Character: Skin. Dead powers. We might now carve it out of the resolute inhabitants of its carcass. Their useless life of toil to sustain the ever undead blooming, reflex to their own efforts to slow a very own undeath. The smell of breeding lies underneath the exuberant flowery sheet.
Ruler: The verdurous guardian we so long created assumed her position in a gesture of rebellion. Mandragora, infused with the wisps of the Inverted Planes, of light, and my unmaking seed. Her deva mother cursed me even as she drowned in her own blood. Cassandra (Px/female arthurea aasimon/mandragora/N), the child of the gods, I dubbed her, as she reached for my silvery furred, claws, placing a single white rose among my garments.
Those times are there somewhere, I supposed. She now supervisies the baatezu Breeding Pool, ordering the lawful hierarchy of life in the city. Poor deluded, Cassandra. Shame our ways should cross so acrimoniously.
Behind the throne: The dead goddess Yvette Duvalier serves as locus for a steady experiment on soul gathering and behaviorism. She tries hard to break her bonds, weakened as she is, by the means of her proxy Cassandra, but the lure of the baatezu song is strong to her pitiful will.
Description: "The baatezu like to imitate us" said Isurdorio. The lesser ranks are so impressionable. The tale of the Black Orchid is forcefully forgotten by the hands of the baatezu.
As the two towers stand and a third is being knit, the gelugons ordered a large settlement of baatezu to parasite the corpse of the goddess-saint Yvette Duvalier. The infestation ripped her presence from the Void and threw her remains violently spiraling into Baator, but not as the baatezu expected. Her last ditch effort to prevent the inescapable corruption was to convert her rock-flesh mass to what is now known as the Black Orchid.
Amusing, one would say, to see the desperate running gargoyles larvae-bent rush to prevent her dwindling away. Still on their foolish recruitment program, one of the first after a long pause, they drove the burg to Cania, mutating flower goddess and mortals into a funnel for souls, biological weapons and mortal studies. The young Pearza makes one of her centers of research inside the Orchid, developing lesser works of clay, not unlike the wretched fruits of Apomps.
The seeping trunk extends herbaceous tendrils into the ice, its scent of things delicate melding with steam. The so-called citizens, were crafted out of the plant's essence from the Breeding Pool. Golden rays straying from the core in forms of reflective nature. As I violated its heart I could see the bound bodies of their First Man and the Woman, still pulsating and providing seed to the constructs' creation. A novel road in a baatezu perspective to channel souls into sedated existences of Law and Evil and breeding.
Molikroth is said to have been quite merry at the crash and invites tendril-mandragora proxies to hollow meals of flesh of Duvalier's minions.
From a mortal perspective, it is a regular existence of conformance and feeding and base lusts. The idea that they wear false hard shells of cellulose is far away from their pathetic processes. It is embarrassing that corruption has debased so much in these times.
Militia: Occasionally the experiments suffers a major breakdown as one of its slaves try to regain a measure of memory and free will, causing havoc in the way. It is of interest to observe as the nude soul turns so easily to sheer brutality than the rationality the baatezu try to educate them. Chaos outbursts.
They bring in the Gardeners, disguised cornugon, in the extreme cases, but mostly they use the vine agents, empowered slaves to hunt their brethren.
Services: I bring you a gift from my expedition, a three-millennia bonsai. Nothing truly formidable, but possibly entertaining for your long and relentless management task.
Current Chant: A particularly fierce slave, by the designation of Nixon, tax collector has repeatedly destroyed property and murdered dozens of citizens in his anger and confusion. The baatezu seem unwilling to let go off him, some possible potential, one guesses. The petals might be useful layers for the Great Artifice, the Incarnate Pain.