Lily Proxin

i know its for the better

know its for the better

know its for the better

You've grown up hearing the tales, of course, who hasn't? The same woman who helped save the world turned around and became Queen of Hell. The stories vary on how she did this; some say she killed the Devil himself, some say she walked right on in and charmed him out of his crown, and a few others claim she was cursed to rule that which could not hold her. Any way you spin it, she's a powerhouse sitting on a smouldering throne of ash.

Standing here before said throne, she doesn't look how you expected. You and your friends, your found family, are here and ready to square off. To kill the Queen and destroy her crown. To use those shards and save an innocent soul that you may or may not be in love with, the lines of friendship tend to blur the closer you get to someone. But the Queen? She doesn't look ready for a fight. Hell, she doesn't look like she wants to fight.

The woman sits rigidly in her throne, fingers digging into ash so deep that you can see the glow of the embers beneath. Her red hair falls like waves of molten lava around her shoulders, and the crown is red hot, sitting heavily atop her head. You look closer and swear you can see little plumes of smoke where a mushroom sprouts on her skin only to be immediately burnt off of her. And her eyes? Dear gods, her eyes. You can't stop the gasp that leaves your mouth.

Steaming tears run down her impassive face, a steady stream of sorrow etched permanently across her visage. They leave tracks down and through the ash gathered on her cheek, giving the woman an otherworldly haunted look. Her eyes are black as coal, with two pinpricks of hellfire where pupils might once have been. You're caught in them, trapped, locked, because you know, you know... those eyes are screaming regret at you.

But your friends square off. Blades held tighter. Fingers sparking with arcane. Your staff feels heavy.

The Queen stands. She holds out a hand loosely to her side and you watch in awe as the charred handle of a once beautiful sword raises from the stone at her feet. There's a horrific hissing sound when she grips the metal and lifts the longsword to point the tip at your group.

Three words. That's all she says. Three words you will very soon wish your friends had listened to.