Mirathir strode through the open doors of the throne room and down the one hundred stairs that led deeper into the Fortress of the Abyss. A sense of vertigo wrenched her stomach as she realized that she walked amongst the clouds. Brilliant shafts of sunlight twinkled against thin spires forged from solid bricks of gold and onyx. Every tower displayed their walkways, completely wall-less and revealed thousands of robed figures that scaled them like ants.
Mirathir thought haughtily. Hmph. Same arrogant creature that I have always known. Ascending to the throne has not changed her.
Beneath Mirathir was an endless metropolis that stretched out like the heavens. Rushing waterfalls and rivers ran through the polished streets in an intricate network. They formed a myriad of shapes in the grander scheme of the Forlorn City. In the skies above, winged Greater Demons possessed of angelic forms maintained order across this strange realm.
Mirathir both admired and hated this place, for it was a paradise and another vision of hell entwined together. While the sun shone above the tallest spires, there was an eeriness to its brilliance that she could not explain. Everything hear seemed perfect and yet, those who dwelled here seemed to scream silently for release. This immortal plane existed in a state of limbo that made her truly afraid if she delved into thought too much.
The Raven Prophet cast her troubled thoughts from her mind. She descended the hundred stairs and onto the open spire that housed the Gateway Nexus. Portals that swirled with unstable energies lined the circular platform. One look into them and she could see what worlds awaited her on the other side. Each was linked to a world in the Marathon Sector, where the eternal war was being bitterly waged.
A Greater Demon knelt in the center of the spire. She was unlike the centaur creatures that Mirathir had unleashed at the Ghost Crypts. This demonic entity took shape in a humanoid form, furled ebon wings cloaking it from shoulder to feet. The distinctive feature about her was that her pallid skin seemed nearly human or eldar in origin. Her facial features and flowing locks of auburn hair bore similar resemblances. A great double-bladed spear was gripped in one hand and she was clasped in elegant armor.
The Greater Demon bowed her head. “Prophetess.”
“Aenaria.” Mirathir acknowledged. “How fare the mortal worlds?”
The angelic creature looked up and smiled. “Unending war as usual. Do you seek to travel to a destination?”
“Yes.” Mirathir replied. “I seek passage to my stronghold on Tarmathon IV. There are things that must be… foreseen.”
“Of course,” Aenaria pointed her silver-tipped spear toward a random portal. She glared into its writhing contents until the energies became a placid mirror. “You may proceed, prophetess.”
“You are Nyst’s favored champion.” Mirathir said. “Are you going to fight against the blood tide?”
Aenaria smiled. “Fear not for my soul, prophetess. I shall die a thousand deaths and never perish. Though yes, I shall fight against the minions of Khorne, should my queen demand it.”
Mirahir studied the demon for several moments. “Does she compel you by name?”
Aenaria boasted with cruel laughter. “That is how she compels every servant of hers to fight. If that were not the case, I am certain that our city would have perished in time immemorial. Even now, I doubt that we can best the Blood God’s minions. We have been invaded many times. Crushed many weaklings at our gates. Yet I fear that there is a darker scheme in all of this.”
Mirathir nodded, empathetic. “Fear not, Nyst did not usurp the throne of an entire realm because she could not foresee the future.”
“Of that,” Aenaria said, “I have no doubt.”
At that, Mirathir donned her hood and proceeded toward the portal. “May the warp grant you strength, Aenaria. Do not be too reckless out there.”