本章概述：

????????????一個魅魔無聊得要死（字面意）。

????????????In which a Succubus gets lethally bored.

正文：

?

空。

我有多久沒感受過空虛了？

就如一只曾滿載瓊漿玉液，現(xiàn)在卻僅存一絲幾不可查的余香的細頸瓶。盡管其上浸染了發(fā)酵瓜果和香料的回憶，但它仍是空的。

我很空虛。

即便在此，在我的競技場浸血的沙礫中央，我也沒有任何感覺。曾幾何時，數(shù)百萬人橫尸于此的腥臭氣息，雜糅著他們受盡折磨的靈能殘渣和枯竭靈魂回蕩的哀嚎本會令人欣喜若狂。

至少，這本會些許觸動我的靈魂。

現(xiàn)在它們只是純粹的噪音和臭味——空洞無物，風味全無。

我又深呼吸了一次，空氣中充斥著血腥味。

蒙難的瘴氣充斥著惡名遠播的鉆心教派（Cult Cruciatrix）的劇院，支撐著我的同時令我作嘔。這種感覺好似在嘴中塞滿骨灰并緩慢咀嚼到只剩一團充盈著唾液的沙子再吞下，直到肚子幾乎被產(chǎn)生的糞便撐破。

“伊莎萊（Isarae），為…為什么…，” 一個氣若游絲的聲音讓我瞥向一邊，我的教派里的一名巫靈居然仍在作垂死掙扎。

那雙罩在同樣殘破的雙手上的九頭蛇護手（hydra gauntlets）在她試圖接入其中的異次元武器以求殺死我時不住地抽搐。

“因為，艾麗西亞…，”我平淡地回應著，同時從我原先蹲伏的位置向她接近。我的剃刀連枷（razorflail）拖過沙地，嗡嗡作響地在塵土中穿行。

“因…為？”

“僅僅，因為，” 我跪在她身前，掐住她的下頜回應道。

她曾經(jīng)很美，不過我其他的血腥新娘（bride）也是。

曾經(jīng)是。

她的發(fā)色是如腫脹的傷痕般深沉、怒放的紅，她的雙眼像紫水晶碎片一樣閃爍。她的肉體一如既往地慘白，但現(xiàn)在更多是因為她流失了身體中大部分的血液而非妝容。

艾麗西亞曾經(jīng)一直是最強大的，她在被砍下雙腿并被開膛破肚后還活著便證明了這點。就連血伶人的禁忌藥物都沒法讓她在這種傷勢下挺過來。

很快，饑渴女士也會帶走艾麗西亞，一如祂已經(jīng)在這充盈著慘叫的長夜里帶走其他人。

我曾試想過摧毀自己的巫靈教派會稍稍攪動我的內心。我曾期待惡劣的背叛，憤怒的嘶吼，和茫茫多的熟面孔死于她們自己的統(tǒng)領魅魔（Succubus）的景象能多少填滿那個古舊的細頸瓶。

好吧，在我移除Shae’lith執(zhí)政官的臉皮前他的表情確實激起了最微小的一陣愉悅。我會在幾天里回味這種感覺，運氣好的話也許是幾周。我仍把他的臉皮掛在腰帶掛鉤上，這能幫自己回想起來。

…在一夜間制造了上千死者后。

而我感覺像什么都沒發(fā)生過似的。

“你…這該死的，”艾麗西亞嘶聲道，“他們會…來找你的…?！?/p>

“歡迎他們來追殺我，”我冰冷地回應，“我歡迎饑渴女士的黑暗和永恒折磨，說不定我甚至能親身體會呢?！?/p>

“瘋…瘋子，”艾麗西亞從她的雙唇中擠出這句話。

她死期將至，而我抬起她的臉直到我們四目相對。她的眼中流露出恐懼，對歡愉王子的恐懼，對她的靈魂及其最終命運的恐懼。

我想要看到它，也許這次我能感受到什么。我親自訓練了艾麗西亞，多少個世紀以來我們在欲望、墮落、暴力的精妙舞步中共進。

也許我能在她被蠶食時感受到它。

她在像溺水的動物般喘息時她的眼睛倒映著我的五官。我欣賞著噴過我臉上的那精妙的動脈血柱，扇狀的紅色弧線完美地映襯著我蒼白的膚色。

她漸漸枯萎著，我能從她玻璃狀的眼睛看出這點，于是我拉近她，并把我的嘴唇貼上了她的。這種熟悉的味道和曲線，我已經(jīng)品味過太多次，多到已經(jīng)沒有一點新鮮感了。

我把她抱在那個位置上，直至她的身體松弛下來，死亡的悲鳴聲離她而去。

“真夠無聊，”我嘟噥著丟開她無力的身體?！八淖詈笠豢跉飧渌魏螘r候的嘗起來一個樣?！?/p>

我環(huán)視這座劇院，思考著在下個半周期這里會如何爬滿新執(zhí)政官的夢魘和陰謀團成員。也許他們會給我一個新的巫靈教派，也許他們會殺了我以確保我不能在他們身上重演對前任做的事。

也許，也許，也許。

我跨過這個曾名為“艾麗西亞”的空殼走向自己的包廂，保持著緩慢而放松的步調，畢竟也不需要匆匆行事了。

我哪也不去。

一個出格的念頭滑過包裹我內心的沉悶、結塊的冷漠的泥漿殼。

哪里也不去。

也許，也許。

假使我想去某個地方呢？為什么要待在科摩羅？如果我遠走高飛，他們會追逐我嗎？

也許。

網(wǎng)道之外的銀河是一連串的混亂與死亡，我也許能選擇穿過一個受管制的傳送門，去個真正可怖的地方。一個尚存理智的靈族人不帶上一支艦隊就不敢踏足以防被饑渴女士吞噬的，沉浸于戰(zhàn)爭的地方。

如果我能獨自前往，那我也許會找到能激起我的事物。

“也許吧，”我低聲念到。

一個熟悉的感覺流淌過我的內心。就像是…

期盼？

對，就是這個。

我打開通往自己的包廂的門并脫下了我的儀典盔甲。取而代之的是，我走向了裝載著我真正的武備的架子，那是我被執(zhí)政官召喚參戰(zhàn)時所穿的。

深黑色的護手戴在我的手上，其色澤如同星辰間的虛空，并從指尖到手腕都覆蓋著精心打造的邊緣，其鋒芒畢露恰如任何兵刃。同種顏色相同鑄件的脛甲隨之被輕易地綁到我的膝蓋上，讓我的腿裸露在外并活動自如。

一件被巧妙地切割，以露出大片的蒼白血肉的胸甲隨之被固定，并有幾十片更小的刀片被沿著身側和髖部鉤在相應的位置上。

我用清水洗去頭發(fā)上的血跡和沙土，那長發(fā)長著討喜的橙色火焰的形態(tài)。我對自己的容貌頗感自豪，就像所有的黑暗靈族一樣，哪有不具美感的死亡？哪有美的終局不是死亡？

一洗去我血腥的一夜，我便坐下來開始準備工作。

以精細的畫筆，我在臉上以彎曲的筆畫勾出纖細的深藍色線條。較寬的筆刷在嘴唇上涂抹胭脂，而扁平的則為臉頰染上一抹色彩。

我已經(jīng)很久都沒有為自己做這件事了。自上一次我的一個奴隸使用這些小刷子和飾品起已經(jīng)過去了很多年，可我依舊記得這種柔軟的觸感。

那是一個關于鮮血和哀嚎的故事的序章。

現(xiàn)在我的奴隸都死了，以及我的執(zhí)政官、我的巫靈、我的教派、以及我的血伶人，以及這棟樓里的其他所有人，可我依舊感到空無一物。

對，現(xiàn)在是離開科摩羅去別處尋死的時候了。我不適合死在某個惱火的執(zhí)政官和他的一群亂哄哄的夢魘的刀刃上。我會以另一種方式死去，某種可憎而悲慘，駭人而低賤的方式。

死在一片開闊地上，在被真正的戰(zhàn)爭的瘴氣籠罩、五臟六腑痙攣時挺進戰(zhàn)場，于命定的死亡面前一邊咒罵一邊毫無風度地揮動我的武器。

“對，”幾十年來，真心實意的微笑第一次裝點了我的面容?！皩Α揖驮撃菢铀廊?，那將是我演出的完美終點?！?/p>

在我的房間盡頭的軍械柜是我僅有的允許自己以示夸耀的幾樣物件之一。我的房間空蕩蕩的，以此提醒自己那些必須永遠反對的東西。不過我的軍械柜…嗯，它確實是件杰作。

我的手指輕輕一劃，將蒙著面紗的金屬拉到一邊，用手指撫摸著我的無以計數(shù)的工具。

我停在了自己的九頭蛇護手前，這是一些級別稍低于我的陰謀團成員的最愛，也是一件難以掌握其抽動的異空間材質的武器。在幾個世紀前，當它不再能取悅我時便棄之不用。鉤網(wǎng)（shardnet）依舊是我的一個古老的，過時的最愛?？粗斣谄渲信又炎约呵谐伤槠钡揭词а^多要么學會保持不動仍是我珍藏的遙遠記憶。

那么我最鐘情的武器是…

剃刀連枷。

我拎起了這件貌似輕便的武器并輕柔地抱著它，欣賞著它寬大的、單纖連接的刀片，足以在像鞭子一樣撕裂空氣的同時把我周圍的地面涂滿內臟。這是一種畫筆，一種需要一生的時間才能真正掌握的簡單器具，而我已經(jīng)花費了幾生的時間以精進Lacerai的藝術。

如此多的戰(zhàn)場已經(jīng)被渲染成描繪廢墟的油畫。每次死亡，每只斷肢，每一次動脈噴濺，都被算計著以在初次觀看時最大化對感官的影響，我已經(jīng)用自己的技術服務于科摩羅的強者們日趨衰退的愉悅感太久太久了。

在我日復一日地創(chuàng)作作品時，他們已經(jīng)如饑似渴地凝視了太久，直到這成為了一件單純的苦差事。

我將剃刀連枷系在腰間，將我的雙子毒晶手槍收入槍套——它們是由阿斯杜巴爾·維克特本人在一次為他的陰謀團的尤為漫長的徹夜表演后贈予我的，然后我便離開了我的家，我的劇院，永遠。

它已經(jīng)完成了自己的使命。

原文：

Empty.

How long has it been since I have felt anything but empty?

Like an amphora that was once filled with the finest wine, now carrying only a faint, barely perceptible hint of a scent. The insides of the vessel are stained with the memory of fermented fruit and spices, but it is empty.

I am empty.

Even here, resting in the midst of the bloodsoaked sands of my arena, I feel nothing. Once upon a time, the gore-stink of the millions of deaths spent in this place, combined with the psychic residue of their torment and the echoing screams of their drained souls would have been something to exult in.

Or at least it would have moved my soul in some manner.

Now, they were simply noises and smells, empty of meaning and devoid of flavor.

I took another deep breath, the stink of blood rich in the air.

The miasma of agony filling the infamous theatre of the Cult Cruciatrix sustained me and disgusted me. It was like filling my mouth with?ashes?and slowly chewing until they were nothing more than a spit-filled paste of grit, and then swallowing until the resulting muck filled my stomach to bursting.

“Isarae, w-why…” a voice hissed, and I glanced to the side to see one of the hekatarii of my cult, surprisingly, still clinging to life.

Her ruined hydra gauntlets, clad on equally ruined hands, spasmed as she tried to engaged the extradimensional weaponry within to kill me.

“Because, Aelithya,” I replied neutrally as I stood from where I crouched and stalked over to her, my razorflail dragging along the sands, rasping through the dirt.

“Bec-cause…?”

“Simply, because,” I repeated, kneeling in front of her and seizing her by the jaw.

She was beautiful, all of my brides are beautiful, though.

Were beautiful.

Her hair is the deep, angry red of a raised welt, and her eyes glitter like amethyst shards. Her flesh is pale, it has always been pale, but now it has more to do with the fact that most of her blood has left her body than due to her cosmetic modifications.

Aelithya was always one of the strongest, something proven by the fact she survived having both of her legs sheared off and her torso opened up. Not even the narco-compounds of the haemunculi could preserve her through this much damage.?

Soon, She Who Thirsts would take Aelithya as well, just as They had taken the others in this long, scream-filled night.

I had thought that exterminating my own cult would stir something in me. I had hoped that the gross betrayal, the shrieks of outrage, the sight of so many familiar faces dying to their own Succubus, would at least fill some measure of that ancient amphora.

Well, the look on Archon Shae’lith’s face just before I removed it did evoke the smallest twinge of amusement. I would savor that sensation for days, perhaps weeks if I was lucky. The fact that I still had his face hung from my belt hooks would help me recall it.

Just under a thousand dead in a single night.

And I felt next to nothing.

“You… are… damned,” Aelithya hissed. “They will… come for you…”

“They are welcome to take me,” I replied dryly. “I welcome the blackness of Her hunger and the torment eternal, perhaps I will even feel it.”

“M-Madness,” Aelithya sputtered through wet lips.

She was dying, and I angled her face up until we were staring eye-to-eye. There was terror in her eyes, terror of the Prince of Excess, terror for her soul and its ultimate destination.

I wanted to see it, maybe this time I would feel something. I had trained Aelithya myself, and for centuries we had moved in a delicate dance of lust, depravity, and violence.

Perhaps I would feel it when she was devoured.

Her eyes reflected my features as she gasped like a drowning animal. I admired the artful, arterial spray that had crossed my face. My pale complexion highlighted by the perfect fanlike arc of red.

She was fading, I could see it in the glassiness of her eyes, so I pulled her close and pressed my lips to hers. It was a familiar taste and curve, one I’d tasted too many times for there to be any novelty to it.

I held her there until her body went slack, and her death rattle croaked out from her.

“How disappointing,” I muttered as I dropped her limp body to the ground. “Her final breath tasted the same as all of her other ones.”

I glanced around the theatre, considering how, in the next half-cycle, it would be crawlin with the new Archon’s incubi and kabalites. Perhaps they would offer me a new cult, perhaps they would kill me to ensure I did not do to them what I did to their predecessor.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Stepping over the empty vessel which had once owned the name ‘Aelithya’, I walked to my chambers. I kept my pace slow and languid, no need to rush after all.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

An errant thought slipped through the dull, caked, slurry of apathy that was coating my mind.

Not going anywhere.

Perhaps, perhaps.

What if I was going somewhere? Why stay on Commorragh? If I fled, would they pursue me?

Perhaps.

The galaxy beyond the webway was a panoply of chaos and death, I could choose a restricted portal to flee through and go somewhere truly horrible. A place soaked in war where no sane Aeldari would dare step foot without a full fleet at their backs for fear of being devoured by She Who Thirsts.

If I went there alone, I might find something to stir me.

“Perhaps,” I purred quietly.

A familiar sensation trickled through my mind. Something like…

Anticipation.

Yes, that’s it.

I cast open the doors to my chambers and doffed my ceremonial armor. Instead of that, I moved to the stands that held my true armaments, that which I wore when called to war by the Archon.

Gauntlets of deep black were fitted over my hands, their color like the emptiness between the stars, and covered from finger to wrist with cleverly fashioned edges that were as sharp as any blade. Greaves of the same shade and cast, went on next, strapped easily up to my knees and leaving my legs bare and free for movement.?

A cuirass, artfully cut and slashed to leave wide portions of pale flesh bare to bleed, was secured next, with scores of smaller blades hooked in place along my sides and hips.

I ran a fountain of clear water to wash the blood and grit from my hair, the long locks that were a delightful shade of orange flame. I took great pride in my appearance, as all Hekatarii do, for what is death without beauty? What beauty is there without the finality of death?

Once clean of my evening of blood, I sat to begin preparation.?

With delicate brushes, I drew lines of thin cerulean in curling calligraphic symbols across my face. Broader ones pressed rouge to my lips and flat ones gave a hint of color to my cheeks.

It had been so long since I’d done this for myself. So many years had passed since I’d had any but one of my slaves use these little brushes and cosmetics, and yet I still knew the soft motions.?

The teasing prologue to a dire narrative of blood and shrieking.

Now my slaves were dead, along with my Archon, my Wyches, my Hekatarii, and my Haemonculus, along with everyone else in the building, and still I feel nothing.

Yes, it is time to leave Commorragh, and seek my death elsewhere. It will not suit me to die on the blade of a spited Archon and his gaggle of Incubi. I will die in some other manner, something awful and wretched, something truly obscene and unworthy.

To die on an open field, surrounded by the stench of true war, gripping my entrails as I’m closed in upon, and screaming expletives while swinging my weapon in graceless spasms of defiance as my death approaches with inevitable tread.

“Yes,” a true smile graces my face for the first time in decades. “Yes… that is how I shall die, and it shall be a perfect end to my performance.”

My armory cabinet at the far end of my room is one of the lone pieces of ostentation I permitted myself. My quarters are dull and bare to remind me of what I must forever press against, but my armory… oh yes, that is a masterpiece.

A stroke of my finger pulls the veiled metal aside, and run my fingers along my myriad tools.

I paused at my hydra gauntlets, a favorite of some of my lesser Hekatarii, and a difficult weapon to master with its lashing, extraspatial material. I had outgrown their use centuries ago when their novelty ceased to amuse me. The shardnet was still an old, passing favorite of mine. Seeing captives writhe in its grip, cutting themselves to pieces until they either bleed out or learn to stay still remained a cherished, if distant, memory to me.

My favored weapon it would be, then.

The Razorflail.

I lifted the deceptively light weapon and cradled it, admiring the wide, monowire-linked blades that would rip and hiss through the air like a whip as they painted the field around me with viscera. It was a paintbrush of a sort, a simple tool that required a lifetime to truly master, and I had spent many lifetimes perfecting the art of the Lacerai.

So many battlefields had been rendered into canvasses of ruin, each death, each severed limb, each arterial spray, calculated just so to maximize the effect on the senses when viewed for the first time, and for too long I’ve employed my skills to the jaded delights of Commorragh’s mighty.

Too long they have stared hungrily as I painted them masterpieces night after night until it was naught but a chore.

I fastened the razorflail to my waist, holstered my twin splinter pistols which had been gifted to me by none other than Asdrubael Vect himself after a particularly long night of performance for his Kabal, and left my home, my theatre, for good.

It had served its purpose.