

With trembling hands, Alyrae clutches the vial. She nervously observes it. She loathes it, and yet, cannot muster the strength, the will to partake. The vial grows heavier and heavier until she cannot bear its weight. Her fingers give in; the vial is abandoned, and it clangs against the table beneath her but does not break.

"This is madness," sighs the Princess. A voice, carried by a strange wind, answers:

"The world is mad, my Daughter," a coo, that of a loving mother, "because its Queen is mad."

[In passion, patience]

Her Eight Tenets

Pain begets Strength.
Enlightenment begets Rapture.
Unity begets Retribution.
Understanding begets Victory.

Pain

"Let the newborn be brought unto Toril as they shall die: wailing out a cry of defiance against the pervasive madness of the False-Queen, against the void of purpose that has left the tattered remains of Ilythiir mindlessly gnawing at themselves. Let the wombs that bear Life conceive it thus through gritted teeth, for Life is naught but Suffering and Suffering naught but Life. Pain binds the soul to the earth and the senses to the mind. Pain unifies thought and enforces a singular Vision. Pain highlights the urgency of My undertaking, and the necessity of Strength before the merciless rays of the Sun." 186 AR

Strength

"Tear, o whip, at the flesh. Carve, o dagger, the lips and the limbs. Let every huff and every groan ring out within My halls as the most sacred of prayers. No; no; there is hardly pleasure in Suffering. Suffering is a necessity. Suffering begets Strength; how else will You punish the Abyss within Yourself, contain the Madness of Your False-Queen, and rise to stand before the Sun and spit at the scorching of its reys? Tear at Yourself in My name. Die; die; die every night, that, when the Sun rises, You emerge from Your cave carrying My banner of Red in defiance to the morning sky." 186 AR

Enlightenment

"Depart now vested with the might that our Lady has granted you. Let none stand in your path, and let the bloodied remains of those that do so linger in your wake. Fight now and ever in the name of your Queen, defend Her Temple, and ensure once and for all the supremacy of Ilythiir over the usurpers, the darthien and the lessers. I bless you thus in Her name, sanctify you in Her presence, and bind you with Her blood." 181 AR

Rapture

"[...] Finally the symphony in suffering is at an end. Torturer and torturee are together in holy embrace - the path of pain having led them into a greater connection with one another, the world around them, and the reality of things.

Nothing can hurt you now.

When you experience the greatest of pains, all others seem to pale in comparison. Just like a burst of light in a room dusty and dark, the epiphany rings loud and clear, and our chosen of the Lady discover the truth tucked within the glimmer of the knife." 74 AR

Unity

"[...] You have proudly bore the banners of the Faith and carried along its calling from generation to generation. You were many Houses, and you ruled Andunor unopposed. You were [...], and you drove the Banites without the City. You were [...], and you broke the Void Cult in the Sharps. You were [...], and you defeated the Temple of the Masked Lord. You were [...], and you left no Guldorandan wall standing. You were [...], and you humbled Cordor in open war. You were then brought low by the [...] and enslaved by the [...]. You were then remade in [...] and made to look towards the stars. You burned Myth Myon to ash and restored your hegemony over Andunor. And yet, now, during [...]'s age, you have grown complacent.

The Table is ailing. It is ailing, and our Goddess in Her Throne grows restless. You all have felt it. You all have seen it. How that impious, Eight-Legged wretch who dares calls herself Queen has usurped the Old Order. She threatens the Temple with her shortsighted ploys and her lousy webs. She threatens the Sanctity of the Queen's Hold by supporting open blasphemers of Her Majesty, who have desecrated our altars, brought low our idols, and threatened our clergy!

I call upon you sounding the horn of War." 186 AR

Retribution

"[...] None dared stand in the path of the Queen!
None dared raise their voice after what they had seen!
The lions of Aryvandaar soon began to falter,
And their roars of war were rocked into stuttered mutter!

And now we stand at the precipice of fate;
We stand, and in our hearts a craving none can sate;
To lose ourselves to the anvil and the hammer;
To be moulded like clay by Her fire and simmer!

Let the wounds we carve unto us weep!
Let our sanguine pour from within deep!
Let She shape us back into the warriors we were!
Let us quench our inner Chaos for Her!

Let all Ilythiir bask in the glory of Her rule!
In the swaying of our scarlet banners, let Corellon look like a fool;
His host is no match for our dark damning dealer of death and despair!
Let all Ilythiir bask in the glory of our Queen so fair!" 183 AR

Understanding

"And lo; the Lady soared above the flagellants on gleaming wings of fire. With fondness in Her eyes and content on Her lips, the Lady lifted Her right hand and blessed the bloodletting masses. Envigoured by Her sight, they all offered unto Her a due tithe, perished, and were reborn as paragons of their own." 74 AR

Victory

"It is with due recognition that we praise you, almighty Queen of Ilythiir, righteous heiress of the Sun and the Moon, bloodied angel whose wings swat the unworthy hands of the pretenders. You are whole, perfect, splendid. You are our cunning, scheming and jealous mistress. You are our brilliant strategist, our guardian and our hierarch. As you sit on your worthy throne, Queen of Ilythiir, scored by leagues of Ilythiiri at one side, and hosts of chained slaves at another, your right hand grips your mighty sword, Elvanbryn, whose tip rests upon the marbled floor at your feet. Your left hand clasps the cup of our collective offerings, and sways it to and fro; our token of thanksgiving that we so readily pour you. Your wings, folded at your back, are sanguinary and aflame, and your intense, violet gaze scrutinises each and every one of us. You rift the worthy from the unworthy, o Queen of Ilythiir, and separate the meek from the strong. You carve a bloodied path through the swathes of the darthien, and remind the Usurper daily of her chains. For you are unbound, o Lady of Victory! You are unbound and set free by your suffering, and you bid us to suffer for our freedom all the same!" 183 AR

[In passion, patience]

"I suppose Mother was right, about Dreams," she said, wistfully peering at the horizon.

"What did she tell you?" He asks, glancing down at her.

"That one merely needs reach for the Stars, and the Stars will become theirs."

"She was wise, then."

"She was wise indeed. I then reached for a Star of my own," she glanced, then, to her left, "I plucked it and made it all mine. And now that the Night reigns, it shines me the path ahead."