Her yellow eyes betrayed the many questions that fell silent before reaching her lips. "I do not know that we have succeeded with this rock, Asham. Though, we must trust that the others have devised a plan to defile the Moon's curse." Iblys tucked the rock under her arm and departed down darkened hallways towards the quiet streets of Mhaldor.

Quietly and purposefully, small groups began to file into the laboratory where Iblys was reciting a silent prayer to the Lord of Evil, her gaze on the giant, metallic orrery. Confidently, Father Azor of the Blood Congregation stepped forward among his peers to lead the delicate orchestration, infernal commands issuing from his lips. One by one, the houses entered the ritual with smooth choreography that focused upon a single moonstone. Stealthy poison from the Naga joined the powerful energies of the Ebon Fist, helping to empower the sacrifice slayed with Maldaathi blades in a malevolent dance.

Daemonic voices howled upon rising winds that filled the laboratory as Mhaldor confronted its weighty charge. Preceded by a deafening crack, a foul, black ichor emerged from the stone, seeping from its defiled surface. The corners of Iblys's mouth turned upward imperceptibly as the group hurried to the offensive pool beyond the gates. Soon, we will turn it to Master's purposes, she thought quietly.

The soldiers of Evil descended the mountain and surrounded the meteor crater, their final task at hand. As the desecrated stone splashed into the silvery waters, Iblys swayed slightly to the chorus of violent, daemonic voices screeching on the wind. A chunk of the very meteorite that cursed the fog joined the stone within the pool, defying the forces that put it there and completing the rite to destroy Lady Ourania's touch. An angry red light exploded upon the island as a swirling pillar of infernal flame shot skyward. As Iblys's cowl blew off her head, leaving her hairless pate exposed to the burning effigy, she flung her arms wide to welcome the Lord's wrath.

While the flames were burning away the remains of the celestial curse, a guttural voice whispered deep within the walls of Mhaldor, seeking answers. Another servant of Evil responded to the voice, "Oh yes, Master. I have made the preparations," In an absent gesture, her hand closed around a rotting finger hanging from her neck, her sudden laughter echoing in the darkness.



Penned by My hand on the 1st of Glacian, in the year 630 AF.