Jessuirs of Supple Flesh takes a step back from his work to admire his depraved magnificence. He had excelled himself, but he always had since he had pledged his soul to his Dark Prince. To think that he had been content with aimless brushes, pallid paint and simple fabric canvas before his enlightenment.
Jessuirs turns back to the entrance of his cave, waiting expectantly for his audience. He hoped they would arrive soon; no art piece is truly complete until it is observed, Jessuirs believes, and he intends to capture the reaction to this piece perfectly in his memory before he moves on to the next one. It shouldn’t take too long for someone to pick up the trail he’d left behind and follow it to him, or so he had anticipated…
His patience is rewarded as a shadow passes over the cave entrance. Jessuirs fights down his excitement enough to retreat into the dark; it is imperative that the observer thought themselves alone when they stumbled upon his genius, so that no outside force would stifle their reaction. Only then would he descend upon them and start anew.
The shadow steps into the cave, and Jessuirs feels his heartbeat’s tempo speed up. She is an aelf, and of the hated sun-twins! In his giddy excitement the temptation to rush out and flay her sweet soul from her corpse almost overpowered him before he controlled himself.
He had to do this properly, or not at all.
Jessuirs watches her walk on with bated breath. He felt that if his anticipation killed him now then it would be a gift from Slaanesh, but his heart continued to beat rapidly on.
It almost stopped when she looked at the wall displaying it.
She examines it, and Jessuirs silently urges her to shed her restraints and cast off her shell to reveal the raw emotion beneath. Jessuirs suddenly realises that he needs her to scream, and that makes him want to laugh. Surely Slaanesh’s hand is on his shoulder now!
The seconds scratch onwards, scratching away at his ecstasy. Jessuirs’ excitement erodes away into impatience, then frustration. Is she blind? Has she even seen his masterpiece? No, he sees that she is actively inspecting it, but she is utterly unperturbed.
Just as he was deciding on whether to carve out her eyes to look for any flaws in them, she looks directly at him and smiles in a not unfriendly way.
“You can stop hiding now, Jerome Seydoux.”
The name sends a shiver down his spine, and very quickly he decides that he hates her. Still, he steps out of the shadows, unconsciously moving such that he shows off his armour with every step.
“That is not my name, aelf. I am Jessuirs, of the Supple Flesh!”
Sudden surprise penetrates his anger, as the aelf bows her head apologetically towards him.
“My apologies, Jessuirs. I hadn’t known that you had changed it.”
She raises her fore- and middle finger and places them against her heart.
“I am Aengellania Tearworn, Soulbound Cathallar for Sigmar. I came here hoping to talk with you.”
“Talk?”
The word piqued at Jessuirs’ frustration, though he isn’t entirely sure why.
“What do we have to ‘talk’ about? You are one of Sigmar’s slaves, your kind lacks the imagination to even engage with me.”
He waves a hand at his work, hoping that it would draw a proper response from her.
“Clearly you lack the good taste to appreciate art when it is displayed before you.”
Once again she looks at it, and once again she seems to fail to register what is stretched over the rocky wall. If Aengellania is hiding her feelings she is doing a masterful performance. Jessuirs wonders if he’ll find out the truth of the matter before his spear pierces her heart.
She looks back at him, still wearing that slight smile.
“I was hoping to talk to you about that, actually.”
She sits down on a nearby rock and smooths down her dress.
“Well, perhaps not exactly that. But at least what motivated you to create it.”
Jessuirs snorts at her proposal.
“What motivates all living creatures with a soul? A desire to improve, to create our beauty in an ugly, tepid world.”
“But what motivates that, I wonder?”
Aengellania leans forward, resting an elbow on her knee.
“I’ve seen some of your earlier work, and the craftsmanship is beautiful. Such vivid eyes, such detailed subjects. What you’re making now falls far short of those paintings.”
“Oh, do they?”
Jessuirs’ palms itch to grasp his spear, but the need to argue with this witch overpowers that desire.
“They did not make hardened warriors cry, or send anchorites screaming deep into deserts. My ‘paintings’ never scarred the souls of priests, or sparked tears from the eyes of saints. They never…”
Jessuirs’ tirade peters away as he notices a strange intensity in Aengellania’s eyes.
“What?”
“My apologies, but it seems to be that you value the reaction more than the art itself?”
“The reaction is the art,” he snaps at her. “Otherwise it’s nothing more than just a few pigments on canvas.”
“But what of personal enjoyment of your work? To germinate an idea within you and see it flourish through passion and hard work?”
Jessuirs’ voice descends into a snarl.
“No! The audience is essential! Otherwise how can you ever truly know that you… You…”
He slowly stops as he realises what is in Aengellania’s eyes.
She pities him.
“Did you always think that way?”
Something in her voice parts away his poise, cutting into the truth he thought long-dead.
“No…”
Jessuirs closes his eyes, trying to shut her out.
“But I was a fool then. The audience is all that matters. Slaanesh… Slaanesh is all that matters.”
“Jessuirs, are you happy?”
“Of course I am.” he responds, painfully aware of how dead his voice had become.
“Oh, Jessuirs…”
He opens his eyes to see her shaking her head mournfully.
“You’re not, are you? The Dark Prince will never let you be content, not for long. It’s simply not in their nature to relent, and they’ll twist you into a reflection of themselves while you’re under their influence.”
For a long moment Jessuirs can’t say anything. What else could he utter to counter her excoriating words?
“What do you know of Slaanesh?”
Aengellania looks up at him, sorrow plainly written across her face.
“More than I pray you ever know. Do you think you’re the first Hedonite I have approached like this?”
She tends a hand to him, palm upwards, inviting him towards her.
“It’s not too late. You can still step away from the Chaos god. You can still heal from whatever drove you into their arms.”
Jessuirs never thought that it would be so painful to hear the aelf plead to him.
“I can still help you, Jessuirs.”
Jerome looks down at her hand, and for a second there is nothing more in the world that he desperately wanted more than to take it.
But his eyes slip away from it, back to his work.
“Can you forgive me for what I’ve done?” Jerome asks her, stomach roiling.
Aengellania falls silent. Then, she slowly closes her hand, and brings it back against her chest.
“That is not something in my power to give.”
Jessuirs sighs, and reaches for his spear.
“Then Slaanesh is all that matters. Only their attention matters.”
He raises his weapon, preparing to charge, when Aengellania whispers to him, regret etched deeply into her voice.
“I’m sorry.”
She unclasps the lid of the bowl beside her, and exploding out of it comes purple smoke that envelopes him. Crushing guilt overwhelms Jessuirs, along with every inadequacy he had ever felt on the long road to perfection. The tip of his spear falls on the ground, followed by his tears.
The smoke parts, and striding out from between them comes a giant, black-armoured and wielding a sword that shines in the gloom. As he looks up at her she raises her blade, eyes and body blazing with lightning. This is what death looks like, and he desperately wishes that it was in his power to capture its likeness in pai-
Améline wipes the blood of the Hedonite off of her blade. The headless corpse could rot in this cavern for all she cared. She had seen the devastation he had wreaked before she and Aengellania had cornered him here.
As she thinks of Aengellania Améline looks towards her, disquieted by her silence. Her friend now stands before the flayed skins stretched over the cave wall, staring up at it. Though her back is turned to Améline, the Stormcast knows Aengellania well enough to guess what she is thinking.
Améline sheathes her greatblade and moves to stand just behind Aengellania.
“Are you well?”
Aengellania looks back and up at Améline with wet eyes.
“Not particularly.”
She turns her head back to the gruesome display.
“Look at it. Look at the effort and passion that went into this creation. The sweat and fear. This is a work born from the soul, Améline.”
“It’s a village worth of flayed skins stitched together, Aengellania.”
The Cathallar nods, and lightly touches one of the skins.
“I know. It just feels… Tragic, that Jerome’s drive was twisted so.”
Aengellania bows her head, and her voice becomes hushed.
“And I had to cut his life short. He’d have made a good painter.”
Améline hesitates, unsure of what to say in the face of her friend’s depressive mood. That it wasn’t the first she’d witnessed only made her feel worse.
Eventually, she places a hand on Aengellania’s shoulder.
“He was a mass-murderer that would have killed again had we not stopped him. His victims’ lives were also cut short by him. You can’t lose sight of that.”
Aengellania closes her eyes, becoming quiet. Améline hears her whisper, almost to herself.
“What are the worshippers of Chaos, if not also its victims…?”
She waves a hand, already cutting off a response from Améline.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right. I just… I just wish I could do more.”
“Aengellania, you could redeem Archaon himself and still wish you could do more.”
Améline leans forward, wrapping her arms around Aengellania in an embrace.
“Don’t lose yourself to almosts and what-could-have-beens. How many worshippers of Chaos have you saved thus far?”
“Eighty-five champions and five tribes and towns.” Comes the quick answer.
“That’s many more victories than what most can manage. And that you still try is victory enough for me.”
Aengellania falls silent once again. Slowly, a hand reaches up to touch Améline’s arm, and she can hear a smile in Aengellania’s voice.
“Thank you for reminding me of that.”
Améline smiles with her as she hears the sincere gratitude in her friend’s thanks.
“It’s the least I can do for you.”
They enjoy the quiet together, before Améline releases Aengellania from her hug.
“We should get moving, after we burn that abomination.”
Aengellania nods as she summons arcane light into the palm of her hand.
“We’ve delayed enough as it is. Lord-Arcanum Gravenwing is still expecting us in Brightspear.”
She reaches out and touches the canvas of flesh, letting Hyshian magic scour it away. Améline hoped the shades of those slain to make it would feel some satisfaction now.
“And the Necroquake waits for no one.”
