YC 24-01-126
When you hang out drinking with the elder capsuleers between missions, you tend to hear things. Stories about the good old days, tales of that one lucky score that still brings a grin to their faces, and spicy tales about that one girl they claim is waiting for them back in Jita.
But as the hour grows late and the empty glasses start to pile up at the bar, the atmosphere turns darker and the voices of the elders grow hushed as the tales turn to the lessons of the past and tales of those that have gone before us. It is during these moments that the elders speak of a place called Doomheim.
Not some celestial heaven akin to the afterlife envisioned in the Scriptures of Amarr but a more ominous place where the souls of the lost of New Eden gather.
The tales of the old capsuleers tell that Doomheim resides in that darkest of recesses of New Eden, a place far removed from the bustling trade hubs and teeming star systems of the empires of man. A place known as “The Point of No Return” by those who have been there.
It is within that most desolate expanse that this forsaken station lies at its very heart. Hidden from prying eyes and all but forgotten by the common citizen. A black beacon in the void of space. A monument to the deaths of those lost to the expanse. Trapped forever in the hold of some lifeless sphere adrift in orbit of some nameless dead star. It’s corridors exposed to the void, haunted by the spectral remnants of the lost. Ruins and wreckage bearing silent witness to the profound darkness that pervades this desolate place.
Those who have seen Doomheim with their own eyes describe the station as not but skeletal remains of some testament to former glory. The vast space around it a graveyard littered with the remains of countless ships and drones that met their end in the cold emptiness of space. A lifeless place haunted by the echoes of past distress calls and the sounds of warning claxton of some past encounter the remains of which now drift aimlessly amongst the ruin trapped in a perpetual spiral into oblivion.
For those who dare to venture further and step foot on the deckplates of the dead station itself. They speak of the enigmatic mistress of Doomheim whom awaits them.
Dame Hel they call her, She who they say waits to greet them on that lonely station. The mistress of the void who gathers all those lost souls to her akin to some dark mother. A great beauty it is said with skin as pale as death draped in a veil of a starry night. Her gaze said to be cold and empty with lips as red as blood.
The tales of Doomheim no doubt serve as some cautionary tale — a testament that even in a universe adorned with technological wonders and the allure of exploration that death awaits even us capsuleers in that vast cosmic ocean. Heed these words as you traverse the vast unknown, for in the heart of the abyss, Doomheim awaits—a final destination and chilling reminder that, within the vastness of space we are as mortal and any who had come before us.
Are these tales true? Who can say … New Eden holds many wonders as well as terrors awaiting discovery. Ones fate is often enough is decided by a simply a flip of a coin or a careless action. Death comes swiftly enough for a capsuleer but even we must face a final end one day.