The library extends for more than ninety floors beneath the estate and into the mountain. It is mostly a cylindrical chamber, about a hundred feet across, perhaps a little more, with a large column in its center also covered by book-filled shelves. Hundreds of thousands of books; tomes and scrolls; biographies; auto-biographies; historical documents; perhaps the greatest collection of its kind ever amassed by a single living entity, are kept within this place. The entrance to His private chambers are on the bottom floor of the library.

India. 2005. Her name is Satyaki. It means "one who is truthful". It takes her almost an hour, every day to reach the bottom floor of the library. There are no books on this floor, however, only doors. One leads to His room. She has never opened the others, nor does she have any desire to. Satyaki doesn't know who built this place or even for how long it has stood, but there is one thing she is certain of: just beneath the surface of its dark, macabre elegance is an ancient decadence that chills her to the bone. It is something in the air, in the walls, in the water of the river... and in Him. Opening the door, and continuing on with her task, she finds herself now on a long walkway mysteriously suspended over the encased river. His room is a glass half-sphere at the end of the walkway, which except for its entrance is completely encased by another waterfall. There is only one piece of furniture in this room, an winged throne made of ivory, with its back to the entrance. Small white candles line the perimeter of the room providing only the dimmest of light.

"You're drink, Sir."

"Thank you," His hand reaches out and lifts the wine glass from the tray. "Have the invitations been sent?"

"Yes. They have been mailed this morning."

"Excellent. See to it that they do not refuse. Have the others begin preparations for the banquet. Here. I have provided a list of what must be served to each of our esteemed guests. After all, we must be excellent hosts, and provide their favorites." He grins coyly, and hands Satyaki a wax-sealed parchment.

"As you bid." The young Hindu girl's eyes dart nervously about the floor, avoiding contact with his face. One does not stare the devil in the eyes when he smiles.

Synopsis
Those from the circus that had accepted the invitation to the Yanarae Manor left the others in Istanbul. The circus was resting before they began their journey east, and so they had free time. The fates once again threw lots and strange events followed. A group of traveling merchants had requested to set up their market on the grounds in order that the local townspeople may by their wares. It attracted the curiosity of Omar’s guests, and they too went to see what was in the offering. To Omar and O it was clear that the merchants were Rakshasa (demons), but they did not initially seem to intend harm, but amongst what they offered besides magical trinkets were also magical animals, including a dragon. An altercation ensued, which attracted the attention and ire of the Emperor of China, who was leader of the Asian Commonwealth and a dragon himself. He sent his elite to deal with the situation, and it was though Omar’s negotiations that the situation was resolved without further incident.

India. 2005. Yanarae Manor. "Interesting, how events transpire more as they should rather than how they've been planned out. That is not how I intended my first meeting with the circus-kin to take place. I am... uncontent." He thought. The shimmering lightless black gate closes beneath His feet. His name is Omar Yanarae. In certain circles, he is regarded as a sage and a scholar of the occult; as a renowned dealer and collector of rare books and tomes; a Sorcerer of some merit, and... one or two... other... things.

He removes His suit jacket and tie, then places His wolf-headed black cane down by a nearby table. An exquisite item by all accounts, the cane, a gift from a Roman Emperor, if memory serves. The head of the wolf was made hollow, and is rumored to house a tiny glass orb filled with the tears of a solider who crucified a king. Tears. Tears, the tiny children of grief, of joy, of ecstasy or rage, can possess an unexpected level of power.

India. 2005. There are two libraries in Yanarae Manor. One is a magnificent collection of rare books and arcane tomes; the other... is a collection even far more magnificent. The shelves of which are filled with an insurmountable number of minute glass vials, and bottles filled with the tears of kings, heroes, villains, murderers, artists, immortals, gods, demons, angels, dragons, fey, aliens, and creatures for which there is no description. This is His aerie. This is the Sorrow King's realm. Each vial is a book onto Him. His gentlest touch will reveal the secrets contained within... who shed them and why, when, where they were, and where... they are now.

Near the door, neatly placed in the center is a small wooden box carved in the spring out of elm, and lined with bison fur. Inside are six tiny vials capped in pewter. The vials contain the death-tears of six generations of a family line. A family cursed to witness each generation's patriarch die at the hands of a friend. Omar picks up the box, palms the sixth vial in His hand and concentrates. "Time to pay you and your little wizard a visit, my friend." He opens a black lightless gate beneath His feet and vanishes.

Sometimes... the devil feels generous.

Synopsis
As is always the case with mysteries that are explored, answers were given the Alchemist regained his memory, his name was Romulus, a man born when Rome was at its zenith and while he was born to no woman of no man, he himself had a family, and had embarked on a new quest namely to rescue the grandson who had been kidnapped by a enigmatic being he knew as the Timeweaver, and his companion from the Circus Stretch -- given name Thomas Alcott-- knew as Zendalz. It was possible he was responsible for both their situations albeit indirectly. Stretch was a man fated to die in battle as his father had, and his grandfather and great grandfathers before him. The eternal Omar had visited with Stretch’s ancestors at the times of their deaths to collect their tears, and believe that he could offer Stretch assistance in his quest to avoid his fate, in return for his tears. Neither Stretch nor Romulus had been at the Manor, but Romulus recognized Omar as a demon. Knowing his origins, but not his nature, they assumed him to be evil, and Stretch finally rebuffed the offer, insulting Omar in the process.

"With manners like that, no wonder you and your entire line were cursed. I hope you and your descendants rot with the maladay placed upon you. You could have been kings. The tears you needed, still do, and will, I guarantee you, come asking for them. Although, then there will be a price attached to it."

Omar turns to the alchemist "I find the hospitality of your house lacking, Romulus. I do not easily forget an offense. And... oh... and my friend," turning once again to Stretch, "Despite what you think you know of ME and my KIN, I will tell you this. All the tears in my collection are freely given, otherwise they'd be worthless. I am a creature of darkness, but not of malicious evil. No malintent was meant by the gift. I have a certain 'soft heart', shall we say, for those under a curse, but I shall leave you to your own devices. They will lead my way again."

With that, the Prince of Sorrow opens a black lightless gate beneath his feet and vanishes through it.

Synopsis
In the cross roads of existence there are places that exist and places that were more like dreams. Technically the City of Doors did not exist at all, but it was a convenient deceit agreed upon by all races as a place where the creatures of the mystical realms could gather and conduct business. It lay at the cross roads of all dimensions, which was impossible on a philosophical and ethical basis, but because the young mortals of Earth the center of the Primal Universe, believed it existed, it could be reached. The one thing agreed upon by both the people of the planes and the Primal Universe itself was that no divine being could enter, and if they should there would be dire consequences.

The City of Doors. 2005. "Crass. Rude. Arrogant. Uncivilized Texan!" Omar brushes off the small fragments of glass off of His shoulders as He steps out of His portal and onto the streets of Sigil.

"Are there any other types?" A sarcastic voice rises from a hooded man standing beside the secluded alley where the Demon Prince just appeared. "Honestly, can you blame him... or anyone for that matter... who would not trust the likes of Omenar Za'jadoe Yanjare? You may have proved time and time again to be a creature of your word, but you have a magnificent gift for manipulating those words very precisely. What are you up to?"

For several silent and tense moments, Omar studies the cowled stranger before finally raising His eyebrow and responding. "You... precious few know Me by that name. I thought Gods weren't allowed in Sigil... if the Lady uncovers your presence here, trickster, I doubt she'll be in the most pleasant of moods. As far as to what I am up to, My business... is always My concern."

Synopsis
Titania is one whose actuality far exceeded her reputation, She is the second queen of the Fey, daughter of Gloriana the first Faerie Queen. Her realm is said to exist in the Twilight that is neither dusk nor dawn, this is somewhat of a metaphor, which refers to the fact that she was here before mankind, and is rumored will be here long after. She could arguably be considered a trickster and certainly a god, but is essentially neither. Her words can be taken literally or metaphorically but they are always true. If there are any tricks to them it is in figure out which she is speaking. Titania’s encounter with Omar was no coincidence, she had been watching the members of the Red Top Circus for reason she has not yet stated.

The Demon Prince tosses his head back and laughs. "My apologies for the rude response, Titania. My attentions were elsewhere. For the briefest moment, I confused you for another. A pleasure, of course, as always. A woman's prerogative, no doubt, but you seem to have an astonishing knack for appearing at the most unexpected moments. As far as My purpose here, I've come to shop. I need to pick up one or two odds and ends before a dinner party." Omar smiles as he examines the Elven sorceress' face and posture for clues of her mood. "And yourself?"

Synopsis
Omar ironically shared the Earth with a number of beings who thought themselves alone on the ancient planet. Each experienced some of the great mysteries of life, but it is a tale far more complex that any of them can tell. There is a fabled child that exists important to the existence of the entire universe, the child with whom Omar was to meet was not that one but a metaphor given life Kmeic the Phoenix.

India. 2005. Yanarae Manor. A black lightless gate opens on the floor of the sixth level of the library, and Omar Yanarae rises from it. He has spent the better part of the last day running errands in the great City of Doors, with an Elven sorceress, who for reasons of her own, has on more than one occasion crossed paths with the Demon Prince.

The Demon Prince, who for years without number has ruled over The Shadowrealm of Sorrow, a twilight world where the tears of the damned find their rest, endlessly swirling like lost fireflies in an endless night. A neutral force among the great Lords of the Abyss, He was defeated, humiliated, cursed, and confined to a floating rock in space by a near Demongod, cut off from the realm He still ruled. By all accounts, He should have died. He did not. Could not. It is the nature of true sorrow, never to let go, and the Shadowrealm will not surrender or abandon what it loves. So, for two hundred and fifty millennia, He walked a barren rock, and from a quiet distance, watched man raise himself from the swamps and climb down out of the trees. For two hundred and fifty millennia, He has slowly, ever so painfully slowly grown in power, changing face with the times. Now revenge is less than twenty years away; the Circus is coming to town.

Omar Yanarae has the power to travel great distances, across dimensions, and onto other worlds, but the barrier of time is as of yet beyond His power to traverse. Yet, He has gone beyond that sacred curtain, from time to time, in the company of others... and there are things which He has seen; the rise and fall of mortal nations, the lifelines and destinies of heroes fulfilled; and one spectacular event... the felling of a particular Demongod by the hands of a young mortal child, a child yet to be born... a child that will be born... among the circus-kin.

Synopsis
Kashmir, India 2005 (Summer). Kmeic sat on the roof of the train at the point just before the ruined dining car. This was by far the most complicated place he had ever found himself in. But it was necessary to join up with this traveling band of Entertainers. The prince of the Gith had dissolved thier long relationship, leaving him without a companion, he needed someone new to be by his side to do great things while Kmeic did not so great things, and told tales about them. The circus owner wanted to hire him but not for his many copious talents, but because he was a Phoenix. He found that absolutely charming. Apparently the man must have been hoping for him to burn down the circus. He couldn’t really fathom why, they seemed ho have plenty of other people willing to do that for them.

He would have composed a ballad about this, except that this was either a limerick or a dirge. This science was a potent magic. One armored woman had bested an ice elemental, a gryphon, a demon prince, a succubus and a winged fey ranger. It was a low blow that this Centurion had also tried to kill a humble storyteller as well. Shaking his head, to shake loose the memory, Kmeic walked along the top of the train cars. He thought of popping in on Warren the fraud, but he was afraid he would not be able to keep straight face, and it was so rare that one got to trick a trickster. He saw the demon prince return, and wondered where he had gotten off
to. He wondered why he was here. Circuses were nexuses, everyone who was any one new that, but rarely did they attracted beings from the lower planes, and this one had two, three if you countered the one from the Unseeli court. The Succubus might not have an agenda, this was a rather comely circus, and that might well have been enough of a reason.

“Is this place a bit too brightly lit for you?” Kmeic asked leaping from the top of the train to speak to Omar.”

"Were it not for the light, young Phoenix... there would be no shadow." Omar closes his book and raises his head to glance at the youth.

"Not all the planes of Shadow are realms of darkness; even tears wept in utter despair hold a spark of hope. And so it is in my lands as well, for beyond the seemingly endless River of Tears, there lies a door leading to the Upper Planes, and the realms of light. Not all things are absolutes. There are always shades of grey." Omar lowers his dark-tinted glasses a fraction; allowing Kmeic to see his eyes.

The Sorrowlord's eyes are empty vessels of lightless black; they betray his almost human appearance to his true heritage. At his whim, they can pierce the soul and see the sins of a being's life; their despair; their sorrow; lies; murders, madness... and even the deeds of the common thief are all laid bare.

"What beautiful shadows have been layed down in the wake of your lives..." Omar raises an eyebrow and smiles. "What sorrows bring you here?"

Synopsis
Pending.

Omar gently taps his cane once on the floor of O's sanctum, and lets the lids of his eyes fall heavy. His hostess is currently entertaining another, and will no doubt be indisposed for quite some time. A thick inky black mist begins to leak out from where the cane and the floor meet; it's cold smokey tendrils rise to caress the Lord of Sorrow and engulf him. When the mist finally parts and vanishes, he too is gone.

India. 2005. Yanarae Manor has been unusually alive with the sounds of activity; the reconstruction and redesign of the estate is now almost complete. Omar permits himself a casual smile while passing the busy masons, carpenters and craftsman. He has always had a flair for the dramatic, and the estate's new look is no exception. Two colossal perched stone gargoyles, almost eighty feet in height each, now flank the entrance to the manor. The gardens have been reseeded, and any broken statuary within them replaced. O has even donated one of herself for one of the hidden oubliettes. Fortunately, both of Omar's libraries and their contents survived any real damage. Soon, no doubt, everything will return to some sense of normality. Normality? How does an entity whose life has spanned all the ages of devil and man define "normality"?

India. 2005. Omar made his way down to the lower level of his library; all the while, his mind unconsciously cataloged the contents of every floor, every shelf. The last level (which in actuality is the first) contains no books... only doors... five doors, to be precise. Each one aligns with one of the points of the large golden pentagram that had been carved into the plain wooden floor ages ago. In the center of the witches' star is a single chair.

Omar removed his jacket, his shoes, his socks, his tie and shirt, and left them along with his cane by the stairway. Sitting down, he let his body find its familiar spot in the chair. Omar let his eyelids go heavy as he slowly tilted his head back, allowing the hands of some unseen force to gently undo the braid of his hair releasing the black mane to fall loosely onto the floor. The doors creaked open. A thick inky black mist began to rise in the very air, out from his eyes, his lips, the pores of his flesh, the roots of his hair, and from beneath his fingernails until the whole of the library was engulfed by the impenetrable living darkness. Omar was home.

The Realm of the Lord of Sorrow. 2005. As it has always done, and always will, the mists have taken Omar to where He has willed them to. His black lightless eyes open and His bare feet touch upon the cold surface of smooth wet black stone. It is night. It always is. Yet, there are never any stars in this sky. Only the strange faint light emanating from the mists illuminate the blackness of this eternal nightland. The trees here are tall and strong; their roots are stubborn and have grown deep through the centuries. Yet, they are barren, lifeless and have never bore fruit. Only the deep-black abyssal roses seem to flourish in this dark gothic wasteland.

Omar's destination lies less than a quarter of a mile outside of the haunted forest's edge. A small flock of macabre blue- and violet-eyed ghostly ravens begin to gather and quietly escort Him through their woods, gracefully swooping left and right to clear His path of loose twig or stone. In the distance, He can see the Tower of the Lord of Tears... His Tower... a simple black spiral with an exposed room at its top, reaching defiantly to the heavens. A single high-back black throne sits in its center with torn drapes floating about it.

The road leading to its base is not empty, however. It is buzzing with activity; others have gathered, and are walking the path beside Him. The denizens of this realm have sensed His arrival, and are making their way towards His Tower... towards Him. They gather to watch and listen to the storm one more time. They are horrors, by the definition of any and all man's ancient lore. Yet, they dare make no sound in His presence. No threat. No posturing. They march alongside in silent respect. In nearly all other realms of the abyss, physical strength and sheer might dictate the chain of command, but not here. Omar Yanarae is Prince here.... undisputed... unchallenged - set upon His throne by the very living essence of Shadow and Sorrow itself. Above His Tower a stormcloud is gathering in strength, drawing all the smaller clouds from across the abyss to its center. The winds begin. Small raindrops begin to make their descent.

Lifted to His throne, by one of the greater balors in the realm, Omar sits down and lets His body find its familiar spot in the throne and prepares Himself. His eyelids go heavy as He tilts His head back. Any mortal would think the night here could not get any darker, but even the smallest flicker of light is consumed when the storm screams its arrival. The rains pour down in full force upon the Demon Prince and the Horde beneath His Tower. Hundreds... thousands... millions... billions of raindrops illuminate the sky, refilling the dread rivers... raindrops... but not just rain... not just water. The Heavens are crying and Omar's realm is lit afire with the tears of the damned, of the cursed, of holymen, of the innocent, and the stillborne. The last tear of every living thing, man or beast, angel or devil, will find its way here... to soak in the skin of the Prince of Sorrow.

The tears race down His face, soaking His hair, His flesh. Each one is a volume of history to Him. As each precious deathtear lands on His exposed skin, His mind becomes a race of images, emotions, flashes and glimpses of lives lost... and through Him... they ALL understand. His voice whispers in the back of their minds, at the base of their necks, and in the shadows they cast. His voice brings knowledge. Understanding. History. Horror. Fear. Ecstasy. Sorrow. His voice brings the storm. His voice brings the tears.

The storm subsides leaving the demon denizens and their Prince soaked in its wake. Omar collapses to the ground, drenched, panting. The demon horde is now sated and fed, and they like the dark cloud once above them begin to quietly disperse. Omar's eyes fall heavy and his forehead kisses the floor. The milky black mist pours from every one of the pores of his flesh like thick tar, engulfing Him, cradling Him. Soon the darkness is replaced by the candlelit walls of his library and the smell of Earth.

Synopsis
Pending.

Still drenched in raintears, Omar lies on the floor of his library. His face kissing the edge of the pentagram he carved with his bare hands so long ago. The tangled wet strands of his hair stretch across his back like spiders' webs. Still engulfed by the demon storm's ecstasy, he barely can manage to open his eyes and see the hooved feet poised inches from his face. The strong smell of sulfur violently fills his nose, and a familiar unnaturally warm hand grabs him by the hair on the back of his head to not-so-gently turn his face.

"Are you done reveling in your demonism, young Prince?" The grip around Omar's hair tightens slightly, and the creature's hot breath dries the tears from his face. "Tell me... old friend... what is my little O up to these days?"

Finally coming fully to his senses, Omar chuckles. His laugh barely containing the obvious distaste for his current... guest. "Hello... Grazz't."

Synopsis
Pending.

She had felt his presence before, a long time ago, but she could not remember when. He was majestic and the sight of him filled her with dread but he was familiar too
as if she knew him long ago. "Sleep my child, sleep," came his voice as she leaned into his chest...

She shook the vision from her delirious mind as she saw him, a being of light, casting no shadow with eyes of holy flame. How had she not seen him among the decrepit
ruins? With the voice of madness still in her mind she stepped forward, arms outstretched. An eternity older than time unfolded before her as she steadied herself. She too had changed; was changing...

Inside her the forces of light battled those of darkness. She was somehow both and neither, a being of timelessness both demonic and angelic. She thought to herself, "You no longer hear their voices do you?"

"Omar," she whispered, "I need to know. Who is the Demon named Grazz't? Who is he to me?"

O awoke in her sanctum her lungs voicing a scream from the void. Her hair was matted against her face which was set in a grimace of anguish. A thousand souls screamed simultaneously in her mind, burning. She was hungry. Her flesh had been unsatisfied for many days and it sometimes brought upon lucid dreams and visions. She sat up in the sweat covered sheets and looked around her familiar surroundings. She breathed in to quench the burning in her heart. She had lingered in her underground caverns for far too long. She had ignored the affairs of her brood, choosing to instead to devote herself to dark arts and knowledge that had taken an eternity to acquire. Then she was visited by Dmonique and something had stirred inside her. Grazz't could no longer be ignored.

Her mind swam, thoughts piercing her very soul, memories older than time itself returning in glimpses to a time when the world was frozen over. She remembered his voice as her still frozen body was carried away from the hunters. She tried to shake the visions free. No!

Dinner had been a fiasco and she felt ashamed to have humiliated Komodo is such a way. It had been a ruse.

She rose out of bed, hunger taring at her insides, plaguing her every thought. Something had happened somewhere, far away. She saw glimpses of golden scales and radiant light. She steadied herself and breathed as her body desolidified and became a wisp of smoke, rising through the hearth and into the chilly night. She needed to speak to him; to the being so changed by the grail. She needed answers; but more importantly, she needed to find herself.

The cottage had faded and she soared into the clouds. A hint of the sun's silvery rays pierced the horizon far away and dawn grew near. She traveled instinctively to that far away land of saffron and coriander, jasmine and lilac.

A rhyme came to her and she thought of the scorned dragon king. Fiery visions blended with the undulating beauty of the golden flags of a crumbled palace. He had faded away, become unknown; a being of divinity, all the sorrows gone. She did not know what she would find or even if the walls still stood. She had been fed sweet meats by his glorious human servants; had been revived from death by their blood. She yearned for answers, but more importantly for the truth she already knew deep down; the very truth that coursed through her infernal veins.

She chose to glide through the night sky; an angel in the darkness. Faces and dreams became an indescribable maelstrom of paranoia as her misty wings swooped down through craggy black peaks. The scent of lightning was thick in the wispy air; much too thin for human lungs.

O descended to the once gilded terrace where menacing gargoyles stood their eternal watch; their faces twisted and deformed. Her misty tendrils swayed in the breeze as she hovered before the rubble. She hungered.

She screamed then, the very same scream from her vision; a lamentation of death and agony as thousands of demonic voices were extinguished by fire. She dispersed then and swirled about, taking various shapes as her thoughts ripped through her subconscious. She became flesh then; a cold and weary woman filled with rage, her nakedness contrasting with the pitch-blackness of the stone fortress before her.

She picked up an iron brazier and hurled it at the massive bronze doors as a primal, yet very human scream escaped her parched lips, "Omar!"

Synopsis
Pending.

India. 2006. Yanarae Manor. There were no servants, or signs there ever had been. The massive manor layed before the beautiful succubus in near-ruins. The massive river that once ran beneath the demon prince's palace had all but vanished and dried up. His collection of tears? Gone. Released to the wind. The books that had taken the Lord of Sorrow ages to gather? Gone. Washed away in a flood that would have rivaled any biblical account. The gardens of fragrant black roses? Gone. Dried and withered in the sunlight. This place was a palace once, but now it feels like a tomb, and something wicked watches.

The Lord of Sorrow has always had a mercurial sense about him. Always there have been subtle changes. Then the Grail, and His dark mantle wiped away with a single sip. He stood in the center of the rubble with his back to his guest. His long white hair cascading down between his heavenly wings. Once, he was an inseparable part of the shadow, but now Omar seemed to almost pulsate with a blinding light. In his right hand, He held a massive golden scythe. Was the destruction around him his own doing? He turned and stared down his guest with golden eyes of fire.

"I am Redemption, and I... am absolute."

Synopsis
Pending.

"Omar," she whispered, "I need to know. Who is the Demon named Grazz't? Who is he to me?"

Omar walked towards her until he was no further than a foot from the succubus. His wings curved in about her, and His scythe reflected the light of the rising sun. The sound of crackling embers could be heard coming from his eyes. His voice rang with the cold distance apathy of a man who has walked the Earth for a thousand millennia.

"Of either blood or kinship, he shares none with you. Grazz't is the Demon Lord bent on climbing into the very fields of Heaven to wage his bloodwars, and desecrate the thrones of Light. All infernals know his name. It dances in your blood, in your minds, and your skins, as it once danced in mine. He is fire, fear and lust, and that is what draws him to you. You are the Venus of the Abyss. A trophy. A crown to wear as he marches into the Heavens. His memory is long, and he does not quickly or easily forget an offense, If he cannot have what he covets, he will destroy it."

Synopsis
Pending.

The crackling gaze was followed by an inner warmth as Omar put his wings about her. Momentarily all cares were lost and she welcomed the comforting embrace. She thought about the books of his vast library burning; thousands of years of knowledge destroyed much like the burning pyre that had been Alexandria. This made her suffer deeply. There was nothing left of his abysmal palace. He dwelled here as a pale ghost of righteousness; a lost guardian transformed. He could not bear to face death and so he rose as light itself yet still tainted by the rage of having lost something or someone dear to him. He had lost himself. She leaned her face to his chest and heard his voice echo within it.

She shouldn't have come. The realization weighed heavily in her chest. Gone was the Omar that sipped dainty glasses of blood with her in the City of Doors (Sigil) at the
edge of the world. Her friend, her fellow traveler and scholar had become something she could only half understand. She thought then of the genie trapped in the ornate vase. Could he somehow reverse his fate?

Thoughts, thoughts and more thoughts interrupted only by the delicious scent of flesh. Yes, he smelled like a living man; no longer like nothingness and ether. She ran her hands along his alabaster flesh, slowly, feeling his skin, his warmth. He spoke, but she barely listened. Her heart beat fast like a dozen wild stallions. Her cheeks flushed along with her breasts, her pupils dilated, she reached up to his lips her body longing for him; desperately. Had the desire always been there?

Grazz't, demon lord, waging chaos in heaven...trophy, Venus...his voice trailed off and she could think of only his lips as they moved...