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Open eyes heavily lidded, booted legs comfortably crossed, sore back carelessly hunched, elbow bent on throne's arm, and head propped on hand; the queen was in deep thought. It was the bags beneath her eyes, the way her foot shook, how every sigh made her back explode with pops, and the leathery feel of her elbow that gave way to what she may have been thinking of - her lack of rest. Guilt? No, I don't see what there is to hold against myself. She's yet living, which is more than I expected... She left that notion as she first found it, an accident. Hm, what of failure? I don't see any shortcomings within myself, she shifted uncomfortably in the throne chaise, in which she had confined herself to for days, Why dally in the mortal psyche? My life is ever lasting. My worries last milliseconds. I myself am a part of every thing and one. What have I to fear - my own nature? What felt like a weary smirk spread across her face - a bit of satisfaction mixed with vanity; what felt like pride was actually self-deprecation; what felt like a smirk was a grimace, one so close to a frown that it would upset a demon to even see it.

That was what became of the Queen of Darkness after her first encounter with mutiny. But her deviation from herself was not plainly all there was to it - there was another nomadic journey made. Each time she'd rest her flesh, her fear led her into the area that Vesperus built so long ago, where he would recuperate. That is to say her body slept, but her mind and soul did not. Several weeks elapsed until her thinking evolved: I am evil itself. There is no fault in my divinity but in those beneath me. And they ARE beneath me. Her lips stretched into a paper thin smile that tore into her glassy eyes - a weaker version of her pathetic grimace.

Thus thought, she began implementing laws unspeakable and unwanted. After a month, all demons were stripped of free will, according to a complex of laws that only a wordsmith could concoct. When her people rebelled, she put the fear of death into them. Ah, now this is mad: demon warriors fearing death? At the hands of the root of evil, you bet your a** they were. Thus far, it had been nearly half a year since Acedia left and nothing would ever be the same again. Familiar, perhaps, but back to those days? Ah, Crescence made the world eternal in its evanescence and cruel in its glories.

Control was a glory and Pandorous' unknown cruelty was sacrifice. It was only when she stood from her balcony and inhaled the air that she noticed something was amiss: Where are the kegs of mead, the brutal brawls, the petty arguments? The streets were clear where demonic mothers once shamelessly beat their children in public. She knew they were all training within their homes - her ravens watched them all. When the Queen of Oblivion sniffed the air, she smelled clean oppression. There was no freedom nor fun. Though her demons lived long, they aged faster without vice. When she exhaled, her true authority demanded her insecurity away. After much contemplation from her view from above, she burned her laws and threw kegs in the streets. Demons, despite the circumstances, will take a stiff drink.

And so they made merry in the streets of the Underworld - yes, there was much rape and theft, but that's how the world was supposed to be. From then on, her ravens kept her demons in check about their diligent training regimen; but there was time to enjoy existing too and that's what truly mattered. When Pandorous got that into her thick skull, she realized just what she felt a year ago - loss.

Two years of inner toil and she was finally ready to move forward. Though, keeping a watchful eye on Acedia through hair puppetry did hinder her progress - watching it bounce about as she traveled and lay lifelessly when she rested. The ventriloquism was not full - the patch of hair would simply bob as if it was still attached to her. Though it would seem inadequate to some, Pandorous knew Acedia's behaviorism enough to know that her tresses always seemed to suit a moment appropriately. By then, she was used to dismissing Acedia's swatch of hair in the corner of the room. Though the writer agonized over the banishment, she did not regret it.

What she did regret now was that she was so immersed in thought that she didn't see her book floating in front of her face. It was when the blood stained sheets began to glow that her eyes widened in shock. Two pages slipped from the binding of her book. The romantic image of swaying and rocking before an edge combusted into flame and fell into ashes was more than Pandorous could bear. A routine recon mission, she murmured hostilely before pinching the bridge of her nose. "They'd better arrive soon or they will wish they too perished." Harsh words coming from a woman impatiently tapping her boots on the floor and brows slanted worriedly.

But as she fretted, her mind disassociated: half-concerned and half-furious. Her fury stroked her vanity, telling her that they were more than ready to attack - that light will know darkness soon enough. And who would stop the hand that massaged the pain? Most definitely not Pandorous. Without so much as truly thinking about it, she declared war on Alexandria. With her mind made, she took to fretting that the rest of her best men may never see the darkness of the Underworld again.

In a fit of rage, she crept into the souls of a few lecherous and murderious men, driving them insane with their lusts for flesh and blood. It was enough to know their victims would envelop with as much evil and attempt to ruin them; enough to make the queen sigh and simper in a vague sort of satisfaction.