All societies have a final form, all civilisations a natural equilibrium, falling steadily towards managed order and stasis and death. On the
Chains of Damnation, the ebb and flow of politics and power push Ciro towards a position of dominance, a posthuman ruler of a ramshackle and broken crew, while the rest of you are nudged towards secondary and subservient roles. You would be weapons in his hands, tools in his arsenal, servants to his glory, and while such roles might suit you for a time in the end the nature of a weapon is to be expendable. You will die, your usefulness expended, and Ciro will move on. If you want something more than that, then you need options, flexibility, alternatives to pursue and the forewarning to make use of them.
Such thoughts see you retracing your steps, leaving the domain of the Carrion behind and descending through broken passages and twisted decks until you reach the prison cells once more. The grand gallery of shattered cages is much as you remember it, the slimy layer of rust and blood and filth at its base somehow more pungent for the slight warmth of Bore's preliminary repairs. The tech-priest has gotten some of the reserve generators running, apparently, triggering emergency protocols to fuel the engines for the singular jump that your new master commands, and now the cage bars thrum slightly with the distant echo of power.
You find Sidhe perched near the entrance to the hold, balanced like some strange and exotic bird atop a cage just out of sight of the dead turrets and narrow passage that first barred your way. The Aledari's strange cloak hangs from her narrow shoulders like a raven's wings, and she stares down at the base of the chamber with a predator's silent intent. You pause for a moment, wondering if you are interrupting, and before you can decide how to approach this the opportunity is taken from you.
"You have shed your transformation, mon-keigh," the alien observes without turning, still staring at something far below, "Was it not pleasing, to be art?"
"Pleasant enough, but sometimes a blank canvas has its uses," you say politely, stepping up to a position just behind and several paces to her right. On Malfi this would be a sign of common interest unburdened by the presumption of familiarity, but you can only hope the significance carries across. "Besides, you seemed to find it unsettling, and I would hate to be rude."
You can see what she's looking at now. Far below, on a small scrap of deck-plate that keeps her from directly touching the filth, Nadia Black is busy scratching something onto the wall of the chamber. You're surprised she can be so close to the morass without vomiting, but you suppose it is convenient that she is here - you wanted to talk to her as well before too long.
"The act of change was unpleasant, the final form unobjectionable," Sidhe says, and you don't know enough about Eldar physiology to tell if she's lying, "It is not like your kind to discard the practical benefit for the aesthetic sense."
"To determine my form purely for utility is a path I should not wish to travel," you say, your voice perhaps more terse than entirely warranted, "My body is more than a tool."
That is what the Imperium offered you, after all - a life of service and obedience, your body twisted and changed according to the commands of others, your spirit moulded into a form that best suits the purpose they would design for you. All personality, all humanity, carefully cut away and castrated for the goal of creating a better class of slave.
"Still," you continue after a moment, "I did not come here to talk of myself."
"Oh? But mon-keigh seldom do anything else," Sidhe murmurs, still watching Nadia far below. There is a strange tension in her frame, and you wonder if her alien senses allow her to see something that your own do not. "Even your god is but your own sickness of mind writ large upon the cosmos."
"Am I to believe the Aeldari are humble and self-effacing people, then?" you say dryly, because this isn't the first time you've encountered someone trying to rile you up for their own amusement. To your surprise, though, the jest lands very poorly, and Sidhe's expression darkens as her hands clench tightly around her perch.
"You will see what we are soon enough," she says in a ragged whisper, not looking at either your or Nadia now, but at something only her strange liquid eyes can perceive, "and all that we were."
You hesitate at that, remembering your conversation before the jaunt to the gun decks. The Aeldari empire has fallen far from what it was, you know that much, and she spoke of imperial ships encroaching on what she considered the territory of her ancestors… you had assumed her people fell as all great powers inevitably do in time, but it seems there is something more to it than that. You could ask, but you doubt she would tell you, and if your half-formed guesses are even remotely close to the truth it would be grossly insensitive to pry.
"You intend to stay for the ride into the Vortex, then?" you say instead, looking away to give her some modicum of privacy, "I confess, the reputation of your kind had me half-convinced you could and would simply disappear long before we got there."
"One might almost think you were worried about me, mon-keigh," Sidhe says with a smooth laugh, the sound too polished to be entirely real, "Or is it your own fate you fear, trapped and bound as you are to this act of rank madness?"
You flinch at the word, and despite yourself you spend a moment or two looking around for signs of hidden observers. Nadia is too far below you to have heard, you think, and while you have no idea how keen Ciro's senses are there seems no evidence he is anywhere near. When you look back at Sidhe, it is to see her regarding you with an expression somewhere between pity and contempt.
"Will you live your whole life looking over your shoulder, mon-keigh?"
"Given the alternative is dying to the unseen threat, yes," you say tersely, resisting the urge to smooth down your shirt like a frightening bird plucking at its plumage, "I've seen too many hotheads think that pressing forwards with will and courage is enough to protect them from doom to hold blind confidence in any regard."
"At times, such caution allows you only the luxury of fear," Sidhe says, hair ornaments jingling briefly as she twitches her head, "We had divinities of fate and dreams, foresight and wisdom, and when our Doom came it availed them not at all."
Huh. Are their gods dead, then, as the Emperor is? It is a fascinating piece of cultural mimicry if so, that both species should pay heed to corpse gods that guide their people from beyond the veil of death, but alas you have not the time nor real opportunity to explore the topic in any depth.
"There is much to be said of facing one's inevitable end with dignity," you say instead, though it occurs to you that the Aeldari might view the matter differently, "But from your words I gather you prefer to charge to meet it?"
"Here is a secret, mon-keigh - life is never so sweet as when it rests on the edge of a blade," the Aeldari says with a lean and hungry smile, "Within the Vortex there are many who know this truth, and who will call me kindred when I embrace it. The Children of Thorns are not ones impressed by the meek or mediocre, nor are there any where we go who are. If you would wrest yourself free of the trap destiny has laid upon you, then you must embrace the winds of fate and fly, not dig your claws into the dirt."
The conversation ends there, for you can think of little to say to one who seems inclined to risk both body and soul in a warpstorm for the sake of simple pleasure, and Sidhe is content to return to her cryptic silence at the slightest excuse. Perhaps you might follow her advice, seize control of your own destiny and leap at opportunity when it arises, but… if such a thing was dangerous on Malfi, how much more perilous will it be in the Screaming Vortex? Troubled by such thoughts, it takes you longer than you would like to make the torturous, winding descent to the lower level of the prison hold, where Nadia awaits.
"Come no closer, dear Vincenzo," the fallen Rogue Trader says as you reach her level, holding up a single delicate hand to warn you off. She isn't looking at you, but instead at the viscous mass of filth that coats the base of the chamber, and when you halt she nods in satisfaction and intones a short sentence in a language you do not know. There is a momentary silence, and then a gurgling roar from something deep within the mire.
You draw your sword, for what little good it might do.
The thing that emerges in response to Nadia's call is not so much from the swamp as of it, a mass of raw filth and rotten flesh held together by a skeletal frame of rusted bars prised from fallen cells. The bodies of deceased prisoners lend bulk to its frame, arms as sinew and bones as skin, and when it walks strips of decaying ichor leak from its joints like blood from the wound. Merely being near it makes your skin feel soiled, like a layer of oil and sweat has built up and been left to sit unwashed for weeks, and the smell is disgustingly sweet in a way that sets your stomach to roiling. You brace yourself as best you can, but it is not you that the thing is interested in, only the madwoman who called it forth.
Nadia waits until the shambling bulk is almost upon her before speaking another word, a command that hurts the ears to know, and all across the scattered gantries small runes burn with pale blue flame. The conjured monstrosity flinches, freezes, rotates its upper torso with a wet squelch, and before it can shake off the confusion Nadia steps forwards and stabs it with a stolen blade.
There's nothing special about her knife, you've honed your craft enough to say that much with confidence, but somehow its touch is both lure and anathema to the thing from the mire. It burbles and shrieks through a dozen stolen mouths, and then flows into the blade that impales it, raw filth sinking into the surface of the blade like water. The process is over far quicker than you would have thought, and within three heartbeats only Nadia remains, her arm outstretched and her slender hand clamped tightly around the hilt of a rusted, poisoned blade.
"You may approach now, Vincenzo," the noblewoman says with a nod, flipping the blade over and sliding it back into a sheath with exacting care, never taking her eyes off the ragged edge.
"...was that a daemon?" You do not move any closer, nor do you lower your blade. To know from stolen data-files that Nadia Black practices this craft is one thing, to see it is quite another, and you're not sure if you should be running in terror or seeking to cut her down on the spot.
"Debatable," Nadia replies, carefully wrapping the hilt of her now-sheathed weapon in rags, tying it in place as you once peace-bound your sword at society functions. "There are some who would call it such, but it had no real consciousness or discrete identity, so I should call it a lesser manifestation at best. An echo, an impression left on all this waste and allowed to build up over time."
She has secured the sword as best she can - wait, was it not a knife a moment ago - but you can still feel the filth of it upon your mind. It weighs on your thoughts with a kind of sick familiarity, the fascination of bile, and you have to focus your mind for a moment to force the feeling into the background.
"To make something like that, much less wear it at your side…" you shake your head, "You're endangering yourself, Miss Black. You're putting us all in peril."
"Oh, spare me the sanctimony," Nadia spits, glaring at you with a furrowed brow, "I know full well the risk I take, but life is made of hard choices, and silence the coward's response. Or would you have me scurry along in Ciro's shadow, loyal and obedient and hoping he won't grow bored and slaughter me?"
You swallow, glancing around once more just to be sure. "You… intend to use it on him?"
"What? Oh, no. I doubt I'd even land a hit, and if I did the toxin still wouldn't work fast enough to save me," Nadia chuckles darkly, shaking her head and picking her way across the stepping stones of metal towards the route back to the upper levels, "But beyond the Imperium's bounds, my blood and my title hold little value. If I am to secure a place for myself, either with our commanding angel or some other lord, I need proof of the skills that set me apart."
You hesitate at that. Everything you know, everything your upbringing and your limited experience with the Menagerie has taught you, says that summoning daemons (or 'lesser manifestations') is reckless to the point of suicide, but… it's easy to see how a woman with few other skills to offer might come to regard it as a card worth playing regardless. You wonder how it was that she learned the trade in the first place, for the Inquisition's files spoke only of a family feud that left a brother dead and another fleeing to the Ordos for sanctuary… was she losing that internal war, then? On the verge of defeat, at risk of losing all she had and ever could, it's not hard to imagine a younger Nadia turning to dark forces in a desperate bid for victory. Or maybe she dabbled before that, and the discovery of her sins was what triggered the feud in the first place. You have no way to tell.
Regardless, the fact remains that she is a seasoned voidfarer and clearly determined to open up some means of escape. You can't overlook that, not if you want to have some possibility of slipping away should your current relationship with Ciro turn truly sour, and with that in mind you work your jaw for a moment and then venture a reply.
"A loyal friend is an asset to any independent captain," you say, oh so carefully, "and a recruit who brings another with worthy skills to the fold far better positioned to secure a worthy price."
Nadia looks at you sharply, and you hide your thoughts behind a pleasant facade. She's well bred enough to have heard such veiled offers before, and experienced enough to read the implications and possibilities without any need for a trembling bottom lip.
"It could," she allows at last, "especially depending on the nature of the skill. One hears tale of witches capable of navigating the immaterium, for example, who often find important roles in service to reaver captains of all stripes."
"One does? How strange - it is a story I have heard before, but only after I left my home," you respond, stifling the urge to curse. It's nice to be valued highly, but if someone takes you in under the assumption you can do something beyond you, then the reckoning when that becomes apparent may be a final one.
"Mm. Perhaps you should seek out said stories more often - they could be a valuable guide," Nadia says, her smile growing for a moment as she looks you up and down. "Elsewise, you may need more… direct reasons to entice a lonely ship captain to take you off on their adventures."
You don't… is she flirting with you? Is that what this is? You're genuinely uncertain, which is a first, because normally you're pretty good at figuring out who is interested in you and why (nobody except the odd noble brat who likes the taste of danger and thrill of taboo). Nor do you have any kind of framework for acknowledging or responding to the interest, not in a situation like this, and the perils of getting it wrong… no, best just to smile politely and wait. Sure enough, Nadia eventually just rolls her eyes and moves past you, heading for the chamber exit. You watch her go, then glance up to find that Sidhe has vanished from her perch as well.
Well. It seems none of your companions are planning on jumping ship before you reach the Vortex, which given your lack of piloting skills means you won't be escaping before that happens. Unfortunate, but also not terribly surprising. You'll just need to hope and pray that you survive long enough to find a path out again.
Assuming there is a god that will accept your prayers.
-/-
With the Chains of Damnation secured, you have access to the senior crew quarters for your rest and recreation, and despite centuries adrift they remain surprisingly comfortable. Just having an actual bed is a luxury bordering on decadence, and the existence of a functioning lock on the door allows you to actually relax for the first time since you regained consciousness. Without any role to play in preparing the ship for its lunatic voyage, you take to spending more and more time holed up in your rooms, staying carefully out of everyone's way and conserving your strength as best you can.
Sleep, when it comes, is far from restful. Old trauma and an uncertain future make for a potent cocktail of stress, and often your slumber is disturbed by dreams of dire fates and inescapable hunters, burning eyes that see your sins and screaming that never stops. You do what you can to rest even so, years of experience at dealing with nightmares allowing you some functionality despite the terror, and for a time it even seems to work. Then you wake one day to find that the screaming has followed you home.
It echoes from every bulkhead, springs from every throat, haunts your every moment and drowns your every thought. It is the defiant shout of an army faced with an impossible foe, the horror of an innocence torn away, the grief of a mourner caught in sorrow overwhelming. It blends together and overlaps, rising and falling in pitch and tone like some impossible tide, and even in the quiet moments it drills against your skull like an insect's whine. You stagger from chamber to chamber, hallway to hallway, seeking sense or commiseration, but none among your fellows understand what ails you or shares in your torment, save for Sidhe who merely spits venom from where she sits, coiled tight into a ball.
You learn in that moment, in those eons, of the impossible variety of the scream. The shrieks of agony as claws peel away flesh, the wails of lamentation at utopia ground into the dirt, the fearful moans of a grox before the butcher's scythe. The last cry of a dying civilisation, of the universe itself, of ancient glories sundered and eternal wonders undone. The echo of the day the Vortex was first created, preserved and duplicated forever like a tormented soul in amber, immortal, inescapable, incomprehensible.
This is what madness sounds like.
The Chains of Damnation has entered the warp, and is now approaching the Screaming Vortex. Vincenzo must now contend with an endless psycho-auditory onslaught, and find a way to stay sane despite the screaming of a murdered civilisation ringing in his ear every second of every day.
How does he learn to cope?
[ ] Purity. Intensive combat training and physical exercise allows Vincenzo to sharpen his focus and narrow his perception, to lose himself in the rasping of lungs and the burn of tired muscles, to make his sword the only thing that matters. An unconventional form of meditation, but effective.
[ ] Euphoria. The crew cabins maintain old audio-players, and the medicare decks some well-preserved opiates. Drown out the screams with music and dance, and should that fail, a little medicinal aid and the pleasures of rotgut booze and good company.
[ ] Resolve. Vincenzo has lived in hives, always roaring and rumbling, and has endured torture at the hands of the Inquisition before. His body is strong, his will is stronger, and something like this will not be enough to break him. Grit your teeth, harden your heart and fight, endure, survive.
[ ] Evolution. Mere deafness will not defeat a psychic cry, but with biomancy Vincenzo might modify the sensitivity of his nerves, or else blend meat and chemicals to deaden the pain and soothe the most injured of minds.
[ ] Fail. Make it stop, make it stop, please emperor, please mother, please anyone who is listening, anyone, anything, MAKE IT STOP.
