Subjugated to prison, to the unseen cage of confinement, stripped of freedom and collared like a bitch -- it was but a sordid tragedy in comparison to her former leadership, the way she led armies and ruled, steadfast, with an iron grip on her people. She should've been a queen, ruling alongside her mighty dragon king, yet here she was, trounced and on display for the sickly amusement of others, to be jailed for her non-existent crimes. Well... she would not presume innocence, but her atrocities, her acts of slaughter and massacre, had not been committed within the realm of Helovia, and therefore her enemies' attempts at justice and apprehension should be null, their consequences unable to affect the haughty daughter of slaughter, the vengeful harlot. Yet here she was: condemned to the cold of this Aurora Basin, forced into captivity, harboured for her heinous mind.

Poison seeps from charcoal pores, glistening decay and ruin seeking out life to rob, to thieve energy from innocuous sources incapable of resistance; starved for death and murder, the sweet and glorious promise of retribution for keeping her subdued, stolen like the common peasant... did they not realize she was a goddess among men, an immortal among mortals? She hungers for revenge, thirsts for blood and the artful blooms of corrosion on pale hides, to see and hear their screams flourish in her divine audits, to observe the peeling of flesh from bone and sinew, to watch them crumple and fall beneath the ashen hooves of the mighty! Laugh she would when they were trapped within the nefarious illusions of her companion, the wicked kitsune who perches { vile } upon her shoulders, jaws gaping and tails crackling, curling, with ceaseless energy { his longing for homicide surges through their bond, feeding her own malicious desires } -- she would hang them, cut their heads from their torsos, teach them a lesson to be remembered.

Those who stood in her way, within the radius of her treacherous sorcery, would fall, as she marches to her penitentiary, dark features imposed with suffocating rancor -- her arcane wants for corpses to litter the ground and her magic to fill the air clear on her reviled face.

Why had she not fought back? She has fallen sickly in the mind, her fractured thoughts unable to comprehend the illogics of following the sleuth without complaint -- desiring only to wreak havoc upon her enemies, upon the civilians of this earth, quivering in her wanton rage and ever-growing frustration, utter madness swelling beneath her svelte curves and hard ribs. And her companion, her mongrel, is unable to contain her furor, the fermented mania that tickles in her head and thuds through her withered heart. The colors of evening paint them red -- turn them dripping in gore -- as they advance to their new encampment, red glistening on shoulders and the deathly white skull { daughter of Oblivion, the Demon King! } Hooves crunch through early snow as the succubus twists up her head, nostrils flaring to cusp the cold scents of encroaching winter, eyes glittering:

"I want to speak to your rulers." And her voice, her voice is a thing of crushed diamonds, all broken edges and razor sharpness, a grating promise of oblivion, balanced precociously on the edge of insanity. "Now."