The hour was late, or early, depending on how it was viewed. Not that time mattered to the majority of the citizens of Thanatos. Most didn’t need sleep, didn’t require regular feeding. And those that did, went about it on their own cycle. It was a realm that never slept, a place where creatures of all origins could be found. Demons, who either landed in the Undead Plane by mistake, force, or choice. Mortals, most against their will, whose souls could be used as a form of currency. And then, the most prominent group, Undead. Vampires, ghouls, Banshees, Deathlocks, and so much more. They thrived on the plane and its undead energies, called here by the pull of their Goddess or the feel of power. Liches and zombies, ghosts and skeletons, all sorts of those killed then brought back to life, either willingly and by their own power, or through some other means, be it magical or not, crowded the streets. Choked the markets and roamed the other various areas of Thanatos.

Most were trapped here, their soul anchored to Thanatos for all of eternity. Some howled through the Plane, haunting it as though a poltergeist to a house. Only the cities, the sprawling structures located throughout the vast wasteland were safe havens, and even then, only mildly so. Outside the cities, travelers could be swarmed by incorporeal ghosts and shadows, but inside they could become a feast to vampires or ghouls.

A rough place to live, where the strongest survived and the weak became food or slaves. Where everyone paid homage to the Dark Queen and black marble temples decorated the cities.

Home to hundreds of thousands.

This is what Assirra saw as she stood on the roof of the Citadel she called home. The slanting tiles that comprised the roof, to keep out what water would fall from the dark grey clouds, were not a problem to the Goddess as she stood, able to do so simply because she willed it.

The Dark Queen, given name both because of the ebony skin and the shadow she commanded, surveyed all that she’d worked to achieve. But what most could not see were the essence of souls that flitted about her, the undead that flocked to her, seeking solace, comfort, power, and many more things that she could either grant or deny. It took naught but a thought for Assirra to cast those souls to the Thanatos waste lands and forever tie them to the realm. And so too, could she breath a sort of life back to them. Craft them a body, a house of sorts, for which the soul could fill and then walk amongst the living once more.

They were always there now, floating around her. Whenever one was sent on its way, either to the Planes of Hunger or to live another life, more replaced it. Mortal souls that fell from the sky came to her, seeking guidance and safety. Only the evil came here though, those who had committed such horrendous atrocities on the Material Plane found themselves cast into Thanatos. They had the taint of death, of darkness, about them that brought them to her. Some had been avid followers of hers, she felt them more so than the others. Saw their faces, felt their past life and the devotion to her. Assirra was more likely to give them life once again, while those that had simply dealt with undead or shadow would be cast to the Planes of Hunger, where they would roam for all eternity for food, be it flesh or otherwise.

She shifted her gaze, no longer looking toward the Frozen Sea and the City that sat along the edge, but now to the souls that floated around. Some screamed silently, mouths agape and expressions warped in pain. They’d died in atrocious ways, slayed either from the undead creations they had thought to command or through some necromantic, albeit, painful means. Others were silent, watching her as curiously as she had first watched them. Waiting, ever there. Their presence was a weight on her shoulders more so than those that had died terrific ways. These souls that waited were the ones who had died in her service, in her name. Doing as she’d ordered, as she commanded. There was a promise to fulfill to these souls, a sort of debt on her part that she take care of them first. Their expressions were more defined than the others, even retained a general shape of the body they had past inhabited.  Then, there were those that cried, that literally oozed such a sadness from their very essence. It nearly overwhelmed the silent pressure of those that had been priests and priestesses. Nearly, but not quite.

These souls, those that slid along Assirra’s skin as though to cling to her, had been those offered to her from her followers. Goodly races and creatures whom had fallen to some of her more powerful zealots, who had sacrificed them in her name and thus offered up their souls. She could keep them, if she wanted. Consume them and there for utterly destroy them. Turn them into more power for herself… or she could severe the connection they had with her and cast them back to their own Gods. Each soul that didn’t essentially belong to her had a flavor, a smell, that accompanied them. Each sensation was different, the calling card of their own God and the rightful owner of their soul. It had taken Assirra several months to figure out what each God “felt” like, and only those she felt particularly sour to did she utterly destroy. Most, if not all, were sent to their respective place in the after life.

This is what she had fought for. This is what Assirra had tirelessly plotted to achieve. The Plane she surveyed and the souls that surrounded her. Her greatest ambition… and her greatest trial yet.

Even now, Assirra felt those in the street turn to peer up at her. To look upon their Goddess and wish for power or protection. These prayers were like a buzz in her ear, an ever present collection of whispers that never died. She could focus her attention on them, and they were roar to a life of their own. Different languages, different tones, all invoking her name in one manner or the other. All of them were about her, whether a blessing or a curse. Undead and Mortal alike called upon her name in various ways. Some, happily did it as they murdered or fed on flesh. Others, the goodly type, would curse her name and those that followed her. Each whisper, each voice, had a flash of emotion that went with it. So hard to filter through it all, so hard to pinpoint who was asking what and why.

However, more attuned focus, and part of Assirra’s awareness would be brought to them. She’d witnessed rituals this way, watched as her followers attacked villages with a swarm of undead. She’d watched as a drow female invoked her name as she killed her lover right after the climax of their pleasure, then feast on him. But more, Assirra had traced the whispers some of the goodly races would say. Elves that cursed her while they fought a necromancer. Clerics who would swear vengeance against her and her ilk after they came upon a particularly disastrous scene. Even if she wasn’t the direct cause of it.

All of this, the souls, the whispers, and the expectations of her as a Goddess settled about her shoulders. An ever present weight that no amount of work could ever remove.

This is what she’d fought for.

This is what she’d wanted.

And it had such a bittersweet taste.

Assirra slid down the sloped roof to fall a short distance, landing solidly on the balcony of the tallest spire of the Citadel. The souls and whispers followed, but she’d learned to partially ignore them. As best she could. The drowess turned to walk into the room attached to the balcony, her eyes adjusting perfectly to the dark space. There, she found the last of her calling. Shadows watched her, moved with a liquidity that was akin to water. They seemed drawn to her. Powerful creatures that filled more space than was there, hungry monsters who waited for her to command them. They were more physical than the souls, more prominent than the whispers, and far more deadly than anything else in her pantheon. Silent assassins, they all were. Creatures three times her size could hide in the smallest shadow to lash out and consume unwary passer-bys. There was a connection to them, as there was to all the undead she came into contact with. So much were they a part of who she was, who she had become, that Assirra didn’t feel complete with out them.

Her delicate hand, decorated in a fine silver, reached out to caress the muzzle of a shadow-thing. He resembled a wolf, though horns sprouted from his head and the eyes glowed with red fury. The creature stilled with her touch, allowed her fingers to comb through midnight black fur and feel the muscle that only the shadow’s victims would feel. This monstrosity was incorporeal to all but her. And it was this touch, the one she gave now, that all the shadow craved.

Assirra’s hand fell from the fur and to her side, watching as the shadow thing receded into the wall. Where it had disappeared, more took its place. Reaching out, but not touching. Trailing close to her, but not completing the connection. She had to. As their Goddess, Assirra had to be the one to establish that touch. They could not.

When she walked away from the dark wall, a part of her ached to return to them. It was always hard to deny the thing she had made so readily apart of herself. Assirra hadn’t understood the pure implications of absorbing shadow and undead to become a Goddess. Now, the urge to give all that she was to them steadily thrummed in the back of her mind. A pressure that she couldn’t get rid of. It was a more intimate connection than any she’d experienced, more so than the emotional ties of Mother and Child. More primal then that, on a level with which most reasoning creatures no longer operate.

Assirra slowly made her way down the steps and toward the library she was so fond of. Hundreds of years of work had paid off, had given her the very thing she’d wanted from the moment she’d stepped from Menzoberranzan. Only then, it’d been a mere fantasy. A simple, drow-like desire to have the ultimate power. To be able to affect lives as hers had been so drastically altered by divine means.

Hundreds of years of serving Kianransalee, of collecting scrolls and abyssal artifacts to hide her true intention, of finding the Book of Vile Darkness. Vecna, the lich who had ascended, had carelessly written how he had done it. But Assirra had to shift through hundreds of fake books, of forgeries and sloppy copies before verifying that she’d actually found the real book. She’d recalled reading the scribbled pages, of the nightmares and horrors it had brought to her when she tried to sleep.

Demons had tried to take it back, nightmares had attempted to prevent her from reading it. And in the end, it had been Noraimund, not herself, that had pushed her to do it.

Assirra, the most ambitious daughter of Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin, had exceeded both the expectations of her Mother and of Medeiv’Ashtra, the very first of her line.