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Description
    At the bottom of the mountain she waited. For one hundred years she had waited, in an old cottage. Innocent enough on the outside and a far cry from the luxury and power she had been so used to before her fall, but it was only temporary, as was all things. The Great Witch would wait for her time to rise again. She would wait for the stars to be right in the sky, and for her mate to awaken from his eternal and immortal slumber.
    And after one hundred years, only the one night was left. For one hundred years she had met him in her sleep, through their dreams they had communicated, making treacherous dark deals, dancing their ancient and long forgotten courting rituals, speaking in tongues which could only be spoken in the dreamscape, for to utter a word in the material world would tear one’s mind asunder.
    That night she emerged from her home, dressed in the black garb made from shadow and ascended up the mountain accompanied only by her familiar raven who flew above her cawing out his mistresses message, heralding the coming of the Great Witch.
    Hidden behind the dark clouds were the stars, the moon long gone having fled to behind the earth. Each great heavenly body was in it’s dreadful position, opening the rifts between the worlds just long enough for the great demons of the world to arise once more, if only for one night, to feed and dance and breed.
    The Witch was old, over ten thousand years old and knew that her power was but half of what it was before. But she was still the Great Witch, the most powerful in all the known world and thus, the one suitable mate for the demon who’s awakening roar’s could be heard from the top of the mountain. As she continued to climb, the dead and dammed from the town below began to crawl up beside her, trying cursing her with petty spells and whispering doom into her thoughts.
    But she ignored them; they were but little demons and ghouls, nothing to the might she could summon. Her staff helped her climb the rock and the terrible, arcane green orb upon the top of her staff glowed darkly as she grew closer to her goal. The beast again roared from the top of his mountain, and the sky grew darker as he drew himself to full height, his wings stretching out over the sky, displaying his true might and dark power.
    The Witch was not intimidated, she couldn’t be, she had waited too long for this night, and she refused to wait again. The dark powers that ran through her would not allow their host to live any longer should she fail in her task. Her familiar expressed his fears too her and she scorned him, reminding the minor fiend of the importance of her mission.
    It was as if the mountain itself was pulling her up, as for a mortal man it would take days to reach the heights that the Witch reached in only a few hours. The sky was breaking and the tears of the world came crashing down, but the Witch continued, the rain moving away from her being, even as the sorrow turned to anger and the flashes of lightning threatened her from a distance.
    The world itself was angry at this act of union.
    Her raven flew and landed upon her shoulder, grounded by the heavy rain and whispered small warnings in her ear. He told her of the treachery of devils, the danger of her task and the price she would pay. She replied only with a tiny smile, the little demon knew nothing of the power she would gain through this act, nor of the power would her successor hold within his hand…
    The further she climbed, the more ghouls and spirits and demons gathered around her, taunting her and insulting her, attempting to strike fear and doubt into her heart with visages of heart tearing terror and unspeakable, formless horrors. All false and unworthy of the Great Witches time. She finally came upon the great gate of his dark palace, which was opened for her by cursing and spitting devils. The mountain opened up to her in a great circle with a massive opening in the centre, parts of the mountain jutting into the centre in the visage of a great and blasphemous signal and within the centre, he stood.
    The Demon King, the Lord of the Mountain, He Who Slept In Nightmares. His great, dirty yellow eyes turned towards the woman whom stood before him, dwarfed within his massive frame. His skin was a burnt red, his teeth long and sharp, his frame that of a muscled giant, accompanied by a long and dragon-like tail and huge leathery wings.
    Around them both, the Demon King’s army dance and sang, performing dark rituals of penance and telling their tales of pain, conquest, power and hate, infusing the very air with the foul taint of evil and dread, protecting it from any who might have wished to stop this long awaited event. An unearthly fire burned around them from the walls of mountain, casting terrible shadows and illuminating the frame of the beast.
    The Witch looked to the Demon King, her chosen mate and knew that the time was now, the stars had aligned perfectly and all that was left was to take advantage of the moment. She threw off her shadow cloak, revealing her naked form to the demon and displaying her pure white skin and unnaturally gained beauty. Then, across her body, dark and blasphemous ruins appeared, spreading across her arms and breasts and legs and eventually covering her entire form.
    Then… she began to change.
    The ruins glowed an angry red, the very fires of hell licking through them and caressing her changing body, causing her to grow larger, taller. Her skin was corrupted, growing a void black whilst her once delicate fingers and toes curled and became like talons. Her legs and skin became that of lizards whilst a pair of huge black wings sprouted from her back until they equalled the Lord of the Mountain’s in size. Her beauty became distorted, her eyes turning a deep and terrible purple and her mouth filling with fangs. Her one long and charcoal black hair falling from her head as two curled horns grew in their stead.
    Immediately her talons gripped onto the Demon King, digging into his flesh and locking into him, the Demon King roared in kind and grabbed the Witch-Demonette’s neck, throwing her to his side, causing her to screech like some awful bird of prey and him to cry in anger as her claws only dug into him more. Around them the minor demons, devils, ghouls and spirits danced their unnatural dances and continued praising their dark gods.
    To anyone looking and watching below the mountain, one might think that the two great terrors were fighting to the death, but when the Great Demon’s mate it is always a painful thing. For such creatures can only breed with the strongest of mortals, such is the ritual of assuring that only a strong mother may survive to give birth to strong children.
    For hours the dance went on, each inflicting terrible wounds upon one another as the rain and lighting and thunder crashed around them until, finally, the Lord of the Mountain was satisfied, and he draw the Witch-Demonette close, their wings wrapping around one another as the final, and oddly most intimate stages of this terrible union took place.
    And then, with a final clash of lighting and a final cry from the chanting demonic crowds below them, the couple departed. The Demon King letting the Witch fall to the floor, yet, as she fell her body drifted into smoke until, lying, bleeding from her many wounds, he lay naked and exhausted with only her raven familiar by her side, cawing at those spirits who came too close.
    Dawn was approaching, and the demons were retreating away into their shadows and foul places. The Great Witch, worn and spent summoned her staff and picked herself up from the floor, knowing that if she didn’t leave soon, despite her wounds, the Demon King would imprison her soul here forever and she would become another demonic courtier in his terrible mountaintop palace.
    Wrapping herself in her flowing and smoking cloak of shadows, she began her decent back down the hill, avoiding the cliff edges and the treacherous rocks and allowing her raven familiar to guide her home. The rain had stopped and now the sunlight peered over the edges of the horizon, casting the hated light over all things and sending Demon King back into his slumber. For another five hundred years he would sleep until the stars were right again, and with any luck, the Great Witch would visit him again to bare him another child.
    For now, he hands curled around her middle. She carried the seed of the Lord of the Mountain within her womb, of that she was certain. She would bring into this world his messenger, his herald, his first born son who would command his great and terrible armies when he could not. And as for her… she would be gifted with the ascension to demonhood and the glory of being his Queen.
    For eighteen months the Great Witch carried the child, her stomach swelling under her dark robes. She cursed at all things as the very hatred of her unborn seeped into her own blood, gifting her with greater strength and anger than ever before. When the time came, she prepared her ritualistic circle on the slopes of the mountain, for the child had to be born on the Demon King’s kingdom.
    The child came screaming into the world, in one clenched hand he held a blood clot and upon his other hand was a birthmark, the curving stokes and the two horns upon it, the sign of the mountain and it’s dark master. He looked like any normal child, perhaps even small for a baby, but yet, when he opened his eyes to behold his dark mother his true heritage was revealed. Two eyes, dark and dirty yellow.
    Just like his father.
    And thus was born the Prince of the Mountain Lord, demonblood running through his veins, born of the Great Witch, herald of the dark times and bringer of the night. So innocent looking was the child, his tuft of hair black like his mothers and his screams for her comfort and milk dissimilar from any newborn babe.
    But the Great Witch smiled as she let him feed upon her breast. He was the destroyer of nations, the great evil upon which no mortal would stand against.
    And yet, despite her knowledge of all of this, she felt an attachment to him… something of which she had never felt before. The child was infused with evil, his very birth a blasphemy against the world but… he was still her son.
    And perhaps, regardless of the power and glory and immortality promised to her by the Lord of the Mountain, perhaps this child was a gift all in his own. She was a Witch, a bride of evil, a taker of lives and a manipulator of darkness yet now she was something more important than any of that.
    She was a mother.

Description
    At the bottom of the mountain she waited. For one hundred years she had waited, in an old cottage. Innocent enough on the outside and a far cry from the luxury and power she had been so used to before her fall, but it was only temporary, as was all things. The Great Witch would wait for her time to rise again. She would wait for the stars to be right in the sky, and for her mate to awaken from his eternal and immortal slumber.
    And after one hundred years, only the one night was left. For one hundred years she had met him in her sleep, through their dreams they had communicated, making treacherous dark deals, dancing their ancient and long forgotten courting rituals, speaking in tongues which could only be spoken in the dreamscape, for to utter a word in the material world would tear one’s mind asunder.
    That night she emerged from her home, dressed in the black garb made from shadow and ascended up the mountain accompanied only by her familiar raven who flew above her cawing out his mistresses message, heralding the coming of the Great Witch.
    Hidden behind the dark clouds were the stars, the moon long gone having fled to behind the earth. Each great heavenly body was in it’s dreadful position, opening the rifts between the worlds just long enough for the great demons of the world to arise once more, if only for one night, to feed and dance and breed.
    The Witch was old, over ten thousand years old and knew that her power was but half of what it was before. But she was still the Great Witch, the most powerful in all the known world and thus, the one suitable mate for the demon who’s awakening roar’s could be heard from the top of the mountain. As she continued to climb, the dead and dammed from the town below began to crawl up beside her, trying cursing her with petty spells and whispering doom into her thoughts.
    But she ignored them; they were but little demons and ghouls, nothing to the might she could summon. Her staff helped her climb the rock and the terrible, arcane green orb upon the top of her staff glowed darkly as she grew closer to her goal. The beast again roared from the top of his mountain, and the sky grew darker as he drew himself to full height, his wings stretching out over the sky, displaying his true might and dark power.
    The Witch was not intimidated, she couldn’t be, she had waited too long for this night, and she refused to wait again. The dark powers that ran through her would not allow their host to live any longer should she fail in her task. Her familiar expressed his fears too her and she scorned him, reminding the minor fiend of the importance of her mission.
    It was as if the mountain itself was pulling her up, as for a mortal man it would take days to reach the heights that the Witch reached in only a few hours. The sky was breaking and the tears of the world came crashing down, but the Witch continued, the rain moving away from her being, even as the sorrow turned to anger and the flashes of lightning threatened her from a distance.
    The world itself was angry at this act of union.
    Her raven flew and landed upon her shoulder, grounded by the heavy rain and whispered small warnings in her ear. He told her of the treachery of devils, the danger of her task and the price she would pay. She replied only with a tiny smile, the little demon knew nothing of the power she would gain through this act, nor of the power would her successor hold within his hand…
    The further she climbed, the more ghouls and spirits and demons gathered around her, taunting her and insulting her, attempting to strike fear and doubt into her heart with visages of heart tearing terror and unspeakable, formless horrors. All false and unworthy of the Great Witches time. She finally came upon the great gate of his dark palace, which was opened for her by cursing and spitting devils. The mountain opened up to her in a great circle with a massive opening in the centre, parts of the mountain jutting into the centre in the visage of a great and blasphemous signal and within the centre, he stood.
    The Demon King, the Lord of the Mountain, He Who Slept In Nightmares. His great, dirty yellow eyes turned towards the woman whom stood before him, dwarfed within his massive frame. His skin was a burnt red, his teeth long and sharp, his frame that of a muscled giant, accompanied by a long and dragon-like tail and huge leathery wings.
    Around them both, the Demon King’s army dance and sang, performing dark rituals of penance and telling their tales of pain, conquest, power and hate, infusing the very air with the foul taint of evil and dread, protecting it from any who might have wished to stop this long awaited event. An unearthly fire burned around them from the walls of mountain, casting terrible shadows and illuminating the frame of the beast.
    The Witch looked to the Demon King, her chosen mate and knew that the time was now, the stars had aligned perfectly and all that was left was to take advantage of the moment. She threw off her shadow cloak, revealing her naked form to the demon and displaying her pure white skin and unnaturally gained beauty. Then, across her body, dark and blasphemous ruins appeared, spreading across her arms and breasts and legs and eventually covering her entire form.
    Then… she began to change.
    The ruins glowed an angry red, the very fires of hell licking through them and caressing her changing body, causing her to grow larger, taller. Her skin was corrupted, growing a void black whilst her once delicate fingers and toes curled and became like talons. Her legs and skin became that of lizards whilst a pair of huge black wings sprouted from her back until they equalled the Lord of the Mountain’s in size. Her beauty became distorted, her eyes turning a deep and terrible purple and her mouth filling with fangs. Her one long and charcoal black hair falling from her head as two curled horns grew in their stead.
    Immediately her talons gripped onto the Demon King, digging into his flesh and locking into him, the Demon King roared in kind and grabbed the Witch-Demonette’s neck, throwing her to his side, causing her to screech like some awful bird of prey and him to cry in anger as her claws only dug into him more. Around them the minor demons, devils, ghouls and spirits danced their unnatural dances and continued praising their dark gods.
    To anyone looking and watching below the mountain, one might think that the two great terrors were fighting to the death, but when the Great Demon’s mate it is always a painful thing. For such creatures can only breed with the strongest of mortals, such is the ritual of assuring that only a strong mother may survive to give birth to strong children.
    For hours the dance went on, each inflicting terrible wounds upon one another as the rain and lighting and thunder crashed around them until, finally, the Lord of the Mountain was satisfied, and he draw the Witch-Demonette close, their wings wrapping around one another as the final, and oddly most intimate stages of this terrible union took place.
    And then, with a final clash of lighting and a final cry from the chanting demonic crowds below them, the couple departed. The Demon King letting the Witch fall to the floor, yet, as she fell her body drifted into smoke until, lying, bleeding from her many wounds, he lay naked and exhausted with only her raven familiar by her side, cawing at those spirits who came too close.
    Dawn was approaching, and the demons were retreating away into their shadows and foul places. The Great Witch, worn and spent summoned her staff and picked herself up from the floor, knowing that if she didn’t leave soon, despite her wounds, the Demon King would imprison her soul here forever and she would become another demonic courtier in his terrible mountaintop palace.
    Wrapping herself in her flowing and smoking cloak of shadows, she began her decent back down the hill, avoiding the cliff edges and the treacherous rocks and allowing her raven familiar to guide her home. The rain had stopped and now the sunlight peered over the edges of the horizon, casting the hated light over all things and sending Demon King back into his slumber. For another five hundred years he would sleep until the stars were right again, and with any luck, the Great Witch would visit him again to bare him another child.
    For now, he hands curled around her middle. She carried the seed of the Lord of the Mountain within her womb, of that she was certain. She would bring into this world his messenger, his herald, his first born son who would command his great and terrible armies when he could not. And as for her… she would be gifted with the ascension to demonhood and the glory of being his Queen.
    For eighteen months the Great Witch carried the child, her stomach swelling under her dark robes. She cursed at all things as the very hatred of her unborn seeped into her own blood, gifting her with greater strength and anger than ever before. When the time came, she prepared her ritualistic circle on the slopes of the mountain, for the child had to be born on the Demon King’s kingdom.
    The child came screaming into the world, in one clenched hand he held a blood clot and upon his other hand was a birthmark, the curving stokes and the two horns upon it, the sign of the mountain and it’s dark master. He looked like any normal child, perhaps even small for a baby, but yet, when he opened his eyes to behold his dark mother his true heritage was revealed. Two eyes, dark and dirty yellow.
    Just like his father.
    And thus was born the Prince of the Mountain Lord, demonblood running through his veins, born of the Great Witch, herald of the dark times and bringer of the night. So innocent looking was the child, his tuft of hair black like his mothers and his screams for her comfort and milk dissimilar from any newborn babe.
    But the Great Witch smiled as she let him feed upon her breast. He was the destroyer of nations, the great evil upon which no mortal would stand against.
    And yet, despite her knowledge of all of this, she felt an attachment to him… something of which she had never felt before. The child was infused with evil, his very birth a blasphemy against the world but… he was still her son.
    And perhaps, regardless of the power and glory and immortality promised to her by the Lord of the Mountain, perhaps this child was a gift all in his own. She was a Witch, a bride of evil, a taker of lives and a manipulator of darkness yet now she was something more important than any of that.
    She was a mother.