<div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><strong>Jahl'Ra</strong></span></div><br/><div align="center">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/Landscapes/Citadel.jpg)</div><br/>If ever there was a place so utterly lost to the ways of the Light, a place so completely wretched and vile that the Sun above struggled to shine upon it, and Nature had forsaken its soil and turned all to dust and pitch, it would still pale in comparison to the blight upon existence that is the Dread City of Jahl'Ra.  It is a place cast in an eternal twilight, its edges blurred and indistinct no matter how hard one might try to focus upon them.  The city itself is carved into the side of a mountain so impossibly massive that the architects could not reach its peak, instead hollowing out the center and transforming it into something altogether obscene.  Bizarre structures dot the landscape, expelled from the ground like warts or jutting from the walls like burnt matchsticks.  Those that have windows cast strange lights upon the city streets, twisting shadows into frightful shapes, the colours blending into abstract displays of curved angles and crooked planes that shudder and sway upon moldering walls.<br/><br/>Wavering heat and steam rise from colossal vents and tangles of piping, belching up refuse from the forges that lay deep beneath the ground where oceans of magma seethe and bubble.  The figures stalking through the slick, copper-laden streets are rarely more pleasing to the eye than the landscape around them; hordes of heavily armored guards with hidden faces, fiendish animals peering wickedly from nooks and crannies, tormented souls wailing in the gutters, and loyal minions of all Cursed races going about their business with furtive faces and nervous hands.  Ghastly shades appear at the corner of one's eyes, and vanish the moment they are noticed.  They are merely illusory, the products of a certain individual whose impatience has begun to have odd side-effects upon Jahl'Ra.<br/><br/>At its center is the Siphon, the stronghold of the Demon King himself.  It is as old as the city itself, and acts as a supportive pillar that holds the rest of the mountain at bay.  It was once nothing more than an obsidian column, unadorned and unnervingly primitive, but since the rise of its current occupant a great change has occurred.  Through sheer strength of will the King has transmogrified it into a near-gelatinous tower of shifting floors and writhing hallways, a maddening labyrinth stretching upwards into the dark and unyielding rock.  It pulsates with raw malignancy, filling the air with the strange odor of ozone and static.  Only those loyal to the King may enter and find a path that will lead them to him, for those who harbor treacherous thoughts or wield the power of Light will find themselves trapped in a primordial chaos from which there is little hope of escape.<br/><br/>The Siphon's core is its throne room, but like the rest of its surreal interior it is constantly in motion, pumped through endless stone arteries and settling momentarily in lakes of bacterial fluid before lurching off again.  In stark contrast to the rest of the building, the structure of the throne room actually seems to obey the laws of physics.  It consists of a long hallway carpeted with lush fabrics, lit by dim candlelight that casts eerie shadows upon the dozens of portraits staring down at incoming visitors, their golden frames inlaid with the finest and rarest of gems.  The faces all look strangely similar; men with black hair and red eyes, each with a royal demeanor and a stare that commands obedience and fear.  They are Children of Aurelis, but more than that: they are the former Kings of this hideous domain.  Only the oldest beings remember a time when the man called Azazel was not King, over 3,000 years ago or more, and so the rows of portraits are nothing more than relics forgotten by most and remembered by few.<br/><br/>The end of the corridor opens up into a wide audience chamber overseen by ebony balconies and silken tapestries depicting scenes from ancient legends and fables from history.  At its center is a single tall block of granite chiseled perfectly into something resembling a chair, all flat surfaces and sharpened edges.  The lack of colour and ornamentation makes it immediately noticeable amongst the vibrancy of the regal decor, much as it should.  The throne is currently empty, for its usual occupant is busy staring through the vast clear window that takes up the entire wall behind it.<br/><br/>Past the glass, captured in a sphere of twitching meat, is a gargantuan heart.  Azazel (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/Demons/CountHeinous.jpg), encased in a suit of thick black armor, shrouded in crimson robes, frilled by a collar as white as a swan's breast, face hidden by a frightful Deathmask laden with yellow-rimmed eyes and eager grin, had once been deemed the Last Father of Aurelis.  Standing there, his visage stolen from a Mad God's nightmare and given terrible shape and definition, it was not difficult to believe that this was the case.  Ever step or idle gesture seemed to lay claim to everything before him, as though it was nothing short of natural that everything belong to him.<br/><br/>His hand brushed almost reverently against the glass, feeling the mighty tremors emanating the the heart beyond.  With each eager pulsation waves of unimaginable colour echoed across the moist flesh of its prison before disappearing into gaping pores or traveling along intricate traceries of veins.  The sight was at once grotesque and magnificent, a work of art that defied description.  It soothed the thundering clouds brewing within Azazel's mind, but when he turned away from it an aura of irritation and impatience began to swell once more.<br/><br/>Azazel waved his hand and the wall of glass became one of stone, and it was with unfathomable restlessness that he laid himself across the arms of the granite throne in the manner of some haughty prince.  To the untrained eye it appeared that the King was overcome with slothfulness, doing so little when an entire Kingdom rested in his palms and a war threatened the lives of his subjects.  But Azazel's mind is vast and spreads far, far further than many might suspect.  Though he may sit, he is never idle.<br/><br/><em>"Piren has arrived,"</em>he said aloud, his voice both oddly delicate and commanding.<em>"Do see that he is welcomed home properly.  Is is rare that one of my sons pays a visit these days."</em><br/><br/>A vaguely reptilian form materialized briefly in one corner of the room, but only for the briefest of instants.  The moment the order was heard the figure was gone, hastening off to fulfill its duties.  Azazel was not one for grandiose speeches, or pompous grandstanding but he did abide by his own twisted idea of civility.  Some part of him was truly overjoyed that one of his children had willingly come to his doorstep without being summoned.  It was a small and unpleasant part, and stank of ill intentions.<br/><br/><div align="center">--------------------------------------------------------</div><br/>An ethereal shape bulged upwards before Piren and his hosty from the Hammered Spine, the great copper street that slithered its way to and fro throughout the city.  It looked briefly some something serpentine before reaffirming itself in a far more pleasant shape, that of a tall and uniquely feminine man clad in billowing purple robes laced with gold markings and crowned with pronged horns that fused naturally to his delicate brow.  Golden hair that shimmered like scales flowed down his neck, framing a beautiful face marred with an expression of vague distaste.<br/><br/>Ancalrung fixed Piren with a rather cold stare, looking the General and his putrid steed over with mounting dissatisfaction.  Such a gaze was not to be taken personally, for it was a rare soul that Azazel's closest servant did<em>not</em>treat with outright disdain.  But whatever unkind thoughts were bubbling about in his head, it seemed that his orders demanded that they remain unsaid.<br/><br/><strong>"Prince Piren.  It is both a joy and a surprise to see you at the capital, unbidden and without a formal announcement,"</strong>he announced loudly, unable to keep the snideness out of his otherwise melodious voice.<strong>"I have been sent on behalf of your Benevolent Father to inquire as to why you have returned with such suddenness, and to request that you meet with him as soon as you are settled in appropriate quarters."</strong>