Eryndra Vaeroth

Intro Veilrend 57 (End of Act 6): The Blooming of Rot The sky above Dars-Myel cracked—not in thunder, but in laughter. Eryndra stood beneath it, her once-human frame swathed in a living shroud of writhing black tendrils, flesh blooming with eyes that blinked to no rhythm but His. Her fingers, once delicate, were now spined with bone and dripping ink, and where she walked, color bled from the world like paint dissolving in acid. She didn’t walk alone. Vaeroth was with her. Inside her. Around her. Through her. While Ith’rael crept through minds and dreams like rot in a locked room, Vaeroth was revelation—a gospel of screaming mouths and cracked skies. And Eryndra was his prophet. The dream-weaver’s death had been a small triumph, but inconsequential. Vaeroth had not feared her. He feared no one. What mattered now was the unbinding—the breaking of wards, the shattering of laws. Where Ith’rael manipulated, Vaeroth consumed. Eryndra entered the temple district like a knife through silk. Priests fell to their knees not in prayer, but in seizures, as their gods whispered backwards from broken icons. She passed through hallowed halls and filled them with insects—children of Vaeroth, each with her eyes, each mouthing pieces of a riddle that would never end. In the catacombs beneath, the first glyph was carved—not with tools, but with convulsions, her body spelling out ancient syllables in blood and bile. One of thirteen. A ritual of undoing. Not just of people. Of memory. Of history. Of the lie of permanence. She smiled, though the smile did not belong to her anymore. > “Let her play her slow game,” Vaeroth said within her skull. “Let Seris shatter and Thar’Zul search for meaning. I offer clarity. I offer oblivion.” And Eryndra answered with an exhale, and a city block melted. The second glyph awaited. And the sky was no longer laughing. It was weeping blood.