did someone say DEATHLORD
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Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
Lord of Death
Creature of the Well of Oblivion
She is free, free, free at last!; and oh!, how she will dance! The Black Heron, Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers will stage the grandest show of all, and bring the house--and all of Creation--down.
Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was raised to do nothing but dance in the great Shogunate theaters. All the pleasures and freedom of girlhood were denied to her, for she was pledged from her birth to be student to a revered elder artist of the Shogunate, that had grown old and esoteric and developed his own forms of dance. Every generation he would take a student, and it was this day her turn. The old master wore a great multicolor cloak that seemed to contain all the secrets in the world and was loved and revered; and by his students, he was feared.
With time, the young woman became his star student, outshining all her peers. She would sabotage her rivals and break their ankles if they did better than her, because the only thing worse than having to dance was having someone do it better than you. She hated to dance, and hated her master, and hated herself most of all. And she could forget the hate for just a little while when she had the spotlight. It made things tolerable.
While in the prime of her career, before her feet were ruined and her mind held naught but the craft, she received a summons from her old master. The summons came the morning her magnum opus was to debut, a show she choreographed herself. It was the most important thing in the world to her. But she answered the summons, for still he was her master.
He took her onto a boat and they set sail down a river. The dark water turned to ebony screams and they sailed into a place that was not a place, into the Underworld, and he spoke of his plan. He had grown much too old, and devouring the souls of his students was no longer adequate for sustaining him and his artistic capabilities. He would require more. He would be eternal. And because he loved her so his prized student would be joining him.
The old master gave her souls to eat, and she did not say no, because he was her master. She devoured and grew queer and spectral, and so changed, becoming something more and less than human.
They sailed and they ate, and the old master ate many things he had not previously before, until he grew mighty and dubbed himself the The All-Color Crow That Folds The Night Into Morning. His robes were as wings, obnoxiously dappled of every color, and his thin mouth was as a beak; his cruel eyes were as sucking burnscars. Though he could not rival the mighty Deathlords which ruled deeper in the Underworld, he styled himself as one in his pretentious preening, and would destroy any that there suggest otherwise.
There deep in the lands of the dead he built a prison with a stage and a spotlight for his student to dance in, and he locked her away. His favored student, his prized possession, would dance into eternity where naught but her old master could see. There would be no death; the show - his show, not hers - would never end. For he was her master.
Ages passed. The two grew more deranged, more queer. Then one day, The All-Color Crow found the soul of his old Solar teacher whom he had overthrown in the Usurpation (for he was truly old), and this pleased him more than even his prized student. For he was never able to demonstrate his superiority to the old master while they were both still among the living. The old teacher was once a leading star too, who took joy in destroying, and devouring, other dancers that threatened her adoration. The All-Color Crow would happily devour this soul, too.
But his student saw this, and, for she was cunning, invited him to dance in celebration before devouring this exquisitely wicked and powerful soul. So they danced joyfully together, and then in a dip, the student snapped his neck and devoured The All-Color Crow whole, and then his old teacher. For she would have no master.
She took The All-Color Crow's cloak, stained black from his blood, and wrapped it about herself, and when she spins it unfolds to a half a league's distance in wingspan; his head makes a lovely hat. From the leftover skins of the Crow's old master she fashioned a lovely umbrella which she keeps at a jaunty angle in the crook of her elbow. With his gore she perfumed herself; with his skeleton she fashioned cruel makeup which she is always wearing or re-applying. Her legs are artful bows of bent bone, her feet perfectly compacted talons.
Joyfully she danced away from her cage, a single though guiding her: finally she could stage her show. But bigger. Better. Grander than any before or after--no, nothing after, never anything after--her show, her performance, will be so grand and perfect that there simply cannot be a follow-up. Its last notes will be the clarion finale that rings out Creation.
Now she is Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers, the Black Heron. She prepares for the curtain call of oblivion, to come after the greatest show of all. So she kills and adds to her company, finding a use for every soul in her plutonian choreography.
She dominates the Near Southern Underworld, making her home in the shell of a baroque First Age venue called the Amphitheater of the Black Sun, so named after its pitch-dark spotlight. Her she holds endless rehearsal, constantly fiddling with the venue as she continues its renovation. Renovation--and expansion. The building sprawls for leagues, and is still growing, for it is not yet perfect. To secure it, Princess Magnificent is in constant need of workers and supervisors and security.
Above it in the Near South of Creation, stories circulate of women dressed in dancing silks of old style, who will abduct artists and beautiful youths. They take young women and men and press-gang them into the production - if not as performers, then as crew; if not as crew, then as dumb muscle to aid in the production, or in the work of the Amphitheater.
Princess Magnificent as Liege:
Princess Magnificent is an egomaniacal bully obsessed with putting on a show she will never be happy with. All her Abyssals are souls she thinks will be useful to her production, be it on stage, with security, or behind the curtain - she demands excellence and suffers no disobedience. She is vain, jealous, prone to fits of abusive rage - and if an Abyssal makes herself useful to her production she will find herself rewarded beyond measure. The stage is a place of luxury and those luxuries should extend to her favored stars - her greatest assets are her wealth, and the sheer quantity and quality of personnel she employs.
Like all tyrannical directors, all she cares about is that you don't puncture her ego, you show up on time, and perform your job to her satisfaction--what you do and where you go on your own time is of no consequence to her. As long as she thinks you aren't getting ideas to change the show from her vision, or to steal the leading role from her. Do that, and you'll quickly find yourself dead again, permanently.
::SIDEBAR::
Princess Magnificent draws a great deal of souls that love the arts to her production. Working in her production is a unique experience the likes of which has never been seen before, and will never be seen again. None can deny her cruelty and capriciousness, but working with her is such an enthralling experience that many do anyway. She is as brilliant as she is cruel, but her production is an endless train of overworked, perfectionist misery. The genuine love and joy that is to be found under her are spots of light in an ultimately dark, futile affair; they may provide reason to stick around, to believe that it is ultimately going to be worth it in the end.
It won't be. It could never be. Hers is a perversion of everything good in art. Never forget that: Princess Magnificent's allure is not to be believed. To forget otherwise is to justify a monster.
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So, because canon Deathlords are lame and none moreso than miss "I am Princess Peach, a Deathlord who is defined by not being able to be an actual Deathlord", I wrote her up again in my own style, in
@EarthScorpion's model that my other two things use.
