At the hour of dawn, the sun did not rise.

Darkness enveloped her realm as the Lady walked amongst her people. It was customary for her to emerge in the night, for it was only when those she served (just as they served her, in turn) slept that she felt truly able to protect them. Leadership had surprised her; she had not been able to simply assume the throne with her flock bleating eagerly around her. She had been forced to work hard to earn their trust and devotion, and though she had gone to great lengths to ensure their loyalty, there were times even now that she felt lacking. When they fell into the embrace of sleep, they did not question her. They were forced to trust in her completely, for she was the sword in the night that kept them from harm. The night, some would argue, was dark and full of terrors, and the Dark Empress was the guard against them all.

The Lady had never feared the absence of the sun, preferring the shadows to the light, but when dawn failed to come, she was filled with a sense of dread. What had befallen their land that the world would stop turning, that time would, in a sense, halt? What evils crept their way in the gloom? Were they obscenities that she could combat? Or would she be left helpless and in ruins, unable to protect those loyal to her? She refused to believe that to be the case, for if her followers fell, she would not be far behind; and those at the top had the farthest to fall. She would not lose everything that she had worked so hard to build in the farthest reaches of the North. And yet still the question lingered as time ticked ever onward, as it is so wont to do: what villainy crept silently over Helovia, stealing away the luminescence of the gods themselves (for surely the only explanation when the sun does not rise must be that the Sun God has fallen)?

Agitation and worry etched faint lines on her brow, a small frown covering her features. Few had awoken as of yet, and she moved in silence from her band of followers, following the distant, shimmering glow of a tree. The shadow-mare's trepidation grew as she realized the course of the light, for it was unnatural and unexplained, and such things are usually accompanied by dire consequences. But she had survived the Steppe against the odds; more than just that, she had led her herd to safety in the harshest Frostfall anyone could remember. Was it a year ago so soon? In any case, she was not about to let one more faulty god's mistakes send her to an early grave; she had bested them before and would do so again.

To her surprise, another figure stood in the gentle radiance, one that she had perhaps met when he had first arrived but had little to do with since. As she grew closer, she raised her eyes in a mixture of astonishment and respect, for dangling from the steed's maw was the wing of a skyrat. Even for one such as the Empress, who adorned herself with trophies from past murders, this seemed superfluous. He called out for her then, and she wondered if he had seen her approach or had simply expected her to hear his summons. She suspected the latter, for she rarely missed a call for her attention. "This is impressive," I say with a smile as I step into the shine from the light-tree. "Whereever did you get it?"

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."

Amber orbs traced over the lines of the steed's body, unable to make out minute details in the low light. What she could tell was that he was bi-colored, ebony and ivory intermingled in sporadic splotches across his pelt. He stood only slightly taller than she herself, though he was much bigger boned. Feathering adorned his large feet, matching the rather thick tresses that decorated his nape and rump. The silver along his markings and mixed into the hair along his legs seemed to glow in the luminescence of the light-tree. Most importantly, a long, dark horn protruded from his brow, proclaiming his lineage. Judging from his prize and his size, he seemed a formidable opponent, though she had never been one to judge appearances.

The shadow-mare listened to his explanation in a cool silence that betrayed no hint of emotion. He chose his words carefully, but he did not reach far for them; he was not lying. He paused, following the story, and still the Empress stood in silence, her lips pursed thoughtfully as she looked first at him, and then to the wing. It was pulled and prodded into the space between them, and yet still the Lady stood in silence. It was a marvel, really, to send a skyrat into such a panic that this was the result. She had never known one to tear their own wing off, but there were stranger things happening in the world. A quick glance to the sunless sky reminded her of that.

"Her name was Africa," he adds, a though to fill the silence, and the orange gaze that had discomfited many over the years returned to him. He did not show remorse; that was good. "Was," the shade repeated slowly. "Am I to assume that this means that she is no longer alive?" For the most part, she couldn't care less, but a small part of her wanted the answer to confirm the death, for what use is a warrior to her if they couldn't finish what they started? But no matter. "I suppose that your summons means that you are showing your allegiance to my beliefs?"

If he had come for praise, she would not give it to him; she was not one to give her subjects a pat on the head and a bone and send them on their merry way like grovelling dogs. But if he had come to be a part of something more, she would assist him. Recruitment into her organization had fallen, after all, and she relinquished the opportunity to expand. Again she left him in silence, slightly raised brows the only indication that she awaited a response. Perhaps she was not in a giving mood; perhaps the absence of normalcy had simply left her distracted. Either way, she was not going to make his ascension into the Plague an easy task.

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."

"You are a fool for leaving her alive," the shadow-mare told him emotionlessly. "Though it cannot be helped. After all, if you are not armed with the knowledge you need to complete a task, you cannot be blamed for not completing it." It was a gracious remark from the Dark Empress, who had been known for impatience in the past. She regarded him intently now, orange gaze seeming almost to glow in the ambient gleam of the light-tree. It was the kind of look that seemed to peer into the soul, the kind of look that might discomfort many. She did not stare so cooly into his eyes to make him uncomfortable or to scare him away; no, she merely wished to judge his character, to see if he would make a good addition to her organization.

She must have liked what she saw, for she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head before removing her gaze from him and again returning it to the wing. He should take a feather, she thought absently as a gentle breeze tugged at her own decor, sending them swirling gently away from her nape before settling to stillness once more. And then he speaks again, this time of Sno. The Dark Empress looked up sharply then, wondering under what circumstances this steed had come into contact ith her daughter, who was currently so undeniably absent. He seemed curious, and she realized that he had perhaps heard rumors aside from her offspring's tantalizing request. How many such rumors existed, she wondered rather frequently. How many knew of their beliefs? The traitor Valentine would have spread them, of course, and thus began the tension between the Dragon's Throat and the Aurora Basin. But how far had his word spread?

"My daughter was correct," she admitted with a coy smile. "There is indeed a secret here. But let it be known that it is to remain a secret." Her eyes bored into his. "It is not to be spread to just anyone, as I'm sure you could tell." She paused, again looking him over appraisingly, as though gathering her words. "Our goal is the supremacy of the unicorn species. All others are below us and should be eradicated. You ought to have killed your little play toy, but there is no use crying over it now. You will know next time." A feral grin spread over her maw, a cruel light in her eyes. "By bringing me this wing, you have begun your initiation into our group. Your loyalty is to me, and to your brethren. You will work toward our common goal. You will not hesitate to do what is asked of you. Or, rather, I suggest that you do not." She laughed, but there was no mirth in it; her eyes betrayed her.

"Do you accept?" As if he had a choice.

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."

The shade's criticism was taken with no more than a flick of the aud. Perhaps a more interested mare - or an easier to please one - would have raised a brow and the odd display of humility, but the Empress was not in a mood to take note of such things. She was neither angry nor happy, neither sad nor anxious. She felt very little, in fact. She simply was. There was no remorse over the brute's actions, no guilt felt on the behalf of the now-flightless fae. There was no excitement over her maiming or anger over her life. She did, however, favor the steed with an almost motherly smile - that is, if his mother was some rare breed of poisonous snake. In any case, she smiled in that way that one smiles at a small child when he first grasps a new concept. A bit demeaning, perhaps a bit condescending, but it was her response nevertheless. Perhaps there was even a bit of approval in that dark grin, but one can never really tell with the jackal.

His acceptance was expected, for any less would have been the grounds for his immediate execution, though she was unsure that he knew as much. At the very least, he would make a good soldier, for he seemed to learn readily enough. Perhaps, though, there would be more to this steed than met the eye. Perhaps she would watch him rise in her ranks. Well, there was only one way to find out. "Wonderful, darling," she simpered with a maliciously amused gleam in her amber gaze. "Do get to know your brothers, won't you? Deimos might be of use if you need to practice your fighting. If it is a stealthier approach that you seek, d'Artagnan may direct you. Otherwise, you may ask of me anything you desire. I will assist you in any way I can. Oh, and do feel free to wreak havoc among the lessers, darling. They're getting a bit too smug, don't you think?"

The wing may have been his ticket, but it would not be a free ride.

[OOC | Oh, muse, why have you forsaken me...?]

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."

Her feathers had been fought for and earned, even if she had used others' weaknesses to promote her own success. She thought of the family she had slaughtered: the peaceful father with no hope against her war-trained ways, the sobbing mother and her pleas for mercy, and the wide-eyed foal with no understanding of what was happening. The parents had seen their death coming in the form of the shadow-mare with the glowing orange eyes; the foal was more fortunate. He had not known, even after seeing his parents cut down before him, and as she came for him she noticed the glassy calm of shock. Perhaps another fae would have felt some sort of pity for him, but she had cut him down with the same cold indifference that she had shown his parents.

Now she wore them all as a trophy, three matching feathers, varied in size, woven throughout her ebony banner. They were brown, speckled with ivory and black, and they certainly broke up the solidity of her blackness. But they were more than just trophies, more than just decoration - they were reminders, memories of what she had done and what she still had left to do. Wherever she walked, they spiraled in her mane as a warning to all those who saw her, all those who dared bear their wings proudly. They were vermin, all of them, and it was her job to show them their place.

She could not say when her beliefs shifted from an agreement with her father's teachings to a sort of divine providence, but when she spoke now to those that might follow her, she often spoke of it in just that way. A horn, she would say, was a crown, a mark of one's station in life. To wear a crown was to be deemed the cream of the crop, and among the horned, all were equal. The hornless, on the other hand, were no better than slaves, for they lacked the mark that made them more. And the pegasi... well, they were rats, even with their wings. As such, they ought to be exterminated. Mutants, they were, perhaps, or a joke of the gods. In any case, they would not be permitted to live.

Crash Course lowered his head to steal a feather from the detached wing; the jackal smiled coldly, but there was also pride in it. "Where will you put it, darling?"

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."

A gentle breeze drifted across the landscape. In warmer days, such an event might have been welcomed, but in the frigid, sunless Frostfall, it sent a shiver down even the Lady of the Basin's spine. She might have been here as long or longer than most, but this complete and utter lack of warmth left even her haunted soul wanting. Her feathers, icy and rigid in the endless night, bumped gently against her nape; she shook her head, tossing them away, almost as if to tell them that even they would not move without her permission. That even the wind ought not blow without her okay.

Crash turns as though regarding his tail, and the Empress tilts her head to one side. Tendrils of mane slip back into place with the movement. She flicks her own tail, and the tips just brush against her hocks. She ignores it, though it tickles slightly. When she is asked how she affixed her own fathers in her mane, she smiles and says mysteriously, "Magic." Truth be told, she could not honestly say how her feathers had become fixed in her banner, but to her memory they had been there for far longer than they had not.

"I might suggest seeking out our Weaver. Surely you are familiar with Crowley?" she asked. "Perhaps he could devise a way to intertwine a feather in your tail." Perhaps a string could be made to tie the decor in place. A frown followed, however: "Although you might have to wait. His magic seems to have departed, like mine, with the sun."

@[Crash Course]
"Talk talk talk."