vιιι. вlαcĸ αrαcɴιdια

'Man must divine himself from his "soul" and, in turn, set his soul free to divinity.'

"You concern me with you listless silences"

"Erm... how? It is just a moment to reflect without the mere spoils of sound, nothing beats a little... spiritual naja haja"

"Because I concerned with all of this paraphrasing by definition work you do concerning our 'darker' manuscripts, and the preciseness you strive for in syntax."

"Well... there is the blight against the written word among our relations, and the barriers it seems are weak. Of course there is need for concern."

Eye balls now in complete glower of a feral intensity,"How many legends have there been, finishing with the bard, storyteller or author vanishing, never to be seen or heard from again..."

"It is what it is!"...

"Mam! It wasn't all that long ago it happened to one of our own research team." Spoke the lab-tech assistant with a receding, "hairless" head, the Norian male with no facial visage and parched thin lips, smirked at this unrefined morsel of education. Then, the puny 5'6 quantum-mechanic of prominent excellence and distinction; a 'Proletarian' folkloresque no less, though classed as a nerd who enjoyed adding his two-cents worth of verbiage...

"If you imply that the self-styled 'Dr.G,Schzult', the Ayenian profanitist who, with his cluster-fuck of supporters, venerated Sa'zsthishog-Yg’ke? This 'unknown' who... mind you, not even the Prisci give permission for it to be spoken let alone remembered! Then to sell that knowledge as a fictional carnival or presented as the Elder Gods and Oddity Calender of the year-- all for personal gain!...I do it for those who can't translate the original language, whose own monks, mages and priests can't  interpret it or haven't learned the required elements of the diverse and various segments of the transcripts, so that perhaps in some spark of wisdom and growing a clue we may get our philosophy a little more sacred with wisdom."

sᴀтʀıɴᴀ ᴇıтᴀɴ─κıʀı [вıσɢʀᴀρнʏ]

...his orchid of immortal bloom.

Shadows mix and merge beneath the crimson sky, coalescing to form those perfect trysts of light and plethora danced and merged to form that perfect darkness this realm knew so well. There was naught left but the ruins of those bitter memories; perhaps some too had been good, though days and years were long it was hardly like she knew what happiness was... when coming back to this place under the shadows of the Empire? There was nothing like looking on the crumbs, of the unholy and divine knew of her conquests, oceans of blood sweeping over the land. But, was she the only one remaining to perceive such greatness or lust for power? In the end did it really even matter, for who was there to grace it or embrace it, besides the ghosts that haunted the darkness behind those cold, stygian eyes? Perhaps it was more disturbing this barely caused a flinch on that perfect pale facade, emotions unstirred as those eyes scathed the abandoned vestiges, untouched, reserved, poised. A soft muted scoff emitted twixt those crimson-arches of lips, sweet breath stirring the elements while long rivulets of ravenesque tresses flowed, shaking... shaking in disbelief of all that this family had seen, reduced to nothing and the scapes of its lands inhibited by peasants and the lepers known to her, as mankind.

. |‡| . MINUTIAE . |‡|. “When darkness is at its darkest, a star shines its brightest.”

||GENERALE—

☩ Birth Name: Xae'Za'afiel Sheitânii.
☩ Known Name: Satrina Sheitânii Eitan Kiri.
☩ Formally known as: Atra'Lamia Darkbane.
☩ Primary Title(s): Aester (Empress) of Lorenz.
☩ Secondary Title(s): Imperial Concubine [Lao'Taun].
☩ Previous Title(s): Sovereign of the StarSide, Maest of the LCV Voltian, Queen of Eden|Tenaria, The Scourge of Ayenee.
☩ Pseudonyme(s): The Bringer of Pestilence, The Black Widow, The Dark (or Black)  Orchid.
☩ Visible Age: 20 years old.
☩ Date of Birth: [unknown].
☩ Gender: Female.
☩ Visible Ethnicity: Oriental Human-esque.
☩ Affiliation: None.
☩ Religion: [unknown].
☩ Common Language(s): Norian-Espra|Latin|Enochian|Saatthan|Ske'kell-stha|English.
☩ Nature: Vindictive, Cunning, Manipulative & Seductive.
☩ Periodic Timeframe: From the Fall of the Gardens of Eden -- Futuristic Ayenee|Nova Surrune|Lorenz|Elysium Spiral.

ωнᴇɴ ᴀ ωσмᴀɴ ıs ғσυɴᴅ!

Virulent: The Eastern side of the city was predominately technologists, and the coming settlers who had come from the former Chrystalian Republic now that they had fallen under the rule of the true Chrystalis. The Western Half of the city however, the last place where the sun's piercing rays had reached after the magnificent towers of Castle Ayenee VI at the center of the City and the Portal District, where critical connections back to Ayenee, Tenaria, and the other Olde realms had been opened to allow for easy travel to what had now been described as the new frontier, the lands of opportunity - Ayemvu. New The Western side of New Ayenee bore the tapestries of the Lorenzian Empire, and its powerful allies that had savagely pounded a path across the old realms which had ended with their Emperor's rise to Chancellor. 

Virulent: Towering Spires of Temples devoted to the Esprarthiquayito and the mages who had solemnly swore their lives to serving the Manifestient and his workings since long before even the first Castle Ayenee had been built by Varsinax. Looming barracks, stables, and armories thinned out into the military yards that were still flooding with inbound soldiers from the old realms sprawled outwards towards the traditional rise of A-frame homes and the spiraling dance of smoke from their chimneys that scented the air of maple-wood, and cherry. The dark places of the expectant Darkbanes laid outwards towards the frontiers, joining the dirt roadways that lead towards Ferrai and the infamous Iron Dove Tavern and Inn owned by the Eitan himself.

Virulent: The words of one Chrystalian Nira, the late Aestaesys of Chrystalia had given birth to the thing he had threatened for decades, the beginning of mass immigrations from the old realms to the new, bearing conquers such as the Darkbane. Their Queen, Atra, already at work within the realms along with her legendary Warlord Malice. The massive sprawling metropolis, the jewel and capital of the realms Ayenee had been reborn, right in the middle of the realms that had once been forsaken as savage and uninhabitable. Even some of the rears of legends such as Armand DeLeon and Varsinax himself had managed their way through the portals to the new lands.

Virulent: The faint rays of the sun filtered through the panes of stain-glass arcs reflected in the polished stone floors of the Castle. The footfalls of the guard, the crackle of fires within the fireplaces were all the echoing murmurs from which one could draw sentiment. Sentiment that a Chancellor now turned Emperor found himself cultivating as he looked out the massive window out over the Eastern side of the City, watching as cranes swung to carry beams up the sides of one of the buildings still under construction as construction mecha acted as guides to ensure that the heavy beams didn't smash into one of the electronic billboards that was advertising the 'First Landing' concert that was being held at the Ryuusei Ampitheatre by Asune Thunder, one of the Chrystalian bands whose lead vocalist was Yuurei Daithilus, the son of Tisou and Reina.

1. тнᴇσᴅıcʏ [ғᴀıтн νs ғᴀтᴇ]

Shadows... that was all that soothed the carousel of swirling emotions which blended with the darkness, only to entwine and writhe with the mitigated light seeping from behind the door from the hallway beneath. Amber-gilded spectrums that strove to reach out, in failing hope to warm a cold heart. There was no such thing as physical light, piercing the ice on the exterior. Cold as she may appear, or this merciless calculating killer silent in thought and complexity—she was awash with the mystery of emotion, those of loss, regret and vengeance. Those three emotions, or much rather, emotional adheres to the poison of her wrath... was enough to melt the thickest of glaciers, a thousand years over, or a millennia of ice ages. There was something more potent that the passions of revenge, hatred and contempt. One emotion that toppled all three like the Towers of Babel, rendering all to nothing but rust, then slowly casting to the dust of entropy. Nothing wilted here however, not even the last dying light procured by the overture of unnatural illumination from behind the metallic door. That cursed luminosity, the only guarantee of enlightenment not faltering, not dying. It installed a false sense of endurance and patience, Satrina could cry a thousand rivers had she permitted herself to do so; but no, it was not the flow of salt and water required to wash away these sins like the baptismal of Jordan. It was swallowed, caught as a lump to the throat before skin hardened, emotions frozen, and her eyes clouded to the darkness of bereavement, and even in those moments of dark solitude, faith had not been abandoned, for there was still that firm grasp on belief.

Hope... Satrina near scoffed at the sentiment of that word, a word that many had fallen upon like spears jutting outwards from the force of an unknown enemy. The knife constantly at the back concealed behind the multitudes of smiling faces, courteous in their treasons, polite in their declarations of spite, sweet in their transgressions of malice. All the while, the poker face remaining, unmoved and unchallenged by perhaps the greatest trial left yet to face, do or die, succeed or fail. No in-betweens’ remained... the liminal refused to play neutral. The final chess piece played near to perfection from the opposition, yet what was the message yet to be portrayed? What was the lesson, reason or cause that made sense of it all, no justice in the chaos of the Commonwealths loss? It was this waiting game the provoked intemperance of frustration, eating into Satrina’s essence like the worm to its carcass... lifeless. In the silences of seclusion, when her eyes were closed in search for answers, only to hear the static signals of white noise and scrambled frequencies. Sometimes there was nothing but the crawling of the primal darkness of empty space, or the scuttling... reminiscent to dead flesh crawling with parasitic life. Conundrums of symbolic quandaries, enigmas and senselessness, a mind clouded with the visions of the Lorenzian firmament turning from the amethystine hues mixed with cobalt and saffron to blackness. Ash falling like rain and the sorrows of its people were not even enough to spare her own tears; for not all lives were spared let alone saved. Forced upon death-kneel, to kiss the earth that already was dampened with the stains of blood.