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Revamp
01-11-2006, 09:05
[Everyone wishing to enter please post here! Commentary, appraisals and critiques are to be posted on the main thread, so no OOC comments here please.]

Shadowseer Crofty
01-11-2006, 15:10
I had to post this in 2 replies cos its too long for one
Outcast

Part one

The Nightwing sped through the webway. It’s pilot, the wanderer Mear-feothan knew not where he was going, nor did he care. Twisting through the narrow paths, he detected a nearby wraithgate, and scanned to find out where it would take him. Cadia. The outcast knew there battle still raged on that fortress world, he knew kin from Ulthwe still fought the Great Enemy there. He was tired of wandering aimlessly, and yearned for battle.

Opening the wraithgate, he turned the craft, re-entering the materium. As he angled the craft upwards, he scanned the area for any Mon-Kiegh, and for a suitably concealed place to hide the Nightwing.

He wondered why he wanted battle, he had trodden the path of the warrrior a few centuries before. That was his last path before choosing to leave the craftworld. He had nearly died then, in a battle with the Necrontyr.

* * *

Rank upon rank of Silvered warriors advanced, in between the columns of warriors were squads clad in Eldar flesh, wet with blood from Aliatoc’s forces last battle with them, two days ago. Many good warriors had died that day, and the infinity circuit would be filled with many new souls once the strike force returned to the craftworld. Most of these would probably be used for wraithguard, and the few fallen Exarchs for wraithlords, disturbing their peaceful slumber to call them to battle once more.

The Menshad Korum led Mear-feothan and the other striking scorpions through the undergrowth, silently and swiftly crawling beneath the tangled bush. Mear-feothan’s heart felt heavy with fear, for looking upon the Necrontyr is to look upon fear itself. However he refused to let that fear consume him, as a warrior of Aliatoc, fear and pain were nothing to him.

The Silvered Host was near, a unit of wearers-of-flesh on the columns flank were the first they would engage. Anger flared in Mear-feothan, seeing the Eldar flesh hanging from their skeletal frames, anger and hatred burning within him and eclipsing the fear.

The Exarch drew his biting blade, and the scorpions did likewise with their chainswords. With a silent hand signal, he gave the command to charge.

The squad leapt forward, screaming battle cries and the name of Khaine. Mear-feothan brought his chainsword up in a sweeping motion, removing the head of one Necron, cuting a gash in another. The metal ran like magma as the fallen Necrontyr repaired itself. The gash in the other was erased.

Mear-feothan ducked a swipe from the fallen ones clawws, returning the blow with a stab of his blade. The sword dug into his foes shoulder, immobilising its left arm. As he pulled the sword free, his foe threw a lighting fast right hook aimed at Mear-feothan’s temple. He couldn’t duck in time. The claws cut through the side of his helm, but fortunately didn’t touch the flesh. The metal of the Necrons left shoulder turned to liquid as it repaired itself. Mear-feothan struck at its head once more as it withdrew its claw. The chainblade punched through the dark pit that was its right eye. He struck again, splitting its head open. As the Necron stumbled he struck once more, piercing where its cold, metal heart would be, shattering its ribcage, and it fell.

As the corpse faded he stepped over it to another flesh wearer, triggering a blast from his mandiblaster before he reached it, causing it to stumble. He struck with his chainsword. The arm it threw up to block the attack shattered. As he drew his blade back for another blow, the wearer-of-flesh leapt upon him, plunging its claws into his chest, and he remembered no more.

* * *

That was his last battle as a warrior, it had taken three weeks for his wounds to heal, another two before he was in fit condition to battle. His left lung had been punctured and his spine and two ribs damaged, replacement tissue had to be artificially grown, and some of his spine had to be repaired with wraithbone. While he was laying, barely concious, as the healers did their work, he had time to think. He had thought about mortality, and about the path, how life could be too short to concentrate on one skill, one part of his psyche, at a time, trapped within the constraints of the craftworld and the shrine, trapped with the strict discipline enforced by the council of Seers.

An alarm went off as the scanners detected something, interrupting Mear-feothan’s thoughts. He looked at the screen, upon which shone words, reading, ‘High-powered energy source detected. Status: doormant. Origins: unknown. Location: 1.5 kilometers south.’

A diagram of the area shimmered below the data-text, indicating the precise location of the unknown energy source nearby. The image revealed a huge enclave in the surrounding area, a crater of some sort – the energy source marked with a flashing dot upon the screen. Strange, thought Mear-feothan, an energy source not Mon-Kiegh in origin here. Looks like something worth investigating.

He angled the Nightwing downwards, turning right and searching for somewhere to land near the crater. As he flew over the crater he found it, half a mile away, a large plateau on a mountainside, surrounded on three sides by steep rock.

He scanned the area again, confirming that no one was around. Leveling out his descent, he turned and landed the ship. He took his sword and pistol from a storage compartment, and disembarked.

* * *

A few minutes later Mear-feothan reached the crater, and started scanning for the energy source’s exact location. He found it quickly, despite it being buried under a foot or so of rubble. Lifting it up, he gazed at it in awe.

It was an orb, perfectly spherical and smooth. An eerie light came from within it, a mass of changing colours. Half remembered tales came into his head, an old legend of Aliatoc before the fall, involving an object described to be like this orb. He quickly scanned it, his scanner accessed the Nightwings computer to confirm his suspicions, it was the Orb in the legends. Hearing footsteps, he quickly hid the orb in a pouch on his belt, and turned to head back for his ship.

To find himself staring down the barrel of a crude rifle.

Part two

He mentally cursed himself for not remaining watchful. He looked at the one holding the rifle, a Mon-Kiegh judging from the armour, a dark green and khaki bodysuit, the jacket padded by plates of something, probably ceramite. He couldn’t see the face, for the man was wearing a dark green helm, with a black tinted visor and dark green faceplate. The crude rifle was connected to a backpack by a cable. As Mear-feothan took in the mans appearance, the rest of the squad spread out to surround him, all identical armour with identical crude rifles. Kasrkin, the elite of the Cadian army, which wasn’t saying much. One stepped through a gap in the circle that looked different to the others, his head was bare and he held a pistol, similar to the rifles wielded by the rest, and a short, straight sword. The sergeant. The man pointing the rifle in Mear-feothan’s face stepped back, but kept his rifle trained on the ranger.

“So, we have an Eldar spy here. What brings scum like you to the Emperor’s blessed domain?” Said the sergeant, in a deep growling voice.

Mear-feothan remained silent for a minute, trying to remember the Mon-Kiegh’s crude ‘language’.

“Answer me, scum!” demanded the Sergeant.

“Why should I explain my reasons to a crude, pathetic mongrel of a creature like yourself? Be gone, Mon-Keigh, I have not the time to be delayed by such insignificant beings and you have not the right to interfere with those worthy of being called ‘sentient species’.”

“Stop acting so high and mighty, Xenos, you’re comin’ with us. The Inquisitor wants a word with you.”

“You are mistaken, if I wished to ‘speak’, for want of a better term, to one of your ‘Inquisitors’ to then I would find one myself. Kindly stand down and allow me to be on my way.”

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

“It was merely a polite request, if politeness is possible in your crude, animalistic tongue. If you wish, then I will make it into a demand, and back it up with a threat.”

A laugh rasped from the sergeant’s lips, and was answered by guffaws from the surrounding kasrkin.

“You’re surrounded by the Emperor’s finest, what threat can you possibly make?”

Mear-feothan gripped the hilt of his sword, and smiled.

“This.”

In one sweeping motion he drew his sword and slashed at the Sergeant’s neck. The sergeant parried the stroke, as Mear-feothan drew his pistol. He snapped off a shot as he dodged a strike from the sergeant. The shuriken round embedded itself in his armour, as Mear-feothan ducked a volley of laser rounds from the surrounding troopers.

“Hold your fire! Inquisitor Khan wants him alive.”

Mear-feothan struck one of the Mon-kiegh just beneath the helm, slicing his throat and leaving him on his knees struggling to breathe. Rolling to the side, he narrowly avoided a bayonet aimed at his stomach. As he stood, raising his pistol for another shot, he felt something solid hit the back of his head. He bit back a cry of pain as he fell forwards, flinging out his hands to break his fall and dropping his pistol, which fired as the trigger hit a rock, causing a cry loud enough to wake the dead from one of the Mon-kiegh. Mear-feothan turned to see the shuriken stuck in a rather inconvenient place on one of the men, who was now on the ground screaming like a shrine full of banshees.

Forcing himself to his knees, he snatched his pistol from the ground. As he stood, one of the kasrkin rammed the butt of his rifle into his face. Blood pured from his nose as he fell to the ground again, and this time dropped both his weapons and didn’t get up. His vision was cloudy as he rolled onto his back to see a blurry form bending over him. Darkness claimed him.

* * *

When he awoke, he was in a square room, the walls painted a dull grey, illuminated by one strip of light on the ceiling. His head throbbed, and there was a sharp pain between his shoulders, from the uncomfortable position he was sat. He tried to move, but found himself tied to his chair with a thick cable, his hands bound behind his back. He gave up, and waited for someone to come.

He could hear the sound of water dripping, as from a tree over a lake after torrential rain. He sneered at the Mon-Kiegh’s attempts to mentally torture him, he still had some of the mental discipline of a follower of the Path, despite his exile. The Mon-Kiegh thought they were so intelligent, but had the stupidity to try to torture him with the sound of dripping water. He sat, ignoring the sound and waited.

Hours passed.

The door creaked open, and light filled the room. Silouhetted in this light was the form of a man, heavily built and tall, with a shaven head. The door slammed shut and the mans face became visible. It was not a face that could be called handsome. Its thin lips were twisted into a sneer, its nose looked to have been broken at least twice, and a scar cut through the dark skin down from the left temple to the chin.

“Xenos,” he said, “are you going to tell me why you are here, or do I have to force it out of you?”

“You can torture me all you like, Mon-Kiegh, but you will never get me to speak. Pain is nothing.”

“You will regret that statement soon. You will be begging for mercy in a few hours. And none of your kin will hear your screams, no one can rescue you.”

The man, Mear-feothan guessed it was the inquisitor the kasrkin had mentioned earlier, raised a barbed whip. Mear-feothan recognised it as an agonizer, a weapon wielded by the dark kin. So this inquisitor wasn’t what could be called ‘whiter than white’ as many inquisitors claim to be.

The Inquisitor stepped forward, and slashed the whip across Mear-feothan’s chest, cutting through his armour and causing the flesh to split. Fire ran along the nerves there, and Mear-feothan almost screamed. A razor-sharp shard of his armour hit the floor.

Part three

Mear-feothan lay on the cold floor of the room, still bound to the fallen chair. He tried to move, to slip free from the cable binding him, but it cased the pain to flare with renewed vigour as the cable rubbed against his wounds. His armour was in tatters, the sharp edges left from the agoniser blows cutting into his exposed flesh, widening the wounds and adding to the pain even more.

His belt had been removed from him before he had awoken, with it the orb. Had the Mon-Keigh searched it and found the orb? No, he thought, they could not have, the catches on the pouches will only open at the touch of Eldar flesh. The orb was safe, until they took their crude weapons to the belt. I must find a way to escape before then, he thought, or the Mon-kiegh could doom the galaxy again.

Trying in vain again to slip his hands through the cable, his fingers found a shard of his armour. He tested its edge on his finger to find it razor sharp. Picking it up, he twisted his hand round and sawed at the cable with it. Pain flared in his wrist, but he cared not as he tried to free himself. Soon his left hand was free. He switched the shard to is left and and cut through the cable binding his right hand. Once that was free, he tried untying the rest of the cable, but the knots were too tight, so was forced to cut through these too. Eventually he was free, and could stand painfully.

Ignoring his wounds, he swiftly walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Maybe, he thought, the Mon-Kiegh are not as stupid as I thought. He stood, pondering his predicament, until an idea came to him. He picked up his bonds and cut a length of the cable off. He then picked up the chair, and hurled it at the door. He retrieved it, and hurlded it at the door again, each time making a lound crashing noise of metal striking metal. He quickly stood next to the door, where guards wouldn’t see him when they opened it, and waited for a few seconds.

The lock clicked and the door swun open. His plan had worked. Two Mon-Kiegh holding the Mon-Kiegh’s crude version of a Swooping Hawks lasblaster stepped through, looking slightly confused.

One turned and saw Mear-feothan, but before he could cry out, Mear-feothan swung the cable. The makeshift whip slashed across the guards face, leaving a savage gash, and he fell. The other fired his weapon, the red beam narrowly missing Mear-feothan’s face. He fired again, hitting one of the intact parts of Mear-feothan’s armour, before he too was dealt a blow to the face with the cable, and he fell.

Mear-feothan stepped over the bodies to the door, and left toe room. He found himself in a narrow corridor, each wall a row of identical doors, probably leading to identical cells. He turned left, and headed for the end of the corridor and through a door to find a small guardroom, containing a cupboard, a desk and two chairs. Opening the cupboard, he found his belt and weapons. He quickly buckled the belt around his waist, with the sheath and holster attatched, and checked the pouches. Everything was there, the orb, his communicator, his scanner, and his holographic computer, which was connected to his ship. A quiet alarm noise was coming from this, and he quickly accessed his ships computer to discover something that filled his heart with dread.

Another, louder alarm sounded not far away. His escape had been discovered. He put his computer away, opening the door of the guardroom.

Beyond this door stood the inquisitor and four Kasrkin. They levelled their rifles at him, and he raised his hands, and said, “Wait.”

The soldiers were taken aback by his commanding tone, and lowered their rifles. The Inquisitor scowled at the Kasrkin, and raised his own pistol.

“Stop,” said Mear-feothan, the commanding tone discarded in favour of a more pleading one, “There is something you must know, my prescence here may have doomed you all, it may have doomed the entire galaxy.”

“Tell me what you know, filth, and your death will be swift and painless. Or do you wish to feel the touch of my whip again?”

“No, you will not kill me, for I may be your salvation. If you release me.”

“Explain, and speak quickly, lest my tolerance of your prescence wear thin.” Replied the Inquisitor.

“Have you not looked at any external sensor network you have? If you had then you would know part of the danger you face. If you scanned to the North, you would discover an advancing Chaos horde. If you scanned to the south, you would find nothing. But that doesn’t mean there is nothing there. It merely means you cannot detect them. My ship can, and has discovered the ancient foe of my race, the Necrontyr.

“The Chaos forces march on you from the north, a thousand score space marines led by a great Lord of Change and marching with them countless daemons and cultists. The Necrontyr march from the south, led by their Deciver, more than enough to match the Chaos forces.Your defences cannot stand against such an assualt, Mon-Keigh. They will tear this city apart until they find me. I am what they are looking for, for they know that I have the object that they seek. This.”

The ranger drew from the folds of his cloak an orb, perfectly spherical, glowing, its colour ever-changing. The Mon-Keigh looked in awe.

“I know little of this, except what half remembered legends tell. When Aliatoc first launched, before the fall, a world was dicsovered not far from a warp storm, a world ravaged by war. Millions of Silvered Warriors fighting millions of daemons. All for this. What power it contains and what it can be used for became lost in the myths, but I know no mortal can use its power. The Necrontyr’s Deciever and Tzeentch each wanted it, the master of change and the master of trickery, for each has the power to use it. The Necrontyr marched to war behind the Deciever and the daemons and cultists followed Lords of Change, much as they are now. My people, knowing that if either acquired this the universe would be doomed, intervened. Much as they did millions of years before, they took to the battlefield with the ancient Wraithguards, and recovered the orb. But the Necrontyr and Chaos fores struck as the webway was opened for Aliatoc’s forces’ escape. None of the Eldar force survived, and in a last desperate act the Seer leading the force flung the orb through the portal, closing it as he drew his last breath. All knowledge of it was lost except the legend. I found it near one of our hidden portals here, in an old crater which you thought was an impact crater from a meteor. The forces of the Great Enemy and the Necrontyr know it is in mortal hands once more, they know I have it. Release me, and your hive will be safe. Keep me here, none will survive.”

Shadowseer Crofty
01-11-2006, 15:11
Part four

“You tell a good tale, Eldar, but a very tall one. Ten thousand Chaos Space Marines? Ha! None can unite such a force, and have them march as one army, even the thrice-cursed Despoiler cannot bribe, blackmail and trick that many into fighting side-by-side. The whip and the excruciator it is, then,” said the Inquisitor, drawing his agonizer from his belt.”

“Inquisitor Lord Khan,” came a shaking voice from behind the Kasrkin.

The soldiers stepped aside to reveal a small man in dark green armour and an Imperial guard or PDF helm many sizes to large for him running towards the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor turned, giving the Kasrkin a hand signal, and Mear-feothan found himself staring down the barrels of their crude rifles once more.

“What is it?” asked the inquisitor brusquely.

“C-Chaos forces, m-my Lord,” stuttered the terrified man, “thousands of marines, cultists and daemons, no more than fifteen miles away!”

“Show me. And you’re coming too, Eldar.”

The terrified guardsman st off at a run down the corridor, followed by Khan. One of the Kasrikin prodded Mear-feothan with his bayonet, and, reluctantly, he follwed.

Following Khan into a small room, Mear-feothan saw above a table a holographic map of the area. A blue block flashed near one end, marked with an eight pointed star. The guardsman pressed a rune on the side of the table and the image zoomed in, the blue block becoming a hazy mass of shapes, some identifiable as squads, others just a disorganised mass. The sensor seemed to detect what the shapes were, as three different Mon-Kiegh runes marked what must have been different squad types, or daemons, cultists and Space Marines.

“It appears there was some truth in your story, wanderer.” Said the Inquisitor to Mear-feothan. “You know why they are here?”

“I have already told you why they are here, or could your simple mind not comprehend my words?”

“Less of the insults, I still hold the power of life or death over you. Now asnwer me.”

“They come for me, to claim the Orb which I showed you. As I said before, release me, and they will leave your city to persue me.”

“And how will you escape them?” Asked Khan, “you are but one Eldar with a fightercraft, there are an entire legion’s worth of Marines there, and they will have support from space. And if what you said of the Necrons is true, then your chances are slimmer still.”

“And if the Orb stays here, then your whole city will be ruined, you have not the forces to stop them. I can flee into the webway, where they cannot follow. Take me to my ship, and you will be safe.”

The Inquisitor remained silent for some time, as the blue block moved slowly towards the hive. Mear-feothan waited paitiently for an answer for a few minutes, until he could no longer stand the waiting.

“What say you, Inquisitor?” He asked, “will you release me, and survive, or keep me here, and die?”

Khan’s face was grim as he replied.

“I will release you, for I must keep my people safe,” he turned to one of the Kasrkin, and said to him, “escort him to his craft, then return here for orders.”

“Sir.” Replied to Kasrkin, and turned to leave, indicating that Mear-feothan should follow.

* * *

As Mear-feothaan followed the Kasrkin at a brisk pace, he noticed the man kept turning to look at him. Mear-feothan was no expert on Mon-Kiegh facial expressions, but he was sure that look was one of hunger, desire and greed. He gripped the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak as they entered the hangar where his ship had been taken.

As the door closed with a quiet thud, the Kasrkin turned, raaising his rifle. Mear-feothan, with reflexes born of travelling the warriors’ path, leapt to his right, diving and rolling as he landed. Laser bolts smashed into the wall behind him, ever so slightly slower than he was. As Mear-feothan stood, his drawn sword flared into life in his hand, the energy field giving off a dim silver glow. Charging forward, he struck at the Kasrkin, who parried with his bayonet, before twisting away from the sword to stab at Mear-feothan’s face, leaving his left side open to Mear-feothan’s blade, as he dodged the attack and swung his blade in a wide arc.

I claim first blood, thought Mear-feothan, but unless I kill him swiftly, then this fight could be the doom of the galaxy.

The soldier fell with a scream as Mear-feothan pressed his advantage with a stroke to the man’s right, his blade slicing armour and crashing against the man’s shoulder blade. Laser bolts flew at Mear-feothan as the wounded man tried desperately to avoid his death at the Eldar’s hands. The ranger drew his pistol and aimed it at the Kasrkin’s throat. There was a whooshing noise as the shuriken flew at the man’s throat, and the laser bolts stopped.

Mear-feothan ran for his vehicle, without pause to wonder why the Kasrkin had attacked, for he knew already. The greedy look immediately revealed that the man wanted the Orb, despite what had already been told of it.

The cockpit opened as he touched the seal locking it, and he climbed in, stowing his weapons in the storage compartment next to his seat. After pulling the canopy closed and sealing it once more, his fingers danced across the control panel, powering up the craft’s systems. Then he noticed the one problem.

The hangar door was locked, and Mear-feothan knew not how thick it was. Only one way to find out, he thought, powering the shuriken cannons.

Large, high-velocity shurkiens flew at the door, some bouncing off the metal, others denting it. Now Mear-feothan regretted that the brightlances had been removed to make a small amount of sleeping space. Until he saw the hinges.

The engines activated and the craft rose a few feet, angling itself to aim the cannons at the hinges to the doors left. A few shots, and they were destroyed, and the left door fell into the hangar. A few more took out the right door, and the Nightwing sped through the doorway, rising above the city and heading for the portal and safety.

Part five

Doubts clouded Mear-feothan’s mind. Once he had escaped into the webway, where would he take the orb? He could not take it to Aliatoc, for despite his home’s isolation, the Deciever and the Great Enemy would still be able to find it. He could just remain in the webway with it, where only Eldar could find him. But even that would not garauntee the artefact’s safety, for the Dark Kin could still attack his lone craft and take the orb, and they could no more combat such a force as marched on the Mon-Kiegh hive than the Mon-Kiegh could. Only one option for the orb to be totally safe came to Mear-feothan’s mind. But how would he find the place? Very few other than the mysterious Harlequins knew the location of the Library. Rumour had it the Seer Councils of Ulthwe were connected to the Black Library in some way, they could be the only ones other than the Harlequins who knew it’s location.

Of course! The Seer Councils. With such a large Chaos force massed, Ulthran would have dispatched his strike forces to hit the Chaos army where they would do most good. If he could find one, the council could aid him in locating the Library. Mear-feothan turned his craft northward, towards the enemy, scanning for Eldar life signs and webway gates.

* * *

The horde grew larger as the Nightwing approached, the lightning speed of his craft crossing the fifteen miles in a matter of seconds. He saw the evidence of one of Ulthwe’s strike forces the moment the sensors told him of it. Striding towards the daemon leading the Chaos force was the fiery figure of an Avatar, bellowing its mighty war cry, the Wailing Doom flashing in its hand. Flanking it were what seemed to Mear-feothan to be tiny black specks, which as he came closer he could see were the black garbed figures of Warlocks. The Spear of Khaine was striking at the heart of the Chaos army.

Flashes of white lightning struck across the battlefield, the shimmering light of wraithgates appeared amongst the masses, black armoured guardians and jetbikers spilling from them. Vypers zoomed over the combatants, shurikens, missiles and laser pulses bursting from their weapons, all around below the Nightwing cultists and marines and daemons were falling, but they seemed without number. Guardians fell and retreated into the webway, more gates opened for more Eldar to spill out. Shurikens flashed as they caught the sunlight, blood burned red on Mear-feothan’s vision as his craft flew low over the battle.

The sound of wings beating came from behind, over the drone of the crafts engines. The sensors told Mear-feothan the daemon was rising into the air, turning toward him. He swung the craft around to meet the Chaos beast head-on, seeing it raise its staff.

Shurikens burst forth from the cannons as Mear-feothan pulled the triggers, the large gleaming discs striking the creatures left wing. Silvery, ethereal blood gushed from the wounds, as the wing was torn apart under the barrage of fire. The daemon hit the ground with a crash, barely standing up in time to parry a blow from the Avatar’s blade. The Avatar struck again, to be parred once more. Singing spears were hurled at the Lord of Change by the Warlocks, but the damon ignored them, as fire burst from its staff.

Khaine raised his blade to deflect the bolts of fire, the burning reds of the Wailing Doom meeting the pink warp flames, leaving the Avatar’s sides unprotected. The Change Lord moved to strike Khaine.

The blow never came.

Without thinking, Mear-feothan swung his craft downwards, hurling shurikens at the monstrosity, some penetrating the daemonic flesh, others bouncing off. As he levelled out his descent, he fired another burst of shurikens, almost at point-blank range, at the daemon’s neck.

The craft rose again as daemonic blood splattered the canopy, impairing Mear-feothan’s vision. As laser beams evaporated the substance, Mear-feothan watched the scene below on the sensor screen, as the horde broke around the daemons corpse, the Avatar strode through the masses, killing as it went. A thought came into Mear-feothan’s mind unbidden, and in an unfamiliar voice.

I know of what you carry, and know where you must take it. Follow these directions in the webway and you will find the Black Library. May Isha watch over you.

A series of directions entered Mear-feothan’s mind rapidly, and his fingers danced over the console as he inputted them into the craft’s computer. He swung the craft around, heading back for the webway gate.

* * *

As Mear-feothan passed over where he had first found the orb, the noise of crude aircraft engines drowned out the hum of his own. He looked at the sensors, and the shimering image told him he was being persued. Three Hellblades, Chaos fightercraft, were on his tail. Shells of Mon-Keigh weaponary narrowly missed his craft, as he swung the nose upwards, looping over his foes and levelling out behind them.

He fired the cannons, large shurikens flew at the three craft bouncing off the hulls. The Hellblades’ formation split, as they broke apart and turned to face him. Mear-feothan picked his target and let rip, the shurikens smashing the glass of the cockpit and tearing the pilot to shreds. The craft sped past him, losing altitude until it hit the ground in a fiery inferno, the pilots funeral pyre. As he passed the reamaining two they turned to follow him once more. More shells flew past his craft, but one was lucky. It glance off the right wing, denting the wraithbone and sending the craft into a spin. Mear-feothan lost control, the nose angled downwards and the craft descended, spinning so fast the Mear-feothan was almost sick as he wrestled with the controls trying to level out his descent. The spinning ground rushed towards him, but Mear-feothan refused to give up. The spinning slowed, as the ground became too close.

There was a scraping sound from the underside as the Nightwing levelled and started to rise, Mear-feothan breathed a sigh of relief, as he realised he was stil alive, and his craft was still in one piece. He checked the screen for damage, and saw just a dint in the wing and a few gashes in the wraithbone on the underside.

His persuers continued to fire on him as he sped away from them, towards a mountain range, dodging their fire. He slowed as he neard the mountains, allowin them to catch up.With a sudden burst of spee, he sped straight at the mountainside, followed still by the Hellblades. At the last second he turned the Nightwing upwards, narrowly missing the sheer rock. An explosion behind him told him one of his foes wasn’t so lucky.

He sped away again, hoping he could lose his last enemy when he entered the portal. The Hellblade remained in peruit, managing to keep a steady distance away. But that mattered not, the pilot could not see the open webway gate. The empty ground where the gate was sped closer, as Mear-feothan lowered his craft.

Suddenly the landscape of Cadia was replced by the swirling colours of the webway, the open plain replaced by the claustrophobic tunnel. Mear-feothan checked his sensor, and saw the Hellblade had followed. How? Mear-feothan wondered. Maybe the Mon-Kiegh are more intelligent than we thought if he knew to follow me to were I dissappeared.

But that was trivial, Mear-feothan’s greater speed would escape the Hellblade, and lose it in the labyrinthe, to be picked off by a passing ship or strike force. Mear-feothan sped up his craft, heading for the Library.

But still the Hellblade pursued.

As he entered the wider, interstellar tunnels, he saw the Hellblade behind him again. He wondered how it had followed him, could the pilot be a psyker? Mear-feothan knew he must deal with this foe before he headed for the Library, or risk giving its location away.

As he neared a tunnel crossing his path, he slowed his craft, allowing it to drop near the bottom of the tunnel. The speeding Hellblade flew above him before it could stop.

Straight into the path of a Vampire Raider.

The huge craft smashed into the Hellblade, sending it spinning. Pulse lasers fired from the transport, narrowly missing the spinning Chaos fighter. The fighter was no match for the Vampire Raider, and the Chaos pilot knew that. As the Hellblade stopped spinning, it turned, fleeing through the tunnel with the Vampire Raider in persuit.

Mear-feothan gunned the engines, and headed for the Black Library.

* * *

“I know not what its power is, Great Guardian,” said Mear-feothan to the tall, cloaked figure, “I merely know the legend of its finding and loss, and that if Chaos or the Necrontyr should obtain it, then the universe will be doomed.”

“That is enough knowledge of this object. You have done well, it will be safe here. You have my gratitude and respect, may the Laughing One smile on you,” replied the Guardian in a deep, emotionless voice.

“Thank you, Great Guardian.” Mear-feothan bowed, and turned to leave.

Revamp
01-11-2006, 22:22
Imagine first a column of marching ants {without end} of the like which are with a queen of some brutes intellect, a primal and basic thing that serves no purpose save directing conquest yet at this meagre act is absolute and honed, as if there were some malformed form of Path devoted to raw savagery which this lone being had become master, now able to marshall the yet lower minded beasts beneath him by sheer sides and absence of defeat, to lead them onwards over the black wasteland and from each pin-prick of light to the next, devouring all that they encounter and expending all efforts on locating, reaching and then voiding all others they might encountered, bolstered only from the natural consequence of fighting creatures forming vast scuttling armadas {to turn from their directed path and set upon each other, descending into a carnage of cannibal viciousness until all is expended, spent upon themselves and no other} by the barbaric intensity of their aforementioned monarch, whose insatiable maw urges them endlessly onwards, a totality of intent focused upon an endless of procession of the next source of resistance {crushed furiously but without sating} and then the next, and the next, ever onwards and without pause or hesitation, no lull made in their continuation, their determination oddly unaltered by the meeting of their urges, living as we do, in a mockery of a sense, for a single notion, a paradigm which dominates their every action, thought {such that they are} and gutturally snarled word, so on they surge led through the pricks of brightness and towards more quarry, more fodder.

Now imagine that they are as endless as their agenda, their ranks ever amassing and refusing to diminish, rather than being shrunken by the fierce defences made against their onslaught they simply extend, their forces increasing in might as a candle's conflation blossoms and equally fierce - shoved forwards towards the next which serves merely as fuel rather than extinction of the blaze, growing all the mightier as they spread as might a shawl; revealed in its fullness, having been present yet absent - and ever onwards, onwards with not a mote of remorse or regret or reconsideration breaching their lust for further and further and further consumption of all before them, any form of rejection of their conquest merely appreciated, cherished in fact, no, the most foul thing of them is that this is in fact their desire, the goal, their purpose.

And that is all - they are merely puppets of wrath, these creatures spurred forwards by desire for release, their very core filled with this urge and swept around their master who, in his spiteful immensity, moulds their loathing around its will, directing them in a crudely precise measurement for the most strife, in some sickening symbiont whereby it sets them a path to follow and they receive and gladly take it, the vastness of its plans breaching the realms of foul fantasy and spilling out into the area of the division in which we find ourselves, their countless number allowing its dreams to rupture and tear reality, while they are glad and humble followers, cowed by mere relative scale alone - which is to say in physical form, no less no more, its mere size enough to have them scurrying in its wake, assailing where it tells them assail and doing what little else besides their limited minds are fit for - whose payment and full reward is the endless blood-smeared list of battles, writhing events which lead onwards until their lone existence is extinguished.

But they are not one by one, they are far, far from that: they are one - the singularity forged by intent, by shared conviction and the raging desire for an expression of their urges, a unity of discord that forces them to surge together in cohesion of the likes we could never obtain and never must attempt to - and all the worse for it, millions of these can be crushed underfoot, set alight, hurled into the skies and drowned beneath oils and unguents but the survivors shall not so much as pause, leave alone halt, they shall force relentlessly on without a lull and push and push and push until resistance ceases existence or they; in this way they are an inversion: they care not for their numbers and can afford all loses, their leader remains and their existence is blank save raw determination, an unrefined urge that pulses them onwards at a visceral cost: they do not think, they do not ponder, they not consider, they create only as a means to destroy, they experience an urge they have no means to overwhelm or quiet and they obey, their mind is a root and no more.

It is no wonder we were not to take war to them upon their own terms, less wondrous still is that we were able to avoid doing so - another species of insect shall serve, in many case, to prove ample distraction, should they possess many traits much the same then all the better: brother fights brother more fiercely than any other and if incited to turn and ram their relentless energies against each other the combined brunts shall be a might thing to witness but safe despite its intensity, a force without limit introduced to a boundary without breaking-point which would save us from much, their energies being expended never ending and with matching ferocity, while we remain perpetual and unharmed by their frustrated impacts, their lust for their lords was equally pitted and both of their fortitude tested by the others caustic ire, while we were serene and watched unscathed and with a sigh of survival pulsing through at the aversion, the vision of what might evaporating as if thick mist.

For this was far from the first, there was another in its aching brutality which marks us deeply, a dent of agony with curves deep into us and can never be fully shaken, even us which were absent, from elsewhere, are marked thus and us who were present, those who belonged, are burning to this day; our race rarely forgets and this extra shard upon all the others combines to create a mournful throb, but the events which resulted in this are of most value to us, the results which we must live with are those which we all know so let us remember: the creatures were worse still than those mentioned, in addition to their minds being muted and cowed as before they were weaker still there yet more, far more, terrible in their power; to them an angle is beyond comprehension: there motion is direct and cuts through the wasteland without a single shift, they aim for nothing and anything which blocks there route towards this is rendered fuel, they have minds suitable for nothing but obedience in all save their few overlords who grip them and hurl them as they see fit, a wriggling morass of squirming life which finds resistance to its mind as beyond possibility as your finger would a command from your mind to lift a finger; so they swept towards us unquestioning: we were their focus as we would serve as a source of energy to power their continuation, as with so many races beneath us they seem to be devoid of purpose beyond continuation, they are merely in existence to exist, even the species first mentioned seemed to have more reason, yet unlike them they were no constant: the others held a dependable mainstay, they would not alter or shift and if a problem seemed to be to be beyond them they merely hurled more in its direction until it was subsumed or they were without a single warrior remaining; yet this creature was more prone to shift: they would alter and vary and twist to make mockery of whatever beast they had lately encountered and devoured, a sickening fate for one of our kind and one that makes the certain death received from the former breed seem a welcome occurance, to be merged with such a malcreation would be a vileness second only to the exposure of our soul to She; so it seems that from this we can draw this creature was all the fouler and all the greater in thread: there was no way in which they could be tweaked into redirection for they were alien to the notion of being direct in anything other than there mono-path, which was beyond their capacity to stray from and they obeyed as we obey breath, surging through and towards and towards and towards and towards.

Of what damage they inflicted upon us once we were reached I shall not, can not, speak. It is beyond all.

We find it of note that even this instance of near obliteration of one of the last remnants can be so striking and absolute an indication of our brilliance: while other, lesser, races may have strived to assess whether the fact that a mighty display of unity and brave hurtling fortitude insatiable valour connected together one would manage to extend our existence and propel us further from our fate {the inevitability of which disregarded for the now, the here, the tangible relative sensory experience} should be focused upon, the fact that us, we, together could strike at the heart {or rather the mind, the hub, the focus, the consciousness, the core} of our threat and send it squandered and sprawling in its squamous yet sporadic pattern that allowed us to scatter and smother it in its disparity to our own, or better to look towards the loss of our own; the damage done, the loss caused and the mutilation wrought to one of our few remaining centres, the legions of the fallen forced to rise by raw necessity and lack of those left remaining, the acceleration of our decline, the herald of our imminent absence and irrefutable end, we however could see both at once and focus on neither yet witness with clarity; we above all could first realise and then fully acknowledge that this could serve not as the other or one but both in equal value and at once, a lesson fully learnt and as significant in value as any victory, any ta-traa of triumph, any peal of phyriac dominance.

And so it was learnt that evading a fate such as was worth all, it was doubtless with this memory that the ants were lead towards the termite mound and left to dash themselves in the eager and endless fashion that we could, once, have matched but seems as distant as all of that when viewed from the present; it is an odd failing that our grasp of the past has thus dimmed, yet when you consider those who still recall it fully perhaps this seems a merry miracle, a thankful failure, to remember is to accept is to revel and our kind's frivolity is fouler than anything mentioned above, fouler than all other foulness combined and anything save Her.

Voronwe[MQ]
02-11-2006, 07:50
What structure could be more complex, organic in its composition, than the craftworld, though Edraiuln as he settled back in rear of the half-hibernation stasis seats of the cylindrical, sharp-nosed Timeweaver tunnel-capsle before he perceived the slight dizzines of his legs, arms and torso as the Timeweaver's internal lights dimmed down to the light-level of autumn dusk. As usual, his head seemed more tense and at the same time relaxed. In the circular area surrounding the Heart of the craftworld,three dimensional, hexagonal cells made up the constructs there. They all varied in size; some not much bigger then one could sprint across them in seconds, others as large as a smaller ship. Isolated from each other, with independent gravity wells and with merely vaccuum in the long distances of space between them, they was interlinked by a intricate net of tunnels clad with a layer of anti-gravitic, slightly vaulted plates as thick as an eldar was tall. Wraithbone fibrilics along with forked, cobweb-fine water leaders ran inside their lenghts, surrounding a molecularly perfectly flat inner tunnel where Timeweavers, with their gravity plates and gyroscopes, ran soundlessly between the honeycomb cells, like the vital blood cells ran through a body's blood-circulation to keep it living. Had not vaccuum filled these tunnels they would have been fitted with sonic shielders.

The Timeweaver passed like a falling needle and with the elegance of smoothly flowing water through the tunnel. A part of Edraiuln's mind instinctively focused on the honeycomb cell that was his destination, another sensed the void between the cells as living, writhing somehow. His destination was an individual contemplation cell which was as the other ones of its kind positioned far out in the cell honeycomb. The number of contemplation cells was low, though such areas and places more often was found within the Heart. The cells could be habitat cells, photosyntesis circulation cells with the air passage canals between them which looked externally as though someone had glued oval stones together in a straight line with a carefully applied lack of symmetry which revealed a hidden, bewildering spiralling order at closer inspection, depot cells where wares and heirlooms and technical components was stored, cells where those who followed the Path of the Artisan created and repaired in an endless cycle of civilization. There was more, far more, but following the hearbeat it took Edraiuln to consider all this, his mind cleaned itself before he had even reached the contemplation cell in preparation for the rituals to come.

Shadowseer Crofty
02-11-2006, 17:55
heres my piece on the war in heaven, though with a difference. Inspired by 'The death of light' and 'The dance without end', i wrote a harlies masque on the war in heaven. Enjoy.

War in Heaven

Light sprung from the darkness of the stage, revealing two score troupers, their dadethi suits projecting the image of the battle attire of old. Appearing as from nowhere at the opposite end of the stage were an equal number of Death Jesters, their dadethi and masks showing the metallic bodies and visages of the Necrontyr.

The Necrontyr advanced, their high tech weapons emitting eerie green beams. As the Eldar charge, firing their shuriken pistols, half their number fell, for none in return, for any fallen Necrontyr stood up again seconds later.

Leaping and flipping, the Eldar reached the Necrontyr. The two sides danced together, striking each other in midair. One by one, the Eldar fell, until only two remained. These fled the stage, gracefully backflipping away from their foes. The lights of the Death Jesters suits faded, as the stage darkended.

* * *

Light flooded the stage once more, revealing the Great Harlequin, the High Avatar. His dadethi emmitted a deep, bloody red light, and his mask showed the fiery visage of Khaine. Also, stood nearby was one of the lesser avaatars, the troupe leaders, his mask showing the face of Vaul the Smith.He was stood next to a cage, its bars made of milticoloured light. Within were troupe leaders playing the parts of Isha the mother of Eldar, and Kurnous the hunter. Isha was weeping, and Kurnous looking at Khaine with pure hatred.

Khaines booming voice echoed around the auditorium, and in the minds of the audience. “Forge me one hundred blades, Vaul, before the year is out, and I will release Kurnous andIsha. Fail to do so, and they will remain in my prison.”

Vaul bounded to his forge and anvil, and set to work.

* * *

Vaul forged, Vaul bent and hammered metal, Vaul inscribed runes, and across the rest of the stage, other events happened as time passed.

The Nightbringer, played by the most skilled Death Jester appeared before Eldar armies. Eldar fell and Eldar fled, and still Vaul toiled.

Now playing the Outsider, the Death jester devoured troupers playing stars, and fellow Death jesters, other Yngir, goaded and tricked by Cegorach. And still Vaul toiled.

Troupers playing the Wraith-Giants of old did battle with the Necrontyr, and the Necrontyr faded. And still Vaul toiled.

Khaine appeared once more, his booming voice telling Vaul that the deadline was neaar. Vaul toiled faster.

Ninety nine glowing blades lay near the anvil. Vaul took one dull blade, and hid it amongst the others. And Khaine came. He took the blades, and released Kurnous and Isha, who danced across the stage to embrace Vaul. The stage darkened once more.

* * *

Light returned. Khaine was now stoodbefore a ring of a hundred troupers, each wielding a glowing blade of Vaul. Except one, who held the dull blade. Necrontyr advanced across the stage.

Eldar and Necrontyr danced together, the blades of Vaul and the Spear of Khaine felling them in great numbers. But still more came.

The stage went dark, lit now only by the blades and the troupers dadethi. Night came and went, seven times the stage darkened and seven times light returned, as Necrontyr fell and faded. The dull blade was now notched. Khaine, seeing this, roared in rage at Vaul.

The Nightbringer leapt onto the stage, its scythe felling many Eldar in one sweep. Khaine leapt over it, stabbing his spear, the weapon passing straight through the Yngir. The Nightbringer spun and struck, Khaine parrying the attack with his spear. The dance continued in this way for hours, until Khaine saw his opening. As he dodged a strike from the Nightbringer, he struck back with his spear, piecring the metal flesh of his foe.

With a scream amplified in the audience’s minds by the Shadowseer backstage, the Lights on the Death Jester’s dadethi shattered, shards of light flying across the stage, many embedding themselves in Khaine. Khaines mask flickered, his visage now slightly resembling his defeated foe.

The light faded.

* * *

As the light returned, Vaul could be seen by his anvil. He raised a glowing blade, the last of the hundred, Anaris the Dawnlight. Khaine appeared, bellowing his rage, and leapt at vaul. The dance was fast and furious, and Khaine emerged victorious, Anaris dropping from Vauls hands.Vaul fell back into his anvil, and Kahine raised his hand. Chains descended from the ceiling. Khaine cuaght the chains, and leapt to where Vaul was getting to his feet. Spinning and pirouetting around vaul, he bound him to his anvil with the chains. But what Khaine had done was seen, by a trouper whose dadethi was projecting the image of a falcon, Faolchu. Swooping down, he lifted Anaris, and flew off, into darkness as the lights and Khaine’s and Vaul’s suits faded. As the lights returned, one Eldar could be seen, Eldaanesh. Faolchu gavce him the blade, and whispered into his ear. He then lifted Eldaanesh, through the darkness once again, to where Khaine and Vaul stood.

Eldaanesh bellowed a challenge to Khaine, brandishing Anaris. Khaine accepted the challenge, and the two proceeded to dance together, as fast and furious as the previous fight, the two leaping and flipping and striking at each other. Eldaanesh had the better blade, but Khaine was a war god in his own realm, so the defeat of Eldaanesh was inevitable. Striking mid-flip, Khaine took Eldaanesh’ head clean off. Anaris fell from his hands, disappearing.

Khaine raised Eldaanesh’ head, his victory cry echoing louder than his cry of rage at Vaul. As he lifted the head, blood from where Eldaanesh’ neck had been severed driped onto his hands. Slowly, his hands became covering in the fluid, until his hands were dripping more than the head. A booming voice, the voice of the Shadowseer echoed throughout the auditorium louder even than Khaine’s last cry.

“Khaine! Murderer! I name the Kaela Mensha, and declare this war over! Thy retribution is done and it has taken the life of one of our children. Thy hands will eternally drip with his blood as a reminder to all of thy deeds.”

With that the stage darkened, and the audience appluaded.

Voronwe[MQ]
02-11-2006, 18:55
I had to write something, that's all. Still, it could be put in to a given situation.

“Let the lords of Chaos rule.” Voice rasp as rough desert sand, with the sharpness of a rapier’s cold edge, the mon-keigh – a short, heart-faced woman with an eagle’s beak of a nose and her walnut brown hair collected in a tight bun on her crown, clad in a slit purple skirt trimmed with dark crimson and with side-fields of deep blue with embroidered teal spirals twisting and reaching – snapped out with a sinewy hand with a few liver spots around her knuckles, and the world turned, heaved, bucked, vaulted, warped; everything in an instant.

No – shorter than an instant, faster than Tyallenoi was able to perceive. That should have scared his spirit and trust of the ancients out of him. It did not. And it was that which shook him to his very core.

Fingers seemed to streak across his heart, touching his lungs, pressing his retina and causing silvery and purplish spots to race in a bewilderingly intricate dance before his eyes. Cramps curled his right pointing finger sharply into his palm, nail digging through skin layers with a tense sensation of pain, ripping at his flesh beneath with a sensation on the same time hotter than a forge’s fires and yet colder than an avalanche of ice; or death itself. Sinews and muscled stretched euphorically throughout his arms, his shoulder, his chest. His legs buckled with a side-shaking feel beneath him, knees giving way with a sensation of escape, like a bird enclosed inside a pair of hands finding that its cage had opened. His feet died and twisted, rocking violently too fast against the floor time upon time again and winced as the pain of hits against [ömma punkter strålade] up through his legs…

He shrieked as the world broke apart and reality’s seams ripped wide open whilst agony hammered and stabbed him, allowing a point of light which flickered and died in the tunnel-like darkness of his vision. The world’s contours and shades lost its extreme sharpness; his nose bone seemed to revolt against him, drilling like a dagger up against his brain. The grinding feeling was perceived in an eternity, it seemed like, but it never, ever, stopped, despite the fact that it should have killed him long ago. He shrieked with pain. He shrieked as chill tensions gripped his heart like a fist. He shrieked as a star's heat burned his torso and thighs to ashes and as winds scattered them. Shrieked with desire for more.

It was madness - he knew it was - but still - or perhaps because of it - he welcomed it, embraced it, drank deeply and greedy from raw death's liquid. Drank to know that he lived, drank to balance on a wethstone-sharpened knife where a single error would unevitably extinguish him. On it came, like a rash flow, having long since drowned his other senses, ripping him apart entirely as agony played across him and his last act of consciousness was to offer a brief prayer to Isha for... The last thing he ever perceived before a edged, tremorous howl raised from his lungs was that of a faint thought in the back of his head wondering what he had ever prayed for.

Shadowseer Crofty
05-11-2006, 09:28
Heres a piece more inside the mind of an Eldar than the others, but with a difference.

I, Wraith

Shadows and darkness. That is what I see. I have no feeling in my cold shell, for I am not clad in flesh, but in bone. I am the lost, the forgotten. Even in death, I carry out my duty. I am the Last Guardian.

Alone I have stood here for millennia, never sleeping, never finding the peaceful rest of the dead, the oblivion that I crave. For even after I fell, the call of battle reached me. Death is not the end.

I was one of the few living who knew the secret of this place, which I must protect. The others are gone, for eventually they all fell, like me. Kalarien, the Spiritseer, brought them back into this parody of life, as she did to me, only for them to fall once more. Now she is fallen too, her Stone rests above the doorway in which I stand, watching, but unable to protect as I do. She is silent, sleeping, doing that which I cannot, for if I were to sleep, who would protect this place?

We were Dire Avengers. Our armour rests below my feet, housing our bodies. We defended this place as we would have defended our Shrine, we all fought to the last.

Shelirion was the first to fall, to become as I am now. Dark Kin had stumbled upon this place, and their splinters claimed her as our shurikens claimed them. Then Mandrakes revealed themselves, taking the Exarch, Mehrekan. They eventually were defeated, and the fallen were placed in hollow, cold shells like the one I reside in.

Then came the Mon-Kiegh pirates.

Dozens of them found the entrance as the Dark Kin had, but most fell before they could cross the threshold, our skill with our weapons and the power of the two wraithcannons felling them. But one almost reached the inner sanctum unnoticed, as we gunned the others down. The pirate saw that which none must see, and that was his final sight. But at his death explosives tore through him, killing five more of us, leaving only I and Kalarien. I too saw that which I defend, and it filled me with horror.

For years as we guarded this place what I saw ate away at my mind. I wondered if what it had shown me was true, or whether it was trickery. Did Aliatoc burn as Daemons swarmed throughout its infinity circuit? Had Altansar fallen into Her realm? Had swarms of insectoids devoured Iyanden? Were Ulthwe’s children even now being slaughtered in their thousands by the forces of Chaos? Had the traitor Astartes sorcerer gained entrance to the Black Library? Were I and Kalarien the only living Eldar left in the Galaxy? Or had Farseers seen as I did and prevented these happenings? Had the time arrived for them to come to pass yet?

Since then I have truly understood why none must look upon The Crone’s Eye. Those visions still haunt me now, as I stand here. The shadows of these four walls are not all that I see, for I still see those visions, and I wish I had never looked upon this place. I wished to die, for oblivion, and then they would haunt me no more.

Only part of that wish was granted.

A sorcerer of Chaos found this place, seeking the Eye, guided by his foul God. His followers were dragged into the warp by my comrade’s weapons, then he entered. Blasts of black lightning struck each of their shells’ annihilating the wraithbone and scattering the shards of their Stones.

I wept for their souls even as I fell. My Stone, miraculously, remained undamaged, and my sight became as it is now, spirits and shadows. The spirit-fires of Kalarien and the sorcerer burned in my vision, as her witchblade pierced his heart. But she was wounded in the fight. As her spirit flickered and shadows of blood flowed, she took my stone and encased it in wraithbone, my armour, my body, my hell.

Once her last breath had left her, I placed her stone above the entrance to the inner sanctum, forever watching but not guarding as I do. Her body and mine rest with the others, empty flesh and dry bone.

Since then I have stood in this doorway, haunted by what the Eye showed me and the fates of my fellow Guardians. I have stood here, guarding against nothing, contemplating my fate. Many times have I aimed my wraithcannon at the ground beneath my feet, to tear open reality and step beyond it, into death’s awaiting embrace. But as my shell’s finger tightens on the trigger, I stop, and remember that such a death will be far from the end, but the beginning of eternal damnation and agony at Her hands.

So I stand, alone with my thoughts and memories, lost, forgotten. I am the Last Guardian.

The last to fall are the ones forgotten

Frecus
05-11-2006, 13:01
Oki, finally, here's some text:

The beauty and the beast:

The conversation was stopped short. Yanidd felt a strong pull pull him away. He felt his grip on his partner in the conversation slip away too. They were both being pulled in. Into what excactly? A sharp pain nulled his last senses, and he was sucked into the contaier on the other side of his new home.
...
A distress signal had been given! Yanidd ran through the corridor, his space-armour very inconvenient for such movement. Despite the armour, he could still reach his station in reasonable time.
"I heard the craftworld is in distress sir" The word craftworld spat out in a tone of disgust, as was usual among the outcasts. "You heard it right, and Yriel has given orders to help." "Lord Yriel did?" Yanidd couldn't believe his captain. For as long as they had been outcasts, the prince had despised the craftworld, and forbid all help to the craftworld. Why would he change his mind when he already had chosen this path?
The ship changed direction, and Yanidd reached his station.
...
He was awake. He never thought he'd ever be awake again. What is this, he could see. More or less. There, in front of them all, for he could see he was not alone, stood a recognisable figure. At least, the function he had was clear; it was a farseer. He had awoken them all. Yanidd had heard of this in myths, of the farseers being able to perform this. But how could the technology not be used? He had his new home after all.
Everything around the farseer was clear. He didn't know the farseer, but he knew he had to cooperate. When around him, everything was so very clear. But when leaving his presence, even the mere shades of the world he could see when around him faded, and the blackness stretched into nothingness.
...
Yanidd didn't want to, but something forced him to look. They were en route to the craftworld, passing through the webway. A screen replacing a window, it's image a combination of sensor readings, showed what was outside, near, the dark glassy edges of the webway, and further, the flickering lights, everchanging, of the warp beyond. But flickering along was an image, which was impossible. Even the webway was not visible in the warp. Still, Yanidd saw it clearly, changing places 20-30 times a second, the shadow of something big, something horrific.
He dared not look, but he had to. Thanking Isha, eventually he regained the discipline to concentrate solely on his task.
...
They were drafted to the center of the craftworld. It had gotten empty since he last was here. He saw the horde of kin like himself around him. The farseer had joined up with warlocks, each leading more kin into the main space inside the craftworld. Few inhabitants remained in the hall. His current kin already outnumbering them. Or maybe his senses were partially blocked by the psychics around him, rendering his old kin all but invisible to him, and concentrating him on the task ahead. Where was this task anyway? None but friends were in sight. What, by the gods was going on here?
...
They reached the system where the distress signals came from. It was hell.
He recognised the eldar fleet, still struggling for life, but it was hopeless. The great hulls of the smaller craft flitted between debris fields, destroying swarms of space-borne insects, but it looked like a waste, still more came.
A blast shook the ship. Lances burst into action, shaking even the structure of a ship so advanced as an Eldar craft. It struck a swarm, and the searing stream of death race on towards a larger craft. If you could call it a craft at least. The beast, miles in length, squirmed, it's whip-like tail barely missing a craftworld ship.
The fleet was appraoching the hiveships from behind. Far forward, the craftworld could already be seen, burning, in pain.
...
Finally, they came. Their steps thundering to my mind. Had warlocks forgotten to be silent? The sound of their approach, it sounded like drums. War drums. It wasn't just their dance, but also their weapons sounding the drums. We stood here, like an eternity, like fields of wheat, covering the hall in wraithbone.
But now, the task was at hand. We saw an enemy. We saw defenders. We saw them falling, both, we knew the weapons to be bone and shurikens. All ripping through chitin, flesh and armour. Then it was our turn. In unison, we performed the action of lifting a weapon the size of our old selves, and opening fire. The flickering, ugly shapes of the enemy disappeared. Tiny shapes to us, while we knew them to be several yards in size. I stepped up, as first of many, in semi-individual action, like a soldier, to engage the enemy up close.
...
He was sent to combat, his skill no longer needed in ship control. He fitted himself with heavier armour, warrior armour. He was but a guardian, but everyone there would be of help. They were ordered to go to the portals. Since they appraoched the battlespace, he dreaded the webway. He was bound to the will of his superiors, so he had to go through.
His team was one of the first to enter. They stepped through the glass surface forming the portal, and they were there. Flickering lights all around. Through the glassy walls, he saw the shapes again. He was frightened, but they marched on, weapons at the ready. Ahead, the inifinity circuit glowed faintly. It flickered around, like the shapes now behind him, but it did not scare him. On the contrary, it had something motherly, lovely over it. Cute, like a shy girl-child, in its jeopardy.
They left the webway, entering the mighty halls of the craftworld. They moved towards the noises of battle beyond the next wall. The enemy had closed in on the centre of the craftworld already? Glad to be away from the webway, Yanidd took the lead. He quickly moved towards the doors, opening them just enough for them to pass through. This warrior armour was even more inconvenient. Yanidd felt like he could barely move with it. passing through the door, they were in the tick of the fighting, and they opened fire immediately, into the target-rich environment.
...
The enemy was many, as always. Yanidd moved his wraithbone body, swinging around the massive cannon with the ease of a mother lulling her baby to sleep. He crushed the enemy under his massive feet. He killed, he crushed, he shot. In a way, he felt. The tiny flickering shapes around him disappeared as he took action to destroy them. His kin around him did the same. He fought alongside warriors, as a warrior, to defend what he defended throughout his exsistence: his home, his world, his kin. In a way, he felt alive.
Yet more came, yet bigger was their size. Yanidd did not see their size, and to them, they didn't change size or shape, but he knew that these new enemies he reached were as big, or even bigger than his current body. He knew, because he had to lift his gun ever higher to shoot their heads.
Then, suddenly, he noticed something about them. Their shapes got uglier. The sight started to fill him with dread. Why would he feel fear? Why now, now that he was concentrated by the heat of battle. He crushed yet more of the creatures, but the feeling would not let go.
He saw the source; A great beast, of a size seemingly impossible for a creature so simple. Yanidd dreaded this... creature. He fired, but it would not stop killing his kin. Yanidd headed for the monstrosity. It was the biggest, most ugly creature he had ever encountered. His graceful kin flitted around him, shooting along with him, and with them, Yaniddd crashed onto the ugly thing like a wave.
By the gods, this thing was ugly.
...
They were shooting the bugs by the dozens, but still, it was not enough. Their claws cutting through the wraithbone walls and armour with frightening efficiency. Strange, Yanidd thoght, these creatures, their bodies are perfectly shaped for their purpose. Shooting a creature with dart-throwing blocks for hands, Yanidd noticed its perfection for being cannon fodder; simple design, able to kill at a short distance before dying to close-range fire. Then, ahead, a leader-creature, more perfect than the fodder creature. It's slender form danced through the eldar kin, slashing through wraithbone and eldar bone with graceful ease. It still had to die.
Yanidd lead his team onwards. Despite the soldier's armour, they danced through the battle, headed for the tyrant, firing their weapons at the beast. When they neared the perfect shape of the mutant monster, another form joined them. Yanidd darted aside, as the now crude-looking shape of a wraithguard stepped up, firing blast after blast, with unusual fury at the smooth carapace of the tyrant, breaking the perfectly shaped chitin. It had to be destroyed.
...
Guard and guardian, hitting the beast with the stock of empty weapons, finally destroying it. They reloaded, for this was far from over.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v242/Frecus/Eldar/Eldar.jpg

Frecus
The glade wanderer
Madwarrior

bladestalker
05-11-2006, 15:57
Here's mine for what it's worth.


Althe’sal looked over the ruins of the imperial firebase surveying his people’s handiwork. Bodies and the remnants of enemy war machines were scattered across the field, bloodying the otherwise pristine landscape. Plasticrete buildings burnt unchecked throwing black oily smoke high into the sky, where the winds tore at the plumes, spreading their filth like a stain across the horizon. Many of the buildings were burst like overripe melons, spilling their contents before them like sacrifices before some unfeeling god. A scattering of papers, ration packs and smoldering clothing slumped through a ruptured building, marking where the aliens had rushed to evacuate some trinket or bauble, utterly worthless when the end came upon them, yet worth losing their brief live for.

The invader’s bodies had been long since removed by the boneweavers of the Althe’sal’s command, removing the stench and blight they had afflicted upon the land would be much slower to complete. The buildings and artifices of the aliens would be reclaimed in time by the land itself. The machines would decay and collapse before the century ended, the buildings would resist the decay, but they too would fall in upon themselves as the natural order of the planet reasserted itself. Life, as it was meant to be and nod some human mockery, blended and spliced with machinery, would return to the planet and all would be as the soul song demanded. A few centuries and the scars upon this world would be healed, not erased… never erased.

Gazing upon the valley, Althe’sal could already see the planet knitting itself together, finally expelling the tumorous presence that had burrowed and ripped and torn at it for so many years. A blight the Swordwind had eradicated, purged with the song of fire brining the harmony of the Void to the Mon Keigh, but even in triumph the day was lost. The planet may rebuild and heal from this day’s purge, but a bigger threat was coming, Althe’sal could feel its presence welling up beneath the surface of his perception.

As he pondered the nebulous peril pressing down upon his mind, a sprinkling of snow began, fluttering innocently across the battlefield dusting the scene in a veil of cool white. Althe’sal reached out with his mind and plucked one of the flakes from the sky balancing it upon a single gauntleted finger, he peered serenely at the symmetry of it’s eight sided crystalline form. It would not be long before the threat made itself known.

…not long at all.

Voronwe[MQ]
13-11-2006, 18:39
A wind - writhing as though it was somehow alive, in a manner which could have hinted at a weak undersea whirlwind dragging struggling, twisting arms of water-currents and particles of dust had not the air above the glassy yet subtly granular milk-white surface of the Meadow of Khaine's Preparation been cold enough to make men's breath mist - played persistently along the seemingly dancing line of tight-clothed figures with purple masks depicting various, exaggerated facial expressions. Occasionally it tugged briefly at a slightly end-loose sleeve or drew in a thin tail of hair which had not quite been fastened under the somewhat sheeny black, velvet-like textile which covered their ears and back heads. The artificial wind whistled slightly as it blew past the line, blew past the sharp, slightly curved, two handed blades in the figures' hands which punctuated and interrupted its sound as they flew and cut through the air. On it would blow, winding through the bleak, sharp spines and sleek, polished cupolas with vaulted cserkailn windows and shooting conical armament houses with their fencing rings of ground-mounted glowing bright blue crystals that all made up and all almost succeeded in disappearing in the at first glance asymmetric forest of buildings in this three-dimensional hexagonical training-cell, but the figures dancing and striking against each other in the line was merely aware of the wind's passing at all. The figures, three men and four women, holding and shifting grip of handles wrapped up with narrow straps of bone-white linen with gilded metal hilts forged as strictly shaped, elegantly angular falcon's heads, did not notice the stream of Eldar or the swiftly gathering and loosening groups that appeared amongst the crowd in the streets, catwalks and on slender bridges which spanned fifteen man's lengths between buildings, with smooth railings shaped as rolling waves, and neither did they actually see the crimson-robed artisan standing before a rounded, protruding shape from a cupola that widened like a woman's hips which with a glance estimated and calibrated the required numbers and sets for the reparation of a nearby building.

The swords’ gilded parry rods - short and which widened in slightly protruding trumpet-curves before they ended in a silver surrounded gem or crystal whose relatively small size belied the sheer night lake-like depth within and the silver-bright core and veins forking out from it – sometimes actually reflected very momentarily, wrong-proportioned scenes outside the Meadow despite their matt metal - a woman with her waist-long blonde hair gathered in a narrow, tight, intricately laid braid talking to a thoughtfully frowning, light-eyed Clan merchant with the distinctive black rune-tattoos running around his head just below the border of his hairline; an unusually dark fellow with a long, sharp nose, too-high brows and protruding cheekbones who listened to another man with a melting candle-end turned upside-down of a jaw and grinned slightly and chuckled with a sound almost like an eagle to something the other man said; a determinedly walking bonesinger apprentice with a conical, face-covering helmet with stylised antlers on the sides with dozens of symmetrically ordered rounded gems that gave it a sleekly gnarled look, garbed in a shin-long, fringed red robe with a marching line of blocky, gripping, ribbed dark green runes around the lower end; three still, helmeted eldar in black-bone-and-blue armour holding canister-fitted shuriken catapults with sweeping, flowing lines and curves that narrowed and ended slightly hook-like beneath the flat, beaded, rectangular firing tunnels. But while most would have concerned such flickering reflections as something completely unimportant - if they even would have mentioned them at all - for the figures the reflections was perceived as though they had focused on right that spot and concentrated on it. For the figures, the perception of reflections was completely hollow, without the merest notice, as was everything closely around them that did not concern directly the performing of their dance, and yet a rash flow of sharp consciousness of everything in the close proximity existed in the minds of the figures. The flow did not reach inside the walls of the by raw experience and pure instinct filled void, born out of thrill and sensation - extreme thrill and sensation - that their actual consciousness rested within. Acted, reacted and responded within.The figures’ blood pumped behind their ears like rattles, accompanied by the ring of steel against steel in the air, controlled, synchronic breathing and the low tapping of feet against ground. The merest shift in scents of sweat, scent oils, clothes and weak almost-not-there smell of cold, bared metal filled their noses like water, sharp as spear points. The figures’ vision was even sharper, perceiving every slightest change in creases of clothes or whirls of thin, whitish smoke escaping nostrils or mouths in the masks; but it paled in comparison to the sublime sense of vitality, or rather the chance to draw breath yet another second and to live when death stood beside and watched, that permeated every one of the figures like water permeated dry soil and gripped them with the cold, shiver and tense of hard, armoured gauntlets.

Khalerfic parried a blurred wheel of a shin-cut, sinews wincing slightly in his left wrist as blades met and back-pedalled by the force. A slight-up stab succeeded against his gut, razor-sharp blade flashing. He quarter-spiralled sideways, bowed out his hips instinctively and struck out two-handed with his sword, right hand over shoulder, glancing against his opponent’s weapon as he spun back into position. A provocatively intended jump to the right and a wide, horizontal slide with the blade against his opponent’s chest did not make her blood cook, of course. He would have been surprised if it had got her blood on fire. It was countered in a movement which intermediated state into a fluid attack whilst she unconsciously shifted her feet in preparation for next moment. Had this been anything else than disciplinary training, it would have come rapidly, a drumroll of blows or a forceful thrust against his chest if he would have failed to block it before she would have withdrawn her sword in a quick snake-like movement adapted for whatever would happen. The scratching feeling when his blade forced her down in a long arc during a fragment of a heartbeat was mediated to his hand before their weapons unhooked in rolling movements. His sword seemed a prolongation of himself. The dance of blades continued, switch of opponents occurring in fluid, reflexive moves twice. Edrylin, his first opponent, wore a mask which looked like a frowning, bare-teethed face with a pointy chin, protruding cheekbones and a long, hooked nose. She always changed opponent when she felt it should happen, regardless of who was at an advantage. She did so now after a casual side-nod, a defensive, broad-legged pose with her sword diagonally pointed between his eyes from hip-height and an almost demanding look on him. He returned her look with a part respectful, part accepting and part grudgingly devoid look himself.

Interrupting and flowing into another fight in a single sweeping stride, she left. He only noticed it from the corner of his eye, since he had already spotted another opponent and, acknowledging the question in the man’s dark eyes with fast body language, had run towards him; steel clashing as if stating a shift in dance before they began to circle around one another with long weapons held in reactionary preparation and poses slightly hunched. Hunters circling supposed preys - an absent thought that was merely noticed in his concentration. Uyltaren, his second opponent, was slightly shorter than him and wore a grinning mask. As both had experienced a lot of times, neither were able to gain the upper hand any longer time, meaning that neither were able to use it to their advantage and take initiative. Thrusts were counter-glanced, stabs avoided, cuts met. Cool sweat glued his dark grey body suit to his back; warm sweat cooled in his armpits whenever he lifted an arm. Constantly there was some new warmer sweat to be chilled. On it continued, blades crossing and frequently darting or flying through air, until a decent - in terms of realistic distribution of time and energy - switch was called for.

He found himself facing Detsirohn, now; a lean, sad-faced mask with a small nose and a trio of crystalline tear drops abroad on each cheek before her face. Evading a quick side-slash from her sword end, he hammered his own weapon towards her, only to cut air. She made a lunge herself, almost faster than he could blow away with the broadside of his blade. She was fast. He jumped a pace backwards to avoid a thrust, and then failed in meeting her well enough when he had to lean backwards for a stab. Somehow managing to duck for a second thrust which went over his head, making his crown crawl by the proximity, he lunged himself forward with back bent, rising quickly to full length when his blade made her jump backwards. That’s for as long as his initiative lasted, however, since Detsirohn tackled his move with quick, low cuts and high stabs which somehow passed just beneath or over his blade, his hands swivelling automatically to parry the strikes. It made him lose ground, again. Fast? Detsirohn made a hawk look like an ox! He was not able to match her; despite him having slightly greater strength of arms, her quicksilver moves won ground and seized initiative. He hesitated about side-rolling - it would hardly make any difference - when a high-pitched sound cut through the staccato of the fights.

He turned towards the origin of the sound, letting his hands sink. The others did, too, of course. The tall man that came walking towards them was surrounded by a weak wreath of light cast from one of the elliptic lamps, sunken an inch into the ground and surrounded by spiral-patterned Eyebone to maximise lightning, which marked the outer edges of the Meadow. Weakirn’s eyes, with small lake-like depth, mirrored his age, but there was a hardness about his features that spoke clearly of which Path he had followed the longest. There was an air of darkness, too. Khalerfic sometimes wondered if he had ever threaded another Path throughout his life. Garbed in a slit, fur trimmed robe the colour of dried blood and with gold-thread embroidered runes and armoured in dark matt grey, Weakirn strode towards them with an almost physical self consciousness. His dark hair, collected in a tail at his neck, rocked for each pace; as did the heironymous emblem, intricately stylised to depict a snake around the throat of a man, fastened beside a bone-white tassel in a steel ring protruding from the abutment of a burnished spear tip on top of a black-shafted spear inlaid with dark, artificially hardened amber and set with psychically grown gemstones. He reached the now crescent-moon shape gathered group and stopped, eyeing each of them with evaluating looks.

“Ishanyiellanoreilw” was all he said. Isha’s sorrowful stare and frost-tinged tears in twilight to taunt. They nodded and formed three groups; two pairs and a trio. They shaped an incomplete ring, with the trio forming the bottom curve, and the pairs each of the walls, with Weakirn at the centre, overseeing them. The pattern is resembling of a stylised falcon with outstretched wings, Khalerfic thought; a loose, common observation before absolute concentration was required. He stood before Detsirohn, both of them inhaling deep breaths whilst they focused on relaxing a muscle at a time for a whole heartbeat. Someone swallowed in a determined way. The exercise was so familiar they went through it almost instinctively. Khalerfic distantly noticed a lean tower with a pulsing, midnight colour, stylised branches forking up towards the cell’s colour-shifting roof from the building’s sides. He closed his eyes and gripped the handle of his sword with both hands…

…and suddenly everything seemed to blur, warp somehow. The relevance and sense of depth and dimension dimmed, faded. No – not the relevance. Dimension was always relevant. It would be more relevant than before, he knew, but he had as always to struggle for managing to really believe in it. The effect of it was that hard. It was like seeing through water. The extreme sharpness of contours was lost in it. Everything darkened like wet cloth, too. There was an underlying, subtle sense of grief. Khalerfic’s heart ached with a beating. He swallowed lightly and tried to ignore it. With a Tearveil before one’s eyes, rash movement and action inevitably provoked aggression, which had to be restrained, as anger caused people to do mistakes; irrational, stupid mistakes. Coupled with grief, wrath could make you do a lethal or fatal mistake in the blink of an eye before you even realised it. A Tearveil tricked and manipulated mental reactions to point them towards relatively direct or indirect destructive emotions, although it probably was possible to modify it for other results. Even though Weakirn was just a blurred smudge in the corner of his eye, Khalerfic could have gambled his soul that Weakirn stood stony-faced and led and handled the Tearveils in that very moment. Weakirn was a very skilled seer, though not a very strong one; that was why they were only seven training. He could handle two or three more, Khalerfic knew, but it was safer with less, since it allowed one to concentrate more on the few one handled, preventing accidents or slips caused by the emotions a Tearveil could summon. The workings of a Tearveil were so subtle that Khalerfic could not feel or sense them, but only their effects on him. Anyone without a Tearveil would be able to perceive the effects, too, through flickering, involuntary body language signals. A jerky movement here; some tense muscles there.

An awkwardly cold tide of fear and relief rushed over him like water. It turned the vibrations of his hands into body-spanning shakes. His knees felt like liquid. Purplish spots danced before his eyes, dulled by the Tearveil. Along with the spots, anger and tense began growing anew, a heap of thrown-up earth compared to the recent mountain of it. No. It did not help. Then he found out that he still was moving, parrying. Suddenly aware of the world, his own arms and his moves again, he tried to match Detsirohn through the water-vision. And failed. A skilled eldar swordsman could continue to strike based on pure instinct fed by what his or her senses could perceive. But an eldar swordsman could not beat a far better opponent easily without advantage of momentum or terrain. With enough determination, a better opponent might be impossible to beat. He had neither momentum nor terrain, but he still clang on, retreating at least thrice as much as he was able to advance under the ring of steel. He was able to control himself better, now, and even succeeded in counter-tricking the reactions once by letting a soothed part of his mind offer resistance of willpower, but Weakirn rapidly compensated for that by in some manner –he did not know how - circumventing his will, and anger flowed over him like a roller. Keeping his anger in check – she didn’t appear affected by it; though she still must be – he fought on, and after a while he began wondering how much time could have passed – and realized he didn’t know; not even roughly. Your blood on fire; and time escapes. That was an old saying, originally from Saim-Hann. It was also a natural sign of focusing all concentration at one point. Burn my soul, but Khaine know it is true, he thought, witnessing Detsirohn’s blade-end streak an inch past his eyes as he rushed forward but failed to parry her counter-blow. He blinked first when it had passed his skull. He did not use the resolve he was able to gather for a direct blow himself, however, as a high-pitched sound, cutting through the air, made his ears drum momentarily, and then the Tearveil was gone.

His eyes had adapted to normal vision by the time he had turned his head towards Weakirn, who put a ringed, foam-white cylinder the size of his little finger back into a brightworn leather pouch at his narrow belt with its gemmed buckle. The contours of the falcon had long since broken; most paced towards Weakirn with swords held at hip from positions fifty or sixty strides away from their starting ones. Khalerfic pulled off the mask, a frowning face with down-turned, corners of its mouth, and fasten it at his thin black waist-rope. A glossy film of sweat covered the inside of his mask. Weakirn began to speak before they reached him.

“Khaine has glanced on you,” he said in a formal tone, tugging at the clasp-string. Toearcyn, a gaunt man with broad shoulders for an eldar and a permanently determined set jaw, swivelled slightly with his right foot as he lifted his heel in a pace, then flashed with fingers without moving the back of his hand an inch towards Edrylin. Khalerfic caught a sight of it from the corner of his eye. Handtalk; Toearcyn acknowledged a defeat during the course of fighting that Edrylin had let passed. Weakirn spared it an independently approving peer. “Now consider and reflect over what a Tearveil did and caused you to do.” A short pause. Khalerfic could only set up theories of the Tearveil’s workings and psychic mechanisms. “Having done so, you will add a piece of experienced example for the facts of the universe that you will inevitably philosophize over. In whatever way it might differ from similar experienced examples, it will only help you see patterns, in closely related as well as distant matters. This is because the universe is a complex place, but so too is life, and a being observing and wondering about common or rare phenomena will eventually understand the eternal complications that accompany happenings and situations, given enough time.” Another gap in the ceremonial monologue. “Honour, like justice, is an abstract conception. The one who believes in honour believes in nothing.” Khalerfic could have pattered off these words asleep if asked to, though he still briefly pondered upon the various underlying meanings and hints of them; sort of an old habit. Weakirn glanced on Edrylin, Khalerfic and Oneiryld, a pale-cheeked, sinewy woman with narrow green eyes and shoulder-long dark hair. For some reason Oneiryld’s lips compressed momentarily, but it was over so fast it could have been imagination. It was likely a matter of self-control with a Tearveil that caused that reaction of hers; Oneiryld could all too easily take criticism as something of a calculated personal offence, and despite she understood the full width of the erroneous irrationality of it - and her own continuous stoic attempts to suppress it - she still did. That angered her the most, obviously.

Edrylin turned to him. Edrylin was a long woman, almost a half head taller than him, with an eagle’s beak of a nose and narrow, blue eyes. Her upper sockets were tattooed black, with a somewhat red nuance. The tattoos snaked out slightly on the sides of her head, just above fine eye-wrinkles. A pale scar voyaged across her left cheek and ended beneath the cheekbone; the result of a harsh labyrinth skirmish at really close quarters against Kuahlicz miners. A muscle in her left cheek twitched twice.

Voronwe[MQ]
26-11-2006, 15:31
“I somehow embraced wrath as I fought it, and it embraced me in turn.” she told him. As always, her voice should have been accompanied by creaking leather sheaths and cold steel drawn. “It was a grave mistake, albeit unconscious. It changes nothing. Technically it earned me a victory of sorts; in reality I was the first defeated.” Her eyes said volumes. She must have been able to see him a moment when he was struggling on two fronts, which could mean that a Tearveil’s optical effects were partially or fully annulled by non-reined anger. Interesting. He made a mental note of it. Perhaps other by effects took place then? Nodding humbly approving and slightly naturally forgiving, his right hand’s fingers flashed in curves and twines, telling her it had been hard for himself, that it could as well have been him that had practically surrendered and that she still had managed an enduring grip of herself despite it. An approving look followed a short, drilling study of him. Those blue eyes were ice.

Weakirn spoke again, lingering slightly whilst he stared at some distant point over them. “I will converse on a specific matter about the necessity and important relief of restrictiveness with Oneiryld, Edrylin and Khalerfic.” he said without a tone that showed he had finished an enumeration. His eyes rolled down when the other eldar glanced, mostly empathically with a touch of arrogance, in their direction. Hilts and blade-ends made rings in air; showing their honest lack of newly-found, belittling reluctance against them. Khalerfic sometimes wondered why the man showed no signs at all of becoming, slowly, wrapped up by the Sharpest Path as an Exarch.

He understood – and nodded dead straight towards Weakirn, meeting his gaze. For an eldar, restrictiveness was logical.