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.

She was late, but in reality when had she ever been on time. Ishtar was always fashionably late, always allowing others to trumpet her arrival before she existed in the world. Why shouldn't she? She was the Blood Mouth, the Queen of Iromar, a pureblooded Demoness. She took her time because she could, because she would enforce her brand of order with a force that was her own. Ishtar had built her reputation originally by force, and it had diminished when she had born litter after litter of Baphomet's children and she was a relative unknown in Moladion until the time came when she was elevated by Death.

It was time that she regained her name through actions.

The Blood Mouth. A creature prone to violence before politics. A savage amid her people. There were times when she did not hesitate to tear a throat out before she had heard him out. Why should she be any different in Moladion? They heard the word Demon and thought her to be without a heart or conscious. Very few even bothered to learn of their culture, choosing to believe the heresy that Baphomet allowed to flow from those that had crossed him. The Angels here were barely fit to call themselves Angels. As much as she hated the culture, Ishtar could respect a true Angel. Thus far, the only one fit of such a name was ancient and the progenitor of all the other half-breeds that were allowed to propagate. She wondered if her children were doomed to live such lives. Already her boys had imprinted on two non-demonic females. Would her line be diluted through the years? It was a fear of hers but one that even Ruvindra and Paldor did not know. Ishtar did not show her fears to anyone these days--and the one wolf that she would of confessed such a weakness to would was now dead.

There had been a time when she had believed he would return to her. She had even had such a vivid dream that she could hear his voice, feel his touch and warmth. She had awoken crying. And that was the last time she dreamed of Baphomet. She moves through the mists, through the fogs on trails that had proven safe time and time again. Ishtar was Queen, she knew her lands well. She saw a small group of her wolves. It would seem her children were bothering Paldor again. It was good to see Zaqar out and about amid his kingdom. She had been worried that she had sheltered him far too much in his early months of life it had been terrifying to think that she could lose her last child by Baphomet. She was pleased with the way that Paldor was wearing his latest mantle, the ranking of Minos was not lost upon him. And finally, her wild child. Jezebeth. She was proud of her daughter. Beautiful, strong, and proud. One could never be certain if she was tempting them or lying to them, but either was she had Satan's tongue. As the mists parted, revealing her strong frame much the way that it did for their mystery guest, she saw the strong stature. The way his spine was bathed in blood. The way his eyes seemed to cry the blood of the innocent without a single hint of moisture. She knew this wolf. She knew him because he was none of than Haedes. General of Baphomet's army in Hell. Not chosen by the Elders to accompany them to Moladion.

She knew who he was, the spark within her yellow-gold eyes told him well enough that she recognized him. But she outranked him, and she would not speak first. She allowed the others to ask, to render up their voices to him, but she would not speak first. She was the Blood Mouth. She was the first amid her line to bear a rare marking with such ferocity to accompany it. She had proven herself time and time again. There would be no question of her authority. Ishtar would rise again.

ISHTAR.