Echoes of Redemption

We desperately run through the night, jumping over tree roots and ducking under low-hanging branches. Hysh rises on Verdia, the northern territory of Ghyran, its golden light cutting through the dense jungle. Morning mists rise from the dense mulch. Birds chirp, and insects flit about as the jungle awakens from its nightly slumber.

I trudge along, holding Ely in a bridal carry. Her soft, regular breaths tickle my cheek. Kaelith and Heinz move off to gather the surviving crew, but my concern is only for aelf in my arms. My tail snakes up, and I gently check the bandages wrapping her midriff.

Kaelith steps from the shadow of a tree up ahead. "Captain Heinz found a relatively safe clearing about half a mile to our south. He plans to rest for an hour before heading further south. We can tend to your and Elethrae's injuries there."

I nod and head in the direction he indicated, "I'm fine, but Ely needs to rest for a while."

"You're covered in blood, and I'm certain not all of it is skaven blood." he quips, following behind.

"I heal much faster than either of you. A quirk of being a monster born from a god's cauldron, I imagine."

"How does that work exactly?" He asks with genuine interest.

"Morathi ascended through a fiendishly complex ritual involving varanite and an artifact of the Idoneth Deepkin. They and I are, actually, quite similar, but I digress." I jump over a fallen tree, lightly flapping my wings to soften the landing. "Morathi used a massive supply of varanite and a cauldron of blood to open a portal to the Dark Prince's stomach, which she stepped through, using the Idoneth Lantern to light her way. No one is entirely certain about what transpired there, but when she came out, she brought the souls of aelves from the World-That-Was. Souls that had been swallowed during the end times. Our bodies had been annihilated, and our souls were slowly being corroded, but Morathi took us anyway. She crafted new bodies for us from her cauldron, and thus the Scáthborn came into being."

I sigh, "Those of us with more corroded or corrupted souls became the Khinerai, like me. The more intact souls became the Melusai, the half-woman half-snake ones."

"I thought your corruption was a more recent development," Kaelith asked, stepping from shadow to shadow.

"It is," I confirm, "The rebirthing process purged what corruption was present, but I was left more vulnerable to it. I was sent on a raid to exterminate a Cult of Hedonites. The high priestess was a Shardspeaker, one of those mages who keep a mirror shard from the Dark Prince's realm. When I found her, she stood beside an altar with these twin swords enshrined upon it. As I struck her down, she used her last breath to bind them to me." I look ahead, not at the jungle, but into a memory. "She called me His chosen vessel," I say, my voice almost a whisper.

Kaelith blocks my path, his blank, featureless mask staring at me. "We belong to no one, Vaeryth. You aren't a vessel being puppeteered by some god; not Morathi's, not the Dark Prince's. We are what we choose to become. Actions are what define us." He turns, continuing towards the camp. "The cultist called you chosen, but that was just a desperate attempt at manipulation. She tried to bind you with words and thought as much as sorcery.

"Chains can be broken, vows defied, and cages shattered. You retain your sanity; you still fight. It proves you aren't genuinely bound—you are exercising your sovereignty over your fate, even if you cannot see it now."

His voice drops to a gravelly rumble, "The gods, all of them, believe us pawns, mere tools, in their unending games. But pawns don't question— don't feel the weight of their choices—of the consequences, and they don't disobey or fight their owners."

Kaelith gestures at the twin swords strapped to my hips, "You bear their mark, yes. But I've seen you fight— you wield those blades with grace and control beyond mortality. Gifts granted by gods to control you, but you wield them to your ends." He stops, the jungle song surrounding us, "We belong to no one, Vaeryth…"

I barely hear his next words—the melody hums, faint and inevitable. The soporific perfume emanating from me intensifies, clouding my thoughts with a sweet, cloying scent.

"Is that so?" the voice whispers: a saccharine poison. "Then why does that pretty thing in your arms cling to you so desperately? Why do her hands linger, her lips tremble? Does she not see you changing—what you will become? Or does she already know—and crave it?

The melody sharpens, winding through my veins, fine as silk and strong as steel. You carry her now, fragile and wounded. But what will she see when she wakes? The savior who charged a mutated beast to protect her—or the monster who lusts for pain and carnage?"

A warm pulse spreads through my being, enchanting and insidious. "You can feel it, can't you—how she calls to you even now, in her dreams? Does she not yearn to surrender to the thirsting inferno in your core? You could make her whole, Vaeryth—imbue her with strength and beauty beyond mortal bounds. Reach apotheosis together—a divine pair."

The melody accelerates, urgent and intoxicating. "But only if you stop pretending. Let her feel what you are, what you could be, if only you accepted what you were born to be."

"Vaeryth!" Kaelith shouts, cutting through the noise and cramming my head.

I snap my head to him, inhaling sharply. He's watching, waiting to see if I've caught the thread of sanity that slipped. Fight it. I tell myself, but my voice won't come.

I flap my wings forcefully, throwing up leaves and scattered debris. Concentrating, I push down the melody and answer Kaelith, "We can fight, true—but even the sharpest blade dulls when you hack at steel."

Kaelith begins walking again, leading me to camp. "Then sharpen yourself. Temper your mind in discipline."

I nod, the melody crescendoing in a symphony of screams before returning to its background drone.

Ely wakes up as we rest in the clearing. "Don't get up just yet. "There's still a quarter-hour before we move again," I say, moving to crouch over her. I carefully measure out five drops of Aqua Ghyranis, water with trace amounts of the manifested essence of Ghyran, cyclestone. Pouring the precious liquid into her mouth, I watch as her injuries start closing over.

Captain Heinz walks over, "How are you, Mistress Elythrae?"

She unwraps the binding I hurriedly put in place. The skin underneath is red and hot to the touch, but the skin is mended. "I am well, Captain. How fares your crew?"

"We lost many, but not as much as I feared. Of the original nineteen, thirteen managed to escape. More would have fallen if you and your companions had not slayed the stormfiend and its handler. My deepest thanks."

He turns to survey the motley, bloodied crew, "Those skaven were likely responsible for the shipment's disappearance. However, our knowledge of that is only relevant if we make it to Greywater Fastness alive. We should enter the Ghoul Mere either tonight or tomorrow. But the quicker we move, the better. Those rats might be distracted by the Harbinger for a while, but the longer we tally, the easier it will be for them to find us."

Captain Heinz returns his gaze to us, "We'll rely on you to be our muscle. Most of our weapons had to be abandoned when we fled."

Elythrae smiles viciously, "Be at ease, Captain." She gestures at me, "Vae is storm made flesh—mercurial, deadly, and utterly inexorable. Whatever we may face, she will water the jungle with its blood."

Her eyes flick to mine; something dark dancing in her golden irises. "And should any foe survive her swords, their shadows will rise to choke the breath from their lungs."

"I'll hold you to that, Mistress Elythrae. From what I've seen and what the cogsmiths saw of your fight with the stormfiend, your words carry weight—and blood. Keep your mind as sharp as your blades. Recklessness won't get us out of this jungle alive. Let's get going. Time presses on, and we want to get to the Ghoul Mere before nightfall." Heinz stands up and leaves to gather his men.

"Need a hand up?" I ask, extending a hand.

"Thanks," Elythrae takes my hand, pulling herself up.

A few hours after sunrise, a putrid smell reaches my nose as we walk down an overgrown game trail. "Ugh, that is foul."

"What is it, Vae?" Kaelith asks, concern tinging his voice.

"You can't smell that!?" I double over, trying not to wretch. "It smells like rotting flesh and wood."

"I don't smell anything either, Vae. Can you tell where it's coming from?" Elythrae asks, gently rubbing between my wings.

"It's to our southwest. I think the Plaguefather's minions have passed through here." I straighten and stride over to Captain Heinz. "Captain, prepare your men for a fight. I believe the Maggotkin have been in the area."

His brow furrows, "My men all have open wounds; if we fight them, disease will be a concern. Must we fight?"

"Leaving his corruption to fester so close to Greywater Fastness is a poor choice. We could lose the city if it grows out of control and becomes too entrenched to deal with quickly. And losing a central industrial hub like Greywater might doom the mortal realms. Best to deal with it now, even if we must burn it out."

He nods, "Lead the way."

Ten minutes later, our group of sixteen carefully step into a Sylvaneth grove, fallen to the plague god's corruption. A gnarled tree sits in the center of a clearing of tainted soil. Putrid boils and sickly puslike sap seep from the bark, and in the middle of its rotting trunk, a Branchwych, one of the dryad life mages, hangs half absorbed into the horrific thing, her face twisted into a rictus of pain.

The poor creature speaks, her voice cracking like splitting wood, "Please, cleanse this grove."

Eight broken, festering creatures rise from the tainted earth. Their skin is the color of spoiled meat, mottled green and grey, stretched taught over bloated muscles and swollen pustules oozing slick, yellow ichor. Flies swarm in clouds around them, some clinging to their flesh and crawling in and out of open wounds as if the creature was more hive than a living thing. A single horn of diseased and pitted bone protruded from above a single cyclopean eye.

Instantly, I throw myself forward, using my wings to add speed and spin, whipping Rapture and Ruin from their sheaths. Crystalline blades split rotting flesh and bone, puss and blood black with rot spraying into the air. I touch down and flick the fetid blood from my blades.

Twin crossbow bolts slam home into the eyes of two more of the monstrosities, detonating their heads in explosions of gore. Shadows collect into a ball between the final two daemons, annihilating them in a wave of darkness.

I step up to the central tree, looking over the wounded Branchwych. Her bark is cracked and sloughing off, and her leaves are wilted. "I fear you are beyond salvation. I'm sorry."

She coughs a cloud of decaying dust, "Do not mourn me… I know this body is lost."

I soften my gaze, seeing a reflection of my own twisted corruption. "Is your soulpod salvageable? If so, I will see it taken to another grove."

She lets out another wheezing cough, pointing to where a human's heart would be, "It is uncorrupted; another day, and it would be lost. You must cleanse this place, purify the grove."

I nod, "I will see it done; you have my word. Would you like me to put you out of your misery?"

Her eyes grow dim as she rasps, "Yes, I suffered long at their hands."

I give her a faint smile, "May your next cycle be prosperous, friend."

Her head lulls to one side, "May the Everqueen bless your journey."

I swing down, severing the dryad's head.

"Did it thrill you, my beloved, to wield death so elegantly? To feel her final breath leave her as your blade fell? Did you savor her gratitude before the end, as a dying flower turns toward the light?" Ignoring the snake's whispers, I sheath my swords in favor of a knife.

The Dark Prince continues his taunting whispers, "You pity her weakness because you see it in yourself. But you are not like her, Vaeryth. You do not wither—you bloom. And when you cut her down, you proved it. Why deny your nature when you could rise above such frailty and command adoration, such that not even death may bind you?"

"You mistake pity for weakness," I hiss too quietly for my companions to hear, forcing my hand to remain steady as I pry open the dryad's chest to harvest her soulpod. "But I know what I am. I know what you are."

The melody hums louder, crowding my thoughts, but I shove it back with an exertion of will, drawing strength from the smooth ebony blade in my hand. "You whisper of adoration and strength, but I see the chains in which you wish to bind me. I am not yours. Not yet."

Yet. The word clings to my tongue, bitter—and sweet. I hate that it lingers, that I cannot bring myself to banish it out of hand. My pulse quickens, and I feel the warmth of His gaze brush across my skin like velvet and silk.

"You will not bind me," I snarl, but the words are hollow, empty. The Dark Prince only laughs, his voice coiling through me, the melody syncing with my pulse.

And perhaps—perhaps I don't want it to stop.

Pushing the thoughts away, I turn to Elythrae, "Do you think you could use Jade magic well enough to Cleanse this?"

She shrugs, "Maybe—if I don't do it perfectly, the corruption will just feed on it instead.

"Any other ideas?"

"An expensive one," she mutters. "A sphere and a half of Aqua Ghyranis should overpower this corruption."

"You have most of mine. I trust you to use it effectively. Kaelith?"

The man silently strides over the tainted earth like a wraith. "Here," he says, tossing a half-full sphere of cerulean liquid flecked with shining silver.

Elythrae pulls out a matching sphere filled with the same liquid. Before she can move to the tree, the captain calls out, "Wait! The crew and I will chip in; it's the least we can do."

"Thank you, Captain," she says, raising her voice so the crew can hear her. "And thank you, brave souls."

The grove stood silent, save for the buzzing of flies hanging like clouds in the stagnant air. Elythrae uncorked the first sphere, and as the seal broke, a soft, fresh breeze stirred the stagnant air. The scent of fresh rain and blooming flowers taking primacy over the rot pervading the grove until this point.

As the first drop of distilled life falls on the blackened earth, a faint ripple of vibrant green flashes over the desiccated grass. Another drop hits the tree, the sickly ichor recoiling from the purest life magic. More and more of the Aqua Ghyranis seeped into the earth and tree; the tree grows healthier and more vibrant, returning to its typical greenish-brown bark, and grass and flowers push up through the tainted mud. As the final drop hits the earth, an explosion of life pulses out, colors and smells becoming vibrant, and wounds and injuries heal in moments as the Realm of Ghyran itself blesses us.

The buzzing of flies vanishes, replaced by birdsong, and the once-blighted soil becomes a lush, vibrant carpet of grasses and flowers. The joyous moment is tainted by the knowledge that my corruption is not so easily cleansed.