The First Steps Toward Damnation

The light of Hysh beat down, heating the shifting carmine sands and searing the air. Broken bones jut from the shifting sands, scorched black in parts from the burning sand. A ring of sun-bleached stone looms on the horizon, only a shade lighter than the surrounding sand. The normally bustling city is still, with no convoys entering or leaving.

I step forward, stalking like a predator, graceful and deadly. A barely perceptible pulse thrums regularly in the back of my mind, beating faster and faster as I approach the realmgate.

A sibilant whisper winds through my mind. "Beautiful Vaeryth... do you not feel it? The ache within your soul, the hunger that no blade or blood can ever sate? You are a canvas of untapped potential—a masterpiece half-finished. Why deny yourself the adornments that will complete you? The Chains call to you as you call to them. They were forged for one such as you—elegant, deadly, exquisite. Imagine their touch, their weight—a caress more intimate than any lover. With them, you will be feared, adored, worshiped. Find them and claim your true place." A pang of loss shoots through my soul as the voice departs, leaving me in a turmoil of conflicting desires.

Anxiety clenches like a fist around my heart. Is this truly the best option? My soul is tainted. I long to hear the Dark Prince's voice even though He is the enemy. Elythrae said she needed to study an artifact of the Dark Prince to halt my degradation. That's what I should want, right? Each day, it gets harder and harder to convince myself of that. Those dreams are exquisite, but that's the point, isn't it? He is the Prince of Temptation.

Elythrae steps up next to me, her onyx hair and golden eyes hidden behind a layer of shadows she conjured to keep cool. "He spoke to you again, didn't he?"

I nod and answer distractedly, "It's becoming more frequent. The gnawing hunger for sensation intensifies as we approach the realmgate. Are you sure this is the best path forward?"

She wraps me in a hug, cradling my head in the crook of her neck. "To halt your corruption, I must study His power. I won't let Him take you from me," she declares with unwavering determination.

I return the hug, nuzzling into her neck, "All right, Ely. My soul in your hands." The weight of my decision hangs heavy in the air, a burden I cannot shake off, pressing down on me like a leaden cloak.

Kaelith speaks up, his voice as sharp as an obsidian shard, "Let us keep moving. We may rest once aboard the cogfort." True to his word, he keeps marching toward Fort Festermere. I break the embrace and trudge after the leather-clad aelf, his cloak blocking even the light of Hysh.

Two human guards flank the massive gate. They nod in greeting, allowing us to enter the fort. Inside, the vast courtyard is filled to bursting. Carriages belabored with goods, cordoned herds of livestock, armed escorts idling away their time, or huffing and puffing traders occupy every scrap of free space. Looming over the throng is a massive ironweld cogfort, a mobile fortress armed to the teeth. It stands atop six massive spider-like legs, waiting next to the realmgate. Black steel armor plates adorn the enormous vehicle, and golden duardin runes trace around its edges.

Shouting pulls my gaze from watching the crew busy themselves with final preparations. I turn to see a portly man who scoffs in indignation through his jowls, yelling and harassing an official, "How much longer do you intend to keep us here? Do you have any idea how costly this delay is?"

Raising his hands to placate the irate merchant, a freeguilder bearing the heraldry of Fort Festermere tries to defuse the tension, "Master merchant, you know the Lord-Ordinator has forbidden passage through the realmgate until the fate of the missing shipments is confirmed."

Ignoring the weaklings, I push my way through the crowd, Elythrae and Kaelith following closely behind as we approach the hulking machine. An older human waves us over with a bronzy gold prosthesis.

"Greetings. I am Terzo Heinz, captain of the Harbinger of Trouble," he says, gesturing to the cogfort. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Elythrae steps forward, "Well met, Captain Heinz. I am Elythrae, and these are my companions: Vaeryth and Kaelith. We are heading to Greywater Fastness to investigate whisperings of trouble and hope to engage you for passage upon your vessel. We, of course, would lend our strength to defend the vessel should it come under attack."

Captain Heinz strokes his beard with his flesh and blood right hand, taking in our appearances, "You do seem to be the adventuring sort. Mercenaries?" he asked.

"Soulbound, actually," Ely smiles placidly.

"Oh, ho. Never seen any of the Bound myself, but tales of the strength your kind can muster spread far. I will grant you passage aboard the Harbinger. As it happens, I, too, seek answers regarding the missing convoys and could always use more able hands. Truthfully, ill omens press on my mind. I would be grateful for your help." He turns to his crew and shouts. "Barklay set these three up with a berth. They will be joining our trip to Graywater." Turning back to us, he bids, "Get yourselves settled. We leave in an hour.

Barklay, a duardin, leads us through the cogfort. A masterwork of precise engineering sprawls out before us. The walls are mazes of cogwork, pipes, emberstone power channels, and strange tubes. Seeing our interest, Barklay grunts, "Voicepipes. They let us talk to the other stations on the ship and make announcements." The Harbinger's cargo holds are well stocked with munitions and supplies.

Our guide leads us to a room with two bunk beds on either side and a small desk adjacent to the door. "This is your berth. Get your stuff stowed. We'll be shoving off soon." Once he leaves, I drop the illusion generated by my Scáthborn's Guise, my wings and tail becoming visible once more. I've had to hide my more monstrous feature long before the corruption began taking root. Most of the populous fear Morathi-Khaine's twisted creations. We have become more active since her ascension to godhood, yet they fear what the bloody-handed god schemes.

Kaelith takes one of the bottom bunks and pulls his rifle from his back, wrapping it in a travel cloak. If the crew discovers it's made of varanite, the corrupted realmstone of the Eight Points, they might send the Witch-hunters after us. I wonder if Kaelith's resilience is due to a weaker source of corruption or simply because the stone lacks a will.

I slide my rucksack under the other bunk and flop on the bed. A claxon sounds, and the cogfort shudders into life, moving forward slowly with a lurch. After a few minutes, the cogfort pauses and begins to sink downward, dropping through the realmgate and following a channel of raw magic across the Aetheric Void, separating the realms to Ghyran, the Realm of Life. For a fleeting moment, ephemeral lights pass through the hull of the cogfort, and in an instant, the world flips, and the ship rises to some unseen surface, returning to reality once again. After the queasiness passes, Kaelith leaves for the deck.

As we enter the same realmspace as the artifact calling to me, the thrumming in my mind quickens, and an enchanting melody joins it, drowning out rational thought. We have arrived in Ghyran. Rifling through my bag, I pull out a hand mirror, prop it against the wall, and begin braiding my hair. Lost in thought, I don't realize the serpentine pattern my hands are unconsciously weaving into my hair. I start from the crown, parting my hair and weaving symmetrical serpentine coils around an ornate hairpin. Each loop and twist a piece in a tapestry, forming a hidden symbol of a profane god. The coils frame my head before converging at the nape, the remaining hair cascading down in a thick, tightly woven plait that splits into two fans of hair, forming a crescent. In my youth, I never braided my hair or cared much for my appearance. Now, such vanity is a daily occurrence.

Elythrae joins me, trailing kisses down the nape of my neck, and puts a hand on my wrist. "Vaeryth… stop." She murmurs, her voice dancing between concern and longing. Dropping her hand to my thigh, she locks eyes with me through the hand mirror. Her eyes flicker with an unsettling mix of fear and fascination, "Do you even realize what you're weaving?" I shake my head softly, not looking away from her eyes. She continues, "This— is not mere vanity. It's a mark. A beacon."

Her eyes leave mine to trace over the intricate weaving. Her words speak of urgency, but her eyes linger too long, drinking in the profane symbol. "You don't have to do this." She whispers, turning me around to face her. "You are already perfect. You don't need their touch to make you more." Almost unconsciously, her hand brushes against the braid, her breath hitching. "And yet… it's beautiful, a masterpiece any artist would kill to create. Dangerous, but beautiful— like you."

Her fingers linger momentarily before snatching them away as if flinching from a hot stove. "You're playing with fire, my muse, and you know it. Or… perhaps that's why you're doing it?"

She leans in, pressing our foreheads together. "Is that what you want, Vaeryth? To burn in the fires of excess? To be devoured by it—by them—and rise as something divine?"

Her expression contorts, conflicted. "Tell me you don't. Tell me you can stop before it's too late," she begs, but there's no conviction in her plea—only the trembling edge of someone who secretly hopes the answer is no.

"I don't think I can, Ely. I hear Him whisper to me. I hear the chains' melody. Now that we're in the same realm, it's constant. I can't even think properly. Only intense sensation will quiet that damned Melody. I don't have anything to anchor my sanity to, Ely. Either sensation or hollowness, both will drive me mad." "I don't think I can, Ely. I hear Him whisper to me. I hear the chains' melody. Now that we're in the same realm, it's constant. I can't even think properly. Only intense sensation will quiet that damned Melody." I turn to face her. "You need this artifact to slow my corruption, but it's driving me mad. Every option I have to reduce the pull the Dark Prince has on me only venerates Him. Pain, ecstasy, and desperation are all sensations, His domain. Only hollow numbness won't empower him, which is no way to live. I don't have anything to anchor my sanity to, Ely."

Elythrae freezes as my confession spills out, raw and tremulant. For a breathless moment, she is silent, golden eyes boring into me. When her voice finally comes, it is softer than usual, stripped of her usual seduction, and in its place is barely concealed desperation veiled in a practiced façade of calm.

"Vaeryth…" Elythrae reaches out, trailing her fingers along the ridge of my wing. "I won't let you slip away—not to Him, not to anyone." Her words are a promise, but quiver as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

"I'll find another way—we will find another way. You needn't give in. Not to the hunger. Not to the numbness. Not to Him."

Yet even as she speaks, her gaze flicks to the crescent of the finished braid, to the traces of Slaanesh already woven into my being. She swallows hard, a flicker of something dark behind her golden eyes.

Elythrae's fingers linger against the curve of my leathery wing before she pulls them away, almost reluctantly, as if the touch had burned her yet desiring more. Her golden eyes flicker with an intensity I cannot name, but it coils low in my stomach, a twin to the yearning I desperately try to bury.

Her voice trembles, the practiced calm barely holding. "Vaeryth, listen to me. You don't have to let Him claim you. Not fully. We can use the artifact and learn from it. We can bend His gifts without bowing to Him."

Her hand moves, hesitant yet deliberate, and cups my cheek. Her thumb brushes my lips, lingering there as though to silence words I haven't spoken yet.

"But you're right," she admits, voice thick with unspoken truths. "Pain and pleasure; emotions and sensations are His domain, but we can mold them. They don't have to be His victory if we claim them as our own." Her breath hitches, and her other hand brushes the edge of the braid. "We can rise above Him, Vaeryth. Or… we can rise with Him and take what we desire."

I stiffen, but Elythrae doesn't pull away this time. She steps closer, the heat of her body seeping into mine. "You are already so beautiful, so perfect, my muse. But I see you struggle, and it tears at me. I won't lose you." Her lips brush the corner of my jaw, and her words lower to a whisper. "Not to Him. Not unless it's on our terms."

The growing void flares at her words, urging me to indulge. Wy wings shudder, leathery skin twitching as the Chain's melody crescendos in my ears. Her breath fans against my skin, hot and insistent, a plea and a temptation all at once.

"Let me anchor you," she breathes, pressing her forehead against mine. "Let me be your tether, Vaeryth. Or let me fall with you."

Her confession shocks me, though not as much as it should. I've seen something dark curling beneath her obsession with me—an ember of something dangerous.

The Chains hum in my mind, something sinching their hold over me, and for a moment, I cannot tell whether the Dark Prince or Elythrae is the one responsible.