If thou openest not the gate to let me enter,
I will break the door, I will wrench the lock,
I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors.
I will bring up the dead to eat the living.
And the dead will outnumber the living.

Was she surprised that they were so slow to answer her call? No. Ishtar's job did not include much ruling with Baphomet at her side. Especially when Riddle was so young. She was thankful that he was so young, and she knew that he was sleeping quietly in the den. She had checked on him before the untimely death of her beloved. Yet here she stood there like a statue on the throne that was entirely too large for her paws to bear. Baphomet's paws were far better suited, reaching far longer than Ishtar's ever would. She silently contemplated whether or not she would always feel this cold. It was a stark comparison to the warmth that she had always felt in the Demon King's presence. She would never have another male by her side, even if come winter she gave into her baser instincts. And no one but blood of Baphomet's would inherit the throne--of that she was certain.

She watches as forms appear into wolves through the mist and gray of Iromar. The first to come was Ruvindra, the former queen. She had seen little of her save the marks she had left upon her lover's flesh. Baphomet had ruled her worthy enough even with her unfortunate color. She watches as this once queen submits, though awkwardly and breaks the silence between them first. It was true submission and Ishtar nods at her, feeling a connection with the Ceberus. The other had lost much or so her lover had whispered to her in the night beneath the stars and spring leaves. Ishtar nodded her head, watching the other and meeting her gaze steadily though the emotions that ebbed and flowed within her hot blood did not reach her eyes. The tightness in her throat does not ease. "Thank you Ruvindra." Perhaps Ishtar would say more if Paldor did not appear next. He seemed more Ruvindra's shadow than a real wolf at times, but Ishtar was still thankful that he appeared.

But the words that tumble out of his mouth cause a spark of anger, her lip curling just slightly over the white canines of the mouth that had killed males bigger than him. What did he know of pain? Ishtar would easily show him just how much pain she felt at this moment. Yet somehow, she manages to keep her temper as she sees the familiar form of Jezebeth manifest from the mists. Her gaze flickers to Paldor, "When an appropriate time arises then we shall talk Paldor." Oh yes, she knew his name and she would be willing to hear him out if only to get to know the pupiless wolf better.

It's then that her heartstrings are harshly tugged upon, as her youngest daughter approaches her and slides her head beneath her own. Oh, how would she break it to them? It was not a very long battle, or in truth, a very noble death. To be at the jaws of another in battle was the only way that Ishtar wished to die though her heart ached horribly as she pressed against Jezebeth. She finds herself unable to speak to her youngest just then and as Jezebeth releases her touch, Ishtar inhales deeply, keeping her emotions at bay. Her eyes jerk suddenly as Andras' voice permeates her mind. Her ears flick towards him, and her eyes meet his, yet her face betrays very little of the grief that she felt. There was that horrible empty feeling, that horrible cold feeling. She could smell his blood, and feel her fur becoming sticky as it dried and caked to her legs. It was her baptism. It was her coronation. How could she explain to a wolf that was like his brother that he was dead? Her mind reeled but it was Limoira's voice that echos out.

And she understood. Oh, she understood.

Pulled out from the overwhelming grief and shock she felt, she straightened herself, her tail rigid over her back and her ears pricked forward. Gone were the small hints of emotion and the shell-shocked look that she had previously possessed. In that moment she was thankful that she had raised her children well, and that they had joined them in this new Hell. Limoira had never been one for coddling nor for group activities the way the rest of her children had been but Ishtar never once doubted that she was not a Demon or that she was in any way weaker. Limoira was a creature after Ishtar's own heart. She watches as a Fallen wolf enters, nods to her and sits to the side, though to be honest, Ishtar was not familiar with her name--simply her markings. An older wolf comes in, and to be sure he was tall, heavy and probably worth his weight judging by the scars that cover his body. But Ishtar had not been called the Blood Mouth for nothing.

Her lips curl up and snarl at him, "Do not demand things of your Queen...or else you will find yourself begging to keep your life later on." She then looks over the group that was gathering and knew that others would be appearing shortly, seeing their figures in the far off mists. She bellows at them, her voice loud, strong and furious. "THE DEMON KING IS DEAD." The sentence was simple and Ishtar would not offer up the gruesome details, for the reptilian king had not provided them a body to mourn and send the soul off properly. She then stands and waits to see what they would do, because the time for thinking was over. Ishtar was the Blood Mouth, the Queen of Iromar, and their newest alpha.

ISHTAR.