<div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span style="font-size: 22px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30059"><b><i>"Look around, we've lit this motherfucker on fire."</i></b></span></span></span><br/>
<br/>
<span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span style="font-size: 22px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0080"><b><i>Emyra Jael</i></b></span></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6"><span style="font-family:Quintessential">Current Equipment: <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Flh4.googleusercontent.com%2FeVUHPCoHWeH27dBXf5GFbLQebfZnnNN9Wb3bVtXmGoei2xHZ_gdgcKhkH6UGABPCAtboBvSBxISFdGyGRCzQTDggGPTirCxqyJBlH47Ev9waPUyUNvdqLu6KZOsx9Y0kpUNXX7Yv&amp;hash=7494d3f24e1287b74f5ac85cacc3dab7" href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/eVUHPCoHWeH27dBXf5GFbLQebfZnnNN9Wb3bVtXmGoei2xHZ_gdgcKhkH6UGABPCAtboBvSBxISFdGyGRCzQTDggGPTirCxqyJBlH47Ev9waPUyUNvdqLu6KZOsx9Y0kpUNXX7Yv" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Royal</a></span></span></span><br/>
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<span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6"><br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">The smell of carnage hung in the morning air, seeping into the surrounding forests that engulfed the land for miles so that all would know the presence of the Dark Lord. Only those that lived on the outskirts of the now scorched Capitol escaped the stench emitted from the blackened ground and grey-ish trees, painting a monochrome landscape for the new residents; the Shade Army. The castle and immediate estates that had once occupied the space now littered the ground with ash, trampled on by the victors of the recent invasion who set up their Lord's tent only mere moments after erasing the Capitol from existence. Now the area held thousands of tents swaying in the wind, blowing up ash into the already choking atmosphere to create a massive black swath on the planet's surface.<br/>
<br/>
Emyra, the woman responsible for the blaze that had swallowed the Capitol whole, was chatting with some of the other mages under the Dark Lord's command when a messenger walked up to the naturally talented group. Their discussion revolved around recent spells and potions had recently created, the other participants actively seeking out the lady known as the Divine Flame for her opinion on the concoctions. While the mages were mainly a force brought together to instantly ravage a location through elemental prowess, some were also tasked with feeding and caring for the army if they showed a talent for either of these tasks. Emyra showed aptitude for both of these mundane jobs and had become the other "chefs" taste-tester and the immediate doctor on-call after a battle in case of injuries that they could not handle alone. She'd become a well-known, and somewhat well-liked member of the Army through her acts, though her brash and disrespectful attitude put off many of the more renowned soldiers, respectable only for their amounts of money they gave to the campaign rather than their battle achievements.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">As the mages dispersed to complete their objectives for the day, Emyra turned to the messenger that had been waiting patiently for the group to finish. Golden eyes studied the male in question; he seemed to be of elven and dwarf descent, retaining the delicate features of the former and the shortened stature of the later. From size and appearance alone, one would guess the messenger to be a very young child but Emyra could see the wisdom swimming in his hazel eyes. He bowed in respect towards the mage, a friendliness present from how often he delivered mail to this exact woman; almost daily did she receive both letters of threatening intent from angered soldiers to secret admirers that wished to woo her into their arms. However, despite the constant visitation, Emyra still did not know what the little elf's name was after all of this time.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d"><span style="font-size: 12px">"I have an invitation from the Dark Lord, Princess. Though from your attire, it seems you've been expecting it. I also have a few more letters from other comrades; would you like me to discard of them?"</span></span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">Emyra plucked the jet-black envelope from the messenger's outstretched her hands, leaving the other letters to an unknown fate for now. She turned the envelope over and broke the ebony wax seal that held it closed, pulling out a document akin to the color of the envelope.  As she unfolded the parchment, ink suddenly drenched the parchment as if the Dark Lord had spilled an entire inkwell onto it on accident. Emyra's fingertips became stained with the amount of liquid that dripped from the invitation, until the parchment was altered from suffocating black to pristine white, the last drop of ink hitting the soaked ground. Eyes rolling in amusement of the Dark Lord's extravagant amusements, Emyra read the contents that went like so:<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033">__________________________</span></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-family:Quintessential"><br/>
<span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033">The Dark Council has requested the presence of:<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30059">Emyra Jael<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033">Attend tonight's council meeting at 20:00 to discuss the Shade Army's next objective; the invasion of <br/>
<br/>
<u>Grailin</u>. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(102, 0, 51)">Any members that do not attend this meeting will be swiftly removed from the <br/>
<br/>
Dark Council and their loyalty to me will be brought under question. </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033">Arrive at my tent <br/>
<br/>
promptly </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(102, 0, 51)">lest actions against tardiness need be taken; the Right Hand does not tolerate it.</span></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-family:Quintessential"><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033"><br/>
Your's Truly,<br/>
<br/>
The Dark Lord</span></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#660033">__________________________</span></span></span>​</div><br/><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6"><br/>
"Thank you for bringing this to me promptly, ah.."<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">"Eztal, Princess. My name is Eztal."</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"My apologies, thank you Eztal. I have no need for the other letters at this time. Feel free to do away with them as you wish." </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">Emyra smiled sheepishly at the messenger, embarrassed for not knowing his name. However, he returned her smile with full force, not bothered by her absence of said knowledge considering he had never told her before. Bowing once more, Eztal bid the Scorching Princess goodbye as he went off to deliver the rest of the letters he had hidden in his satchel. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 153, 204)">Emyra watched Eztal's back until he finally disappeared behind one of the many tents, gone with the billowing wind until another scorned individual etched her name into paper.<br/>
<br/>
The skies were turning a filthy orange as the sun began to set for the day, dirtied by the ash as if a volcano had just erupted right in the middle of their encampment.  It must have been around 19:00 at this point, an hour before Emyra needed to arrive at the Dark Lord's tent unless she wanted to be denied entrance the same day she was invited in. Just as Eztal said, she had been prepared to receive this invitation from her Commander; most of the camp was discussing her current acts in the last invasion. While she was not the only fire mage stationed with this battalion that followed the Dark Lord closely, she was the only mage that was able to melt the Capitol whole with just a wave of a hand. By the time the Dark Lord had arrived to assess the situation, the entire city had been turned to smoldering embers, the Scorching Princess standing right in the middle, head lowered in respect rather than a complete kneel. After all, she kneeled for no one, even the force that was taking control of the continent at such a rapid pace. <br/>
<br/>
As the sun continued to sink beyond the skyline, Emyra began the long trek to the Dark Lord's tent that was pitched right at the center of camp, surrounded by the living spaces of the Shade Army's mages. Unlike them, Emyra chose to rest at the far south of the camp, the last tent one passed if they were leaving the encampment for whatever reason. She selected this location solely on the fact that it took a full hour or more to walk from the edge to the center of it, meaning more wasted time daily if she wanted to leave for her regime. Mages were stationed close to the Dark Lord since they provided more protection than soldiers that excelled at hand-to-hand combat as they could keep enemies further away from the Lord in case someone was foolish enough to attack. This way of tent placement had been thought up the Dark Lord's right hand man, the Red Mist Mage himself.<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">"Miss Emyra, would you be able to spare some time to talk to me about the Dark Lord's feast for tonight? I am one of the mages that he selected to provide for him, and I was hoping I could get your opinion on my ideas." </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">An easily forgettable face loomed at the edge of Emyra's vision, another man she could not place a name for looking at her with hopeful eyes. He was a young lad, barely at the age most boys went out to war. This little thought plucked a small string of her heart, and Emyra turned to grin brightly at the boy, startling him enough to make him take a step back.<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"Why, of course! Please, do tell me everything. Do you know if the Dark Council also gets to have some of it? I can honestly say I am famished and..."<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30059">_________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>
<br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">"Thank you again for helping me on this! I think the Dark Lord will enjoy the feast more with these changes. It is too bad you and the Dark Council will not get to try it. I will see you again, Miss Emyra!"<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">Emyra's stomach rumbled and protested as she waved goodbye to the mage, the woman now standing in front of the Dark Lord's tent. It was just a few minutes before the meeting to begin, the last members of the Council slipping through the tent flap, sending a mixture of glares and second glances at her as they passed. Patting her belly in attempts of sending away the pangs of hunger, Emyra stepped into the tent as another member held the flap open, sending her a polite nod as she thanked him. The first "room" of the Dark Lord's inner sanctum was lit only by two lanterns near the middle where the War Table was set, shaped by red-brown wood with a map of the current continent spread across it like a tablecloth. The only other source of light was Emyra's "pet" fire, the eternal flame that sat on her shoulders currently like a parrot. It tickled her neck in excitement at the view of the room, as curious as its master at their current situation.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a64dff"><span style="font-family:Amaranth">"Ah, the last Council member as arrived. Welcome, Emyra Jael, to my War Room."<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">The Dark Lord looked expectantly at the Scorching Princess as she shifted over to the back of the room, the only thing visible to most were liquid gold eyes and a flame roaming down her right arm. His empty, sooty eyes could see through darkness however, and could make out the extremely rare emotion that the mage had framing her attributes: somber. The Scorching Princess was the embodiment of fire; she was loud, rude, and commanded attention like a newborn to a mother. Only in situations that directly connected to her goals were when she put off part of the boisterous act and actually paid attention with her entire body, not just her ears. She was playing right into the Dark Lord's little game, the main character of this performance.<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a64dff">"I welcome you all to another meeting, after a successful campaign against the country of Humbrag. We are now looking towards invading Grailin and want to press the advantage we have currently due to Humbrag falling so quickly, thanks to our newest member. I would like to hear all of your advice for our strategy to swiftly take down our target."<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">There was an explosion of chatter as the members of the Dark Council struggled to put their opinions before one another. Emyra rubbed her temple in annoyance at how stupidly loud they were; while she could fill a room with her voice, the words that slipped from her mouth at least had a thread of intelligence woven through it. The old coot's that sat on the Council were just men that had donated the most money to the Dark Lord's campaign, and had no real knowledge of strategy or even felt combat before. They were Lords and Ladies of an older era before the invasion, and to keep them from being little cretins that pricked the Dark Lord's feet wherever he stepped, they were given the "honor" of sitting on his closest Council. Their opinions didn't matter, even Emyra could see that, but she would make sure hers had more value than the coins these members had weighing their pockets down.<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"How about we add some actual, experienced advice to this conversation before my head fall off from all of this mindless noise?" </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">Emyra stepped out of the shadow of the inner tent and stood at the War Table, hand floating above the numerous towns that littered around the capitol of Grailin. Her flames speedily wiggled down her arm to reach down for the maps, hungry to burn anything that would catch a spark. The small fires that lit the lanterns grew brighter in excitement at the Scorching Princess's proximity to them, eagerly wanting to please their mistress.<br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"Numerous cities are around the target. More than likely, multiple stashes of supplies will be around these areas to feed the civilians and guards. Burn them, and it is not only a loss of numbers, but valuable supplies necessary for the survival of those who seek the capitol as refuge."</span><br/>
</span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Amaranth"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">A snort resonated from one of the members of the Council, a fat little man who sweated profusely under the numerous gold bands and chains around his neck, along with a get-up that tried to put off an air of wealth. Golden eyes cut to look at him to challenge them, edging him on to let the insignificant words be vomited out of the dumpling's mouth faster.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffa64d">"This was so blatantly evident to us that no one felt the need to point it out. A toddler would see such a thing. The town of Savern is the one with the most supplies if the one that contains the most resources. Werewolves will be the most efficient there, scaring the herd of cows around the town and feasting on them. News of their attacks will contaminate the city, but with out advance from the West, they will dispatch few to no troops to take care of them. With a bit of luck, the Wolfriders will take the town, but their role will mainly be to scare, as they can be quicker and more discreet then most of the forces at our disposal."</span><br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">The balloon turned human sat down as languidly as a man of his size could, a smirk splayed across the rolls of lips and chins he had. Emyra looked back towards the War Table, reaching further towards the maps to tease her flames. They grew and threatened to turn it all to ash, as if they could burn the actual Capitol of Grailin in this one effort. A laugh slipped across her tongue as she flicked her fingers outward, throwing a few sparks at the member's shoes just to leave small burn marks. His ears reddened with anger, and before he could utter out a protest, Emyra knocked on the wood of the table.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"I blatantly stated said fact for a few reasons. Of course, the Dark Lord would see this as the best course But you see, while capturing the outlying towns would be sufficient, it can also be seen as a waste of numerous forces on our part. I'm sure many of these citizens are up for persuasion to save their idiotic hides, like all of you would. Rather than focus so much on these towns, send a few troops to attempt to add them to our own ranks."</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc">Emyra lifted her liquid gold eyes to the Dark Lord, leering lazily. </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"While the troops persuade the citizens to come to us, the main forces can easily overwhelm the capitol. If the citizens refuse, I am sure our lovely little sheep can murder them efficiently. It saves our forces time, and lowers the overall effort spent. Energies can be focused more of the taking of the capitol, rather than the frivolous little targets."</span><br/>
</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">Laughter from the Dark Council reverberated consistently as Emyra returned to her original position in the shadows, white teeth glinting in the light of her flames that currently nuzzled her cheeks. The laughter was abruptly cut off by inky hands being clapped together, the Dark Lord splashing the members with the dark liquid. They stopped their complaints as soon as they were thought up, the sheep too frightened to speak directly to the Dark Lord in defense of themselves.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a64dff"><span style="font-size: 12px">"Wonderful! And that is exactly what we shall be doing, ladies and gentlemen. While our main focus is murdering the royal family, we could always use more soldiers to fight for our cause, no? Why splash blood across land that could remain healthy for when we begin to build our own cities, towns, and capitols? Excellent view point Emyra, that's where we will end this meeting for the night."<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">The Dark Lord waved for his Right Hand to return the maps to their rightful places as he bade each member goodnight. Emyra waited for the animals to file out before she made her way towards the tent flap, amused at the amount of scornful looks she had received compared to before the meeting. Just as she reached to push the "door" open, a wet cough from behind her caught her immediate attention. She looked back to see the Dark Lord walking towards her, his gait akin to if a tree suddenly grew legs; slow, achingly slow.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a64dff"><span style="font-size: 12px">"Emyra Jael, I would like to extend another offer. Would you join me and Cromwell to have a small dinner at his estate to celebrate your joining of the Dark Council? I hear the feast that my chefs are cooking tastes absolutely splendid."<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff99cc"><span style="font-size: 12px">Emyra could barely hide the glee from her eyes as she nodded in acceptance of the invitation. Everyone knew that the Right Hand's estate also held the Shade Army's entire archive, dating back to the first note ever written in history. The archive not only held the darkest secrets of both factions, but as well as the lineage of every person born on this continent, including her. As she followed the Dark Lord, barely listening to his current topic of conversation, Emyra's flames grew in size as her delight threatened to spill outward. She had been searching for years to find any sort of connection between her and a family she could not find. Taunted for being an orphan as a child, Emyra never failed to believe that she had a family somewhere, looking for their lost daughter without rest. However, ages had passed since she first began her journey, and no evidence had ever been uncovered. If she wanted even a small bite of a clue, the archives were her best bet.<br/>
<br/>
Returning her attention to the Dark Lord, Emyra stepped into his carriage and sat down across from him and Cromwell, finally offering some words on the subject they were focused on. With each turn of the carriage wheels, Emyra could only force herself to sit still and wait patiently, fingernails digging into the cloth that covered her upper thighs. All the while, The Dark Lord's soulless orbs picked out every twitch and shift the Scorching Princess made, all too aware of the anticipation brimming in her veins.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="200" data-username="@Crazy Shady" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/200/">@Crazy Shady</a>