No idea if I'll continue this. Just something I wanted to get down. Has a 40k theme but a HE feel that links to some other stuff I've written.

Fall of the Eldar: Inon

Spring was settling over the deep valleys that had been carved out of the surface of Inon millennia ago as the planet emerged from its last ice age. As the weather warmed Cynathir had elected to work with the broad doors to his office open so that the broad vista of the greening slopes of grey mountains could remind him why he tolerated life behind a desk. Color was sneaking back into the valley as trees and bushes started to bloom. Cynathir liked the idea of a young world, a world that had recently awoken from a deep sleep. It was rough and unfinished. His job and the job of his people was not to smooth it over, but to help that furrow bear fruit.

It was not too long ago that the valley had been buried in snow. Now as the snow melted in the valley and in the mountains above the streams that fed the community were beginning to return to life. He could hear the stream that rushed beneath the floor of his office burbling as it moved between the rocks. Soon, it would subsume them and dull the music of the summer bugs. He looked forward to that time. The bonesingers had crafted the room and the structure with acoustics in mind, not just so that a soft spoken word could be heard by all as fairly as a more forceful speaker, but so that the ambient sounds of the young world could put its lord at ease. For most the morning Cynathir had been gazing out the doorway and past the wraithbone railing that formed the edge of the broad walkway that encircled the community’s meetinghouse. He was situated higher on the mountain slopes than other homes, and could see the milky wraithbone structures extending down to the valley floor.

Cynathir didn’t mind that he wasn’t getting much of the settlement’s administrative work done. Much of the year’s work had already been scheduled and parceled out to the various families that occupied the settlement; and what was left to do was not urgent. Cynathir’s attention kept drifting up from the valley to Inon’s sky. Two of the planet’s moons could be seen in the morning hours, and between them, just barely visible, was a pale ring much closer and much smaller than them. There was little point for Cynathir to dive into his work; he was anticipating being taking away from it.

Footsteps, soft but not sneaking, whispered against the wraithbone deck outside of Cynathir’s office. The Eldar lord gently set his pen down and rose from his kneeling position before the other could arrive. A petite female appeared in the open space, not at all surprised to find that Cynathir had opened the doors. Even standing still she had the poise of a dancer. She was never still, only ever between motions. Her long blonde hair, typical of the settlers, was mostly allowed to cascade down her back in an orderly way save for a lock looped up to her temple where a crescent moon clip bound it to her temple. She wore the austere white robes that everyone, even Cynathir, was accustomed to. When they had left to settle Inon there was no room or desire from finery. The clothes that could be spun from what animals they brought with them or discovered from the native life would have to suffice. As it happened the deep crevasses of Inon’s rocky surfaces were inhabited by a species of silk worm that supplemented the Eldar fabrics. It was comfortable and durable; a balance that appealed to the people of the colony.

“Sinka.” Cynathir greeted her once he gained his feet. Familiarity led him to shorten her given name. The female bowed her head towards him in a slight but sincere show of respect. Cynathir stepped around his desk and assumed a light smile as he approached his visitor. Even for an Eldar he was tall, and his build suggested a warrior or laborer more than an administrator. He looked up from Sinkaliel as he stood across her, and his smile brightened. The ring suspended between the moons briefly flared. Most of that color was lost to the blue sky; but for a split second it became brighter. “It seems that our guests have arrived.”

“I had just come to collect you, Lord Cynathir.” Sinkaliel replied as she assumed the same, easy smile. “Some of the settlers are agitated. They don’t believe that any good can come of this.”

“They are probably right.” Cynathir admitted. He nodded towards Sinkaliel which gave her the signal to start moving forward. He didn’t bother to close the doors to his office. The only potential threat was a stiff breeze disturbing his papers.”But, we can’t really refuse them. Misguided as they might be merely speaking to them will do no harm. We are strong, Sinkaliel.”

“But we are not proud.” Sinkaliel completed what was surely a truncated mantra before turning to descend the gentle wraithbone ramp to the path below the assembly hall. It stretched out down the entire valley towards the farmlands and orchards that the settlers had established. Nestled among them was a broad sheet of wraithbone that served as a makeshift landing pad for small craft. It did not see much use.

A gust of cold wind came down from the mountain tops; a reminder that winter wasn’t quite yet dead. Sinkaliel gathered her robes closely about her while Cynathir started walking down the path. The assembly hall was framed on one side by the academy for the settler’s children and the temple on the other. “One of the seers is going to attempt to contemplate the Shrine of Lileath on the homeworld.” Sinkaliel noted to Cynathir. As they passed the temple her gaze lingered on it. Cynathir’s eyes did not leave the far end of the path down the mountain.

“That would truly be an impressive feat.” The Eldar lord noted as his footsteps carried him beyond what served as the public square. “That is perhaps the one drawback of our repose here, we lose connections to those places that were once important. But, I think it is worse that those places have lost contact with us.”

“I feel like a teacher more than a priestess, Cynathir.” Sinkaliel replied. “Or a seer, though my powers are not that great. I can still remember something of the homeworlds. I remember the steps of the great temple, wearing a shroud and trying to tone out all of the people there selling and buying…The smells and the drugs…Right up to the doors.”

“And then through them.” Cynathir completed the thought. They were entering the market streets now, preserved produce and meat on display, all harvested from the settlement. “I remember when the nobles assented to allowing the cults into the old shrines. A new religion for a new time, new favors from old gods.”

“That’s why I’m a teacher.” Sinkaliel asserted with some force. She had to take a few extra steps to catch up with Cynathir. “The children, you can see their faces light up when you tell them the old stories. You can see them sleep more soundly when they believe that Isha weeps for them, that Lileath dreams with them, and that Vaul suffers for them.”

Cynathir laughed lightly. “You don’t need to teach me, Sinka.” The turned away from the market, following one of the residential streets that forked off from the main road. “We all left the homeworld for the same reason.”

But some of us gave up more than others, Sinkaliel thought. But she didn’t speak those words; around Cynathir or anyone else it was taboo to discuss too much about the old ways. They were building a new home on Inon, free of ties from the old. The people that they passed, those not occupied with some other labor, waved to them. Sinkaliel never returned the wave but Cynathir did. He stopped to ask a woman who was very heavy with child how she was doing. She was fine, waiting for her husband to return from the early work in the fields. She had made him lunch.

The early greens had sprung up from the ground, about knee high when Sinkaliel and Cynathir walked down the path between them. Eldar walked through the furrows, tending to the plants while others with long, curled flutes played a silent music to encourage them to grow. Above them a day star was streaking through the atmosphere, oxygen igniting on the craft’s shields as it decelerated on its approach.

“Right on time.” Cynathir observed with a smile. “Say what you will about the homeworlds, they can still keep an appointment.” A dull roar rattled the mountains as the craft broke into the lower atmosphere leaving a white halo of cloud behind. It was a blue ship. At this distance it looked like some reptilian bird, two scaly wings and a scaly crest to direct it. It slowed down, nearly silent save for a low whine as it approached the landing field. A plume of dust shot up as it reached the platform; cleaning off the ill-used wraithbone and scattering the top accumulation on the path. Sinkaliel shielded her eyes, Cynathir narrowed his. The craft was small, enough for four of five persons comfortably. It settled down gracefully on the landing pad, three thin legs emerging to support the whole weight. The engine within wound down, but even that was quiet. The fields had barely been disturbed.

The ship was still for a moment. Both Sinkaliel and Cynathir looked up at it expectantly; each finding the crease in the hull where the shuttle’s hatch would be. Soon enough it hissed, purple plumes of some different kind of atmosphere being ejected into the air before it swung open. The hatch fell down to provide stairs for the occupants of the shuttle to depart. An Eldar in flamboyant robes stood in the open hatchway. He didn’t look out at the settlement or the fields, his eyes were down on the steps in front of him so that his feet would have no trouble navigating them. The colors of his robes clashed garishly to the point that it almost hurt Sinkaliel’s eyes. Even the cut of the garment was off. It was designed to be used for everyday wear but the style was avant-garde, jagged edges and pointless frills competing against one another in a fashion trainwreck.

Once halfway down the wraithbone steps the Eldar’s attendants appeared. Sinkaliel could only blink largely in surprise as decorum kept her more firmly rooted to the spot. A pair of female Eldar, twins by the look if it, moved to follow their master. They were hardly dressed at all, and each had clearly been genetically modified to amplify their most titillating traits to the point that they distorted the normal expectations of other Eldar. Their appearance was uncanny, and it left a sick spot in Sinkaliel’s stomach. Cynathir just smiled at the other, shorter, Eldar as his feet finally touched the soil. “Welcome to Inon, chamberlain.” He greeted in his usual warm tone.

“What is in the air here…I can barely breathe!” The chamberlain replied. He produced a canister from a bag on his hip and brought it to his mouth. He depressed the top and took a deep breath. His shoulders slumped visibly as relief flooded through his body. “A wonder you are not all sickly.”

“It is a question of what is not in the air.” Cynathir replied with good humor. “Inon is not the homeworlds, chamberlain. The natural atmosphere will have to suffice.”

“I notice that your…attendants are not similarly affected.” Sinkaliel pointed out. She nodded politely to the two women who had taken up positions on either side of the chamberlain. Their exotically colored eyes simply stared out into the distance.

The chamberlain waved his hand to dismiss Sinkaliel’s question. “They were engineered for guests who might have more…violent tastes. They breathe far more efficiently than you or I.” He turned back towards Cynathir and tilted his head back slightly as if appraising the other Eldar. “I suppose we should do formal introductions, then. I am chamberlain Ezekiah of House Aurelya. I bear a message from the lord of the House to his son, Prince Cynathir of House Aurelya.” He paused for a moment. “He wants you to come home.”

Cynathir merely smiled, even as Sinkaliel turned towards him with a furrowed brow. “Come, walk with me. You’ve come a long way and we have prepared a lodging for you.” The chamberlain maid not protest and fell in beside Cynathir as the pair walked back up towards the heart of the settlement. Sinkaliel was left behind with the two engineered Eldar, who neither spoke or looked at her but seemed to comprehend the arrangement for the walk. From her position Sinkaliel could see a pair of scars at the chamberlain’s temple above his sharp ears. Inputs, she remembered, linking implants in his brain to some outside stimuli. She gave a reflexive shudder.

“I would rather not discuss the sensitive matters out here in the open.” Ezekiah replies to Cynathir. He wheezed with each step and struggled to keep up with the taller Eldar. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he expected assassins to leap out of the leafy greens and take his head. “Your Asurmen might believe that his fanatics are loyal only to him, but you are naïve to the ways of the homeworlds.” The chamberlain pointed out. “A prince of a prominent house does not acquire followers and set off on a wild exodus without attracting a few spies. You would not be the first noble who sought to escape an assassin’s blade by giving in to closed minded cultism.”

“Entirely possible.” Cynathir conceded. “We do not follow the politics of the empire, here.” He noted. “The fortunes of House Aurelya are no more known to me than the course of the stars on the other side of the empire. I have forsaken that life; I thought that my father would have understood that.”

“Yes, well, you are an intelligent lad, Cynathir.” The chamberlain replied. He had succeeded in getting the others to slow down to his pace until he stopped entirely. The canister came to his mouth again and he inhaled its contents; wisps of purple escaping his lips. “Ah. Yes, times and minds change. A young Eldar is naturally curious; he will seek to walk every path available to him. Persuasive voices may convince him that the traditional order and the most cherished values of society are mere illusions. He may find that life on a dust ball is the more stimulating life than that where a mind is free to roam and to pursue its ultimate actualization. But ultimate even a smart youth becomes a man, and he realizes where his true priorities are.” The early shift in the field was ending now, but no Eldar man or woman was entering the street. They stood among the crops and watched as their leader escorted the strange Eldar towards their homes.

“If that is so then I am still a youth.” Cynathir replied. “I am not a fanatic, chamberlain. I have no pretensions to have found the ultimate path. But I would rather live in a place where a mind can be clear.”

Ezekiah removed a gaudy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed lightly at his brow where sweat had formed. “They aren’t going to…throw things at me, are they?” He asked the lord of the settlement. “I’ve heard stories of these fanatics. Sometimes messengers of the empire don’t come back.”

“As long as you are with me they will behave themselves.” Cynathir assured Ezekiah as they returned to the edges of the settlement. Eldar were leaning out of windows and lingering in doorways as the strange troupe passed. Mothers ushered their children inside.

“I am not used to being treated like this.” The chamberlain murmured as he crushed his silken handkerchief in his hand. His eyes darted from side to side, and his breathing was more harried than the walk should have suggested.

“Why should you fear poor folk?” Cynathir asked. Sinkaliel could not help but smile contentedly behind him. “We are simple people here, Ezekiah. We worship old gods and we work in the fields. You have nothing to fear from us.”

“Simple…no.” Ezekiah’s eyes couldn’t stop shifting. “You rely on the empire for your defense from true threats, but we wouldn’t deploy so much as a Void Hawk to defend an exodite world. Each of these people can fight. Whatever else could be said of Asurmen he is not a pacifist. Bloody Handed Khaine is one of those old gods…Forgive me if I do not see a murder in each stare, my prince.”

Even Sinkaliel would have had trouble noticing the small smile on Cynathir’s face. “We maintain a militia, yes.” The market was quieting in front of them. Even the exchange of goods gave way to curiosity. More than a few gazes lingered on the strange Eldar who accompanied the chamberlain.

“And it is said of you, Cynathir, that you are a great warrior.” Ezekiah noted. He seemed more comfortable in the marketplace but was still sweating profusely. “It is said that you trained at Asurmen’s feet. Not to mention the money that your father spent to train you as a child. You were an investment for a great many people, Cynathir. And you turn your back on us. The empire provides the blanket of security and power that makes this quaint experiment possible, and exodites hang our messengers. You are a juvenile, truly.”

“What can I do but treat a guest with respect.” Cynathir replied with a shrug of his shoulders.”Would my father have paid for a son who lacks convictions? Come, I think we are holding up those who might need some bread.” He smiled again and glanced over at the chamberlain. He looked as if he was about to throw one arm around the other Eldar’s shoulders, but ultimately refrained.

The rest of the way was walked in silence. The attendant females weren’t much for conversation anyway, and the effort of climbing up the gentle slope from the landing pad seemed to have stolen the chamberlain’s breath away. When the group stood in the shadow of the assembly hall the chamberlain finally managed to stand for a break. His gaze wandered towards the yard of the temple where a lone Eldar had ceased his sweeping to watch. “Quaint.” He remarked. Sinkaliel felt blood rush up to her temples and her fingers close into fists. “But I suppose you must have it. Are we there yet, Cynathir? Dreadfully far to make someone walk. One would think you’d have at least taken the wheel with you when you fled civilization.”

“Not much farther, chamberlain. Just through here.” They walked beneath the walkway that led to Cynathir’s office. Most of the assembly hall stood empty for the day’s work, so when Cynathir pulled back a sliding door to reveal an open space where leaders of the community could sit and discuss their problems or simply keep in touch with others it was not surprising that it was largely bare. Mats lined the floor, woven from the plant materials that the colony generated and the silk from the worms in the mountains. Even the chamberlain, after he removed his shoes, had to appreciate the simple nod to comfort. “Come, we can sit.” Cynathir told Ezekiah as he walked deeper into the room and began to lay out cushions for the group.

Sinkaliel settled down next to Cynathir. Only Ezekiah took a cushion, his two attendants knelt behind him and lowered their eyes. The door had been closed, and even at the height of morning the room was dim with only a few shafts of sunlight filtering in through high, narrow windows at the top of the wall. “Your father has grown ill, Cynathir.” The chamberlain was the first to speak.

Cynathir arched a brow. His features settled into a harder mask than he had displayed on a walk over. “Eldar do not simply ‘grow ill’, Ezekiah.” The warrior in the leader of Inon was speaking now. “You mean poison, or something manufactured.”

“Yes.” Ezekiah didn’t argue. “Another house, most likely. Even in the time that you have been gone from the homeworlds things have become more factionalized. The empire…the old coalitions are dissolving. The cults, the upstarts with their drugs and their clubs…” The chamberlain reached for his inhaler and drew in the strangely colored air. “Ah. Their power grows.”

“No.” Cynathir replied. “You’re just realized what we knew long ago. They have always held power. They are just now awakening to wield it. You think that the pleasure cults have only now grown so bold that they would reach into the inner chamber of an ancient noble house. I tell you that they have been there the entire time; and have just now concluded that they no longer need you.”

“If you have this insight, Cynathir, return and lead the house.” Ezekiah urged. “If you and Asurmen and the others who have turned your backs on us know so much more, you will return to the homeworlds and restore order!” The chamberlain demanded. His fingers were curled around his inhaler and the edge of the cushion.

“Look at yourself, Ezekiah.” Cynathir replied calmly. “Are you so different? You are implanted, you cannot even breathe fresh air, and I am certain there are untold track marks and implants hiding under those robes. The houses dug their own grave when they joined the cults. What were exodites to do in the face of such corruption? All efforts at reform were co-opted. All that was left was to…walk away.” The thought made him smile.

“Nothing more than a child’s arrogance.” Ezekiah replied as a frown creased his features. “You know nothing of responsibility, and yet I am tasked with bringing you back to lead our house. Perhaps your father was further along in his illness than I thought.”

“I see that we won’t come to an agreement here.” Cynathir noted. “We have prepared quarters for you, Chamberlain. I have work to do for the settlement, and I’m sure that you have your own duties.”

“Yes.” Ezekiah replied as he pushed himself up to his feet. “Whatever else I may say, Cynathir, you have been a gracious host. Minimalist, of course. Almost avant garde, but polite. We will speak again in the morning.”

“I look forward to it.”

Fall of the Eldar: Echoes of Screams

“So, Kurnous the Hunter is your favorite?” The ghostly figure of a well muscled Eldar clad in green danced among equally ghostly flora. The young Eldar’s eyes tracked the motion of his hunt, the hounds leaping at his sides and barking silent cries to lead him onwards towards his prey.

“Yes.” He replied with a firm nod of his head. The child’s eyes never left the holographic display, and he didn’t track Sinkaliel’s hand as she waved her palm over it. The image changed, and he didn’t seem to mind. The green clad Eldar now sat next to a beautiful Eldar woman, as if the two held court in some verdant temple.

“You know Isha, don’t you?” Sinkaliel asked.

“Isha is my mother.” The child replied.

“Very good.” Sinkaliel smiled. “She is my mother too, did you know that?”

“She is mother’s mother, and dad’s mother…” The child wrinkled his nose. “Is that true, Sinka?” He looked up at her, brow furrowed with the apparent contradiction.

Sinkaliel couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes it is. But remember that she is the mother of all Eldar souls, not Eldar bodies.” She reached out and closed the projector. “It’s starting to get late.” She told the child’s now frowning face. “Your mother will be worried. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Ok.” He gave a begrudging nod and then slipped off of his seat. The child began to gather up his things and place them into a woven bag. Then, he froze. “I have to go potty.” He told her.

The priestess smiled. “Well, you know where it is.” She gestured anyway, and he ran off into the corner where the door was. Sinkaliel sighed and stepped back. Fiber optics lights cast a soft glow throughout the small temple where she educated the children of the settlement. There were no formal classrooms, they learned work from the fields, writing from their parents and what there was to know about the soul from her and the other seers. The priestess turned around and looked towards their small altar. A single rune of Asuryan with a fiber optic light to signify the immortal flame was the only thing approaching an idol in the utilitarian space. Eldar came and worshipped when they wished, or when a festival called for it. It was rare to bring the entire community together for religious services, and when it was necessary to do so Inon rarely made it impossible to do so outdoors.

Sinkaliel walked forward and laid a hand upon the smooth wraithbone altar. Her fingers found the curving rune that belonged to the goddess Lileath, the maiden who was her own patron. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the brief meeting with the chamberlain. She had seen his scars but couldn’t understand them, looked into the doe eyed stare of his attendants and seen nothing there to suggest an Eldar. No one rune in the language of Eldar told a single story, they spoke sometimes with discordant voices. This one had been carved to fix the name Lileath, but as Sinkaliel touched it something like a quiet electricity murmured just below its surface and tingled her finger tips. A new word entered the seer’s mind, just as connected to Cython as the name of her goddess.

Futility.

The electricity that had been in the rune drew Sinkaliel’s spine ramrod straight. It was a pain that she soon realized was not emanating from the cold altar from her chest. Her heart was in her throat and she struggled to breath; his fingers digging into the wraithbone until they ached. At last she took a gasping breath and fell to one knee. There was something burning in her chest and it stole away her voice. One hand pressed against her chest to try and comprehend that sudden pain. As it receded it left an empty feeling, not a hunger but a sinking feeling. The seer’s breathing started to return to normal, and just as she was able to speak she heard a scream from the bathroom.

Sinkaliel got to her feet immediately, if some residue weakness caused her to stumble. She crossed the main area of the temple in a few seconds and threw open the door to the bathroom, her eyes wide with fear that went beyond her own situation. The water was still running from the sink, pooling placidly in the basin. The boy was on the floor, his back up against the wall. His eyes were fixed on some point in the distance, and whatever he saw terrified him. He was holding his chest and his jaw quivered. He looked almost too traumatized for tears.

The seer crouched down and picked the child up. He didn’t even seem to register her contact even as she cradled him against her shoulder. “Here…It’s alright.” She said softly, but she couldn’t project much confidence into her voice. After a moment the child shuddered and then began to wail in terror. Tears sprang from his eyes and he balled up parts of the seer’s robe into his fists. “Shhhh.” Sinkaliel tried to calm him.

It was only when the child drew in a breath that she could hear the screams in the rest of the settlement. They were faint enough that when the child started to wail again they were completely drowned out. The seer turned towards the door of the temple and pushed it open. Screams of pain and confusion rolled up the gentle Inon valley towards the temple and the assembly hall. The streets were washed in light as doors opened and bewildered settlers poured into the public spaces. It didn’t seem to take long for them to decide where it was that they should go. The seer, with the child screaming in her ear, could only look down the valley and realize that they all must have felt the same thing.

Sinkaliel was relieved to see that the first of the Eldar to arrive in the public square were the child’s parents. She started to walk towards them, her shoulders slumping as she prepared to hand off the child. For her part the child’s mother broke from his father and started forward to take him. Her expression thanked Sinkaliel before they even got within speaking distance. Her expression shifted and her voice stopped as her eyes strayed from Sinkaliel and her son. The mother’s eyes grew wide and she screamed again. Others were arrived, and their enthusiasm likewise foundered at the edge of the square. The seer straightened for a moment and nodded towards the child’s father as he stepped forward to take his wife’s shoulders. “Come and take him.” She told the parents before he crouched down and set the child on the stones. His wailing reached a new pitch as he was separated from a warm familiar body but Sinkaliel could not comfort him anymore. She turned around.

One of the chamberlain’s attendants stood alone in the square and her neck was broken. She looked more like a doll than ever, her framed held up by invisible strings. She had a dazed grin on her features, eyes unfocused and looking towards the stars while her head lolled against her shoulder. Blood slicked her lips and dribbled down over her bare chest. It was fresh. She wobbled at the center of the square and her eyes seemed to focus; right on the seer. She reached up and took her head and snapped it back into her shoulders.

Sinkaliel’s eyes narrowed. She still felt weak, a dull, empty ache in her chest, but she stood tall. “What are you?” She asked, hands clenching into fists.

“I don’t know.” There was more than one voice there, a lyrical Eldar voice too perfect to have come from a natural pool and another that vibrated in a way that made Sinkaliel’s skin tingle. “I’m…I’m going to come out now, though.”

The seer gestured towards the other Eldar for them to step back. “You are no longer an Eldar.”

“No.” She grinned and her temple began to bulge, the skin stretching and cracking until tiny rivulets of blood poured down her cheek to her chin. “I am more Eldar than you are.” A horn, formed of a gnarled black bone erupted from the side of the Eldar’s head and curved upwards in a half crescent. A smaller one curved downward on the other side. She shrieked, not in pain but in pleasure, before she charged towards the seer with her wicked nails outstretched to slash Sinkaliel.

The seer never flinched. She brought a pair of fingers up to her nose and closed her eyes. Sinkaliel found a calm that had eluded her since the incident and tapped into the power that she had been trained to use. Psychic energy flowed through her and erected a barrier between herself and the charging Eldar. Sinkaliel winced as her head began to hurt, the edges of the barrier fraying with angry, coruscating energy. She had to shudder to hold it in place.

As the changed Eldar leapt to cross the distance a ripple went down the skin of her right arm. With a snapping sound the bones rearranged themselves and began to grow. Her fingers twisted around one another, shredding her skin and sending up a fine spray of blood under the curved claw burst forth just short of the barrier. Sinkaliel’s eyes snapped open as she sensed this change, the eruption of a hidden nature that sent eddies through the void between them. She started to hop back just as the daemon’s claw tore a ragged scar through her barrier.

The daemon bursting forth from the Eldar licked her lips at Sinkaliel. One eye had changed colors, the other was likely to follow. Her rips were growing, the black bone poking through the skin at her side. “I can smell you…” She warbled at the seer as she approached; one unstable leg after another. Her tongue, long and turning black, rolled out of her mouth and dripped saliva onto the stones. “I want to taste you.” She dropped her jaw and screamed.

Sinkaliel felt the noise deep inside as it struck her in the very center of her being. Others behind her fainted or contorted their faces into looks of terror. A few cried out as they fell to their knees as they felt something tearing at their very souls. Sinkaliel’s fingers crushed her robes at her chest and she shuddered. The daemon was moving again, swaying forward on uncertain legs as it tried to take advantage of her weakness. She had never experienced a psychic scream. She had often felt other minds, other souls; but nothing so primal or so…hungry as the power that clawed at her. That wicked claw swung towards her again.

The seer gasped in surprise not just at the gash on her arm she barely dodged the killing blow but at just how crisp the pain felt. It wasn’t unpleasant, indeed, there was a part of her that clamored for more of that daemon’s touch. Her heart beat faster as adrenaline pumped through her body, and it kindled a fire in that place where the scream had touched her. Sinkaliel’s eyes widened and she felt that power, always used sparingly and with great restraint, flood through her. The daemon prepared for another strike and the seer raised her hand. It was no barrier this time but a storm of eldritch energy drawn from the Empyrean beyond and channeled through the Eldar to strike at one of the denizens of that psychic dimension. The daemon screamed as the bolts of power tore into the Eldar’s flesh, scoring away the last vestiges of the vessel that it had used to emerge into the material plane.

The daemon that was thrown back had the frame of the outrageous Eldar female but it was covered in rough black plates. It kept her seductive face, though the plates encroached on that as well. The daemon’s claw shattered the stones as it dug in to allow it to return to its feet. Black ichor oozed from its carapace where the bolts of psychic energy had struck it. With tongue lolling out, however, it merely laughed.

Sinkaliel’s eyes blazed with the overflowing eldritch lightning that crackled between her fingertips. The world beyond her moved at a snail’s pace, her own body tingling with the power that lifted her beyond the mere confines of a material world. Her gaze was locked on the struggling daemon and she stepped towards it, one foot deliberately after the other. The seer raised her hand and with the slightest thought captured the daemon in invisible threads and pulled her into the air, spread eagle. The beast merely laughed again. “You are so beautiful like that.”

Sinkaliel’s eyes narrowed and she began to close her fingers. Green fire began to issue from the cracks in the daemon’s armor as she was consumed from within by the seer’s power. “Name yourself.” She commanded.

“You haven’t given me one yet.” The daemon replied. “I am Eldar. I am the totality of your people. What…scraps are left will come to me in time, of their own accord like yourself or…” Her speech was cut off as the fire burned her tongue to ashes. It poured out of her eyes and only grew in intensity until Sinkaliel’s only purpose was to see how hot she could make it rage. It started to burn away the daemon’s strong armor though the conscious within it had long since been extinguished. Soon it was nothing more than ashes, any evidence that the daemon had ever existed at all consumed by Sinkaliel’s power. The firestorm continued to grow, scorching the stones of the square and casting its heat on the faces of the Eldar who watched with growing horror as a smile began to spread over Sinkaliel’s features.

The fire that was without raged within; lending strength and impossible sensations to her limbs. The rest of the world was gone there was only the interplay between her soul, the Empyrean beyond, and the power that flowed between. Gradually the former was giving way to the encroachment of the latter; and a will that Sinkaliel had not expected began to direct its tendrils into her, feeling out the Eldar’s soul and preparing to claim it. Even as she was aware of this there was nothing that the seer could do. The power was too intoxicating.

“Sinkaliel!” Cynathir’s voice pulled her away from the brink and shattered the hold of that distant consciousness. The seer blinked back the power forming around her eyes and the power in her limbs turned into a deep ache as she tried to bring it under control. Through the disappearing flames she could see Cynathir on the rooftop of the assembly hall with another daemon in front of him. She gasped when she saw the spear in his hand.

“There is no longer a home for you to return to.” Ezekiah’s mouth moved but it was not his voice that came out. Like his attendant the Eldar from the homeworlds was twisted by a black beast growing within him. Two proud horns had ruptured his forehead and now curled into the night. His hands were stained with blood. “I broke one neck, and I tore out the throat of the other. She didn’t rise. She was already gone. I watched the life, what life there was, drain from her eyes. I washed my face with her blood. I have never felt heat like that before.”

“Do I speak to the puppet or the god.” Cynathir’s voice was firm. His spear was at his side, but for now it was still and as cold as the night air.

“You speak to the father and the mother and the whole host of which I am but one.” Ezekiah replied. “But they are all gone.”

“Were you sent by the cultists?”

“No. I am the cultists.”

Cynathir’s eyes narrowed and his grip on the blue haft of the spear tightened. “That they have taken control.”

“No. I am the priests too. And the seers. And the merchants. And the soldiers. And the diplomats. And the ministers. And the poor. And the rich. I am all of them, but they are gone.”

“What does it mean to be gone?” Cynathir lifted the spear and shifted into his fighting stance though the daemon had not moved.

“I know your face, Cynathir. Your father’s last thought was of you, and then I consumed him. He is a part of me now, but I am not obligated by his emotions to feel any particular way towards you. I know of your allies, and I will soon have them. That they felt me was enough.”

“So you are the god, then, and not merely a corruption.”

“I am a god who is corruption. When will you tell them what you know?” The daemon gestured towards the square. “You can’t be too surprised. Aren’t you happy?”

“And why should I be happy?” Cynathir asked.

“Because you’ve been proven right.” The daemon Ezekiah leapt at that point. Claws and spikes protruded from him, destroying what was left of his skin and allowing the full daemon to burst forth. A tail uncurled behind him and sliced through the wraithbone roof of the assembly hall.

Cynathir turned the shaft of his spear perpendicular to the attacking daemon and caught its claws with ease. He leaned to the side to dodge the wicked tail that reached over the daemon’s shoulder to take his head. Before it could get him on the return the Eldar turned his spear and threw that daemon to the roof. It scrambled with claws and stood on all fours and stared after him hungrily. “They all believe that you are a great warrior.” It said to the impassive Eldar lord. “It seems they were correct.” Its claws clacked noisily against the wraithbone before it leaped again.

The blade of Cynathir’s spear was long enough that if its wielder chose, and was skilled enough, it could be used like a glaive. The blade dipped and Cynathir sidestepped the attack before he turned and swung upwards. The weapon cleanly cut the daemon’s arm from its body, a pair of thin strips of cloth fluttering after the passing blade. The daemon did not howl; it merely landed on its two feet and probed the wound that oozed with black blood. “…I look forward to many more such wounds.”

“As do I.” Cynathir replied before he darted forward. The daemon’s tail curled up and swung towards his neck. The Eldar lord was forced to trap it with the shaft of his spear. He stepped to the side and cut the daemon’s tail from its body. Again, it did not so much as flinch though it must have felt the pain. Cynathir flicked his spear to dislodge the limp tail which slide off the roof and to the mountainside.

“This world is fresh, so quiet compared to the noise and clatter of your homeworlds.” The daemon said as it regarded the mountain peaks that crowned Inon. “I will enjoy introducing screams to this world.”

Cynathir lunged forward and led with his spear. He thrust it outwards and drove its tip through the chest of the daemon. It gasped as the blade erupted out of its carapace, but it was a smile of pleasure and not pain that crossed his features. The daemon’s head rolled against its shoulder and Cynathir could see a single feline eye staring at him. “You belong to me, Cynathir. You just don’t know it yet. Run with the others. My reach is infinite.”

The Eldar lord pulled his spear upwards and cut the daemon’s head in half.

I enjoyed this very much! I'm not always good at saying why, but I'll try to do so, so that hopefully my comment is a bit more meaningful than this

I think you've got an excellent grasp of the different ways of Exodites and pre-Fall Eldar from the Homeworlds. Your style has an elegant, descriptive clarity and the narrative flows, with tension and scene-setting in the right proportions. No-one is over the top for what they are, and the contrast is still well made between pleasure-seekers and those looking for a simple life. I liked the touch of paranoia in the chamberlain. My own test for something like this is to ask myself "If this was an Eldar novel, would I read it?" and so far, the answer is yes.

I don't know if that counts as constructive criticism as I haven't said anything critical, so here's one: there should be more

Or to put it another way: yay! Eldar story!

Ok.

No Sanctuary

No one wanted to touch Sinkaliel. She had not been able to watch the end of Cynathir’s short battle with the daemon within the emissary. She couldn’t look up from the ashes of the fallen daemonette. Immediately after Cynathir had pulled her back the strength was within her had failed and she had fallen to her knees. Her hands were entwined with her robe and her hair spilled around her. She struggled to breathe as she had at the moment of the disturbance; but now she could not reclaim her breath so quickly. The touch of that distant consciousness lingered in her mind. It was gone but echoes of its whispered commands still stung her. She began to realize that she was not separated from it completely; that something of that great evil might still lurk within her. Perhaps it lurked within them all.

The crowd of settlers, murmurs running through them that perhaps Sinkaliel was the next to be turned inside out by one of those creatures, stayed back. They were silenced when Cynathir returned to the square. He had no fear of the kneeling seer either as an Eldar or as a daemon. The Eldar lord lightly brushed his fingers against her cheek and smoothed back one side of her golden hair before his hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Sinka.” She shuddered at the touch and a sob nearly escaped her throat. “You can get up now.” He told her. Cynathir’s hand left her shoulder and hovered between them with the implicit offer that she might take it. Her shaking fingers became entwined in his and he pulled her back to her feet.

More than one set of eyes was on the black blood dripping from the end of Cynathir’s fearsome spear. “Lord Cynathir.” One of the Eldar, one of the members of the community selected by his fellow workers to speak for them when a full gathering of the settlement was not necessary, stepped forward to address their leader. “What’s happening here?”

“I don’t know.” But even to Sinkaliel’s ears Cynathir’s words sounded hollow. The others edged forward. They could sense that the Eldar lord was not being as forthcoming as he could be. Cynathir’s jaw set as he saw that near universal motion. “I have some idea but I’m not certain. Everyone should return to their homes, or, if you don’t feel safe, go to the assembly hall and take up space there.” He smiled lightly. “It’s a clear night. Many of you have young ones so feel free to camp out here.”

The people seemed mollified, if only for that moment. Some started to shift towards the assembly hall while others debated returning to their homes. Inevitably they discussed what possessions they might want to keep with them or that they might need if they stayed together. A few theories flew around as to what might have happened, and those that found their way to Cynathir’s ear convinced him that he would need to act quickly before the settlement’s collective imagination ran too rampant. But for the moment he had other concerns. The settlement’s leader wrapped an arm around Sinkaliel’s narrow shoulders. He didn’t have the psychic gift that she did but it didn’t take someone sensitive to the soul of another to recognize that she was deeply troubled. She barely reacted to his touch and her eyes were elsewhere, off down one of the side streets or up the shadowed mountainside.

“Georan.” Cynathir called to a large Eldar who had just started to return him. “There is still a body left in the emissary’s chambers. I need you to dispose of it for me while I see to people here.” Georan nodded in response and without any complaint turned around and headed towards the edge of the assembly hall. Cynathir had seen what remained of the chamberlain’s last attendant, and he needed a strong Eldar to handle the scene. There was no sense in creating more panic.

Cynathir noticed as Sinkaliel’s eyes suddenly went wide. For a moment he feared that whatever had taken root in her had burst into full bloom. His fingers tensed around his spear, but she soon answered his concerns. “Laeriel.” She almost choked on the words and gestured towards her temple. “Laeriel is still in there!” A chill ran down Cynathir’s spine as he remembered what Sinkaliel had told him that morning. One of the seers is contemplating the Shrine of Lileath on the homeworld today. He held her closer.

“We have to go to her immediately.” Cynathir replied just before he turned towards the temple. At first Sinkaliel’s feet dragged, but soon she was moving along right beside him. A few of the Eldar still milling around the square noted their urgency, but only a few among them, those who volunteered at the temple or who were priests themselves, moved to follow.

Behind the temple’s altar was a sanctuary that the Eldar seers used for meditative purposes and to explore, consistent with the strictures of their faith, the depth of their powers. To make the seer’s meditations as pure as possible the psychoreactive wraithbone of the chamber was structured to dampen the psychic chatter from the people around it going about their daily lives. It also made it nearly impossible for those on the outside to realize what was going on inside. Despite their rejection of life on the homeworlds they remained sacred places, host to the various shrines of the Eldar religion that even in the recent dark times shone like beacons of light through the Empyrean. To contemplate one of these shrines was to look on the face of a god and, perhaps, to receive their wisdom. Though the shrines were not as bright and the gods not as forthcoming as they used to be it was still useful for settlers to reconnect with the heart of the Eldar race. And it was this aspect of the contemplation which had unnerved Cynathir.

The group that had entered the temple paused in front of the door to the sanctuary. As the remaining priestess Sinkaliel stepped forward and with shaking hands unlatched the bar that kept the sliding door closed. She worked it back but when she reached for the handle she yelped and recoiled. Had Cynathir not caught her it was likely that she would have fallen. She held up her fingers and saw that they were burned where she had touched the handle. “Gods have mercy on her.” The seer whispered. She had found her feet and now Cynathir could move forward.

To him the handle was just ordinary wraithbone. The Eldar lord was not nearly as sensitive to the psychic energies within as Sinkaliel, and for the moment he was grateful for that. He inched the door open at first. Even without a seer’s psychic potential Cynathir could smell the heavy scent of blood as it rolled out of the small room. Sinkaliel covered her mouth and the others did too. The Eldar lord was not as unaccustomed to the smell as he would have liked, but even his stomach turned. He forced the door open the rest of the way with one heave. He kept his spear at the ready. A circuit was completed and the light at the heart of the sanctuary flickered, and then came to life.

As was fitting for a sanctuary designed to allow contemplation of religious places the walls of the sanctuary were lined with intricate runes carved into the wraithbone. They pronounced the names of the gods and told a few of their stories. It was not a grand chamber but it served its purpose. Now only a few hours later no one could recognize it. Deep furrows had been dug into the wraithbone walls and ceiling in a haphazard pattern that suggested a beast trying to escape a cage. But Sinkaliel saw a method that others might have missed. A few of the gashes, smaller than the others, crossed some of the runes in angles that changed their meaning. What may have appeared to be senseless violence to the others was a message as clear as day to the seer. A death sentence had been pronounced on the names of the gods, at first in fury, then in rapturous joy and finally with a triumphalism that turned Sinkaliel’s stomach. The meaning emanated not only from the marks themselves but from a psychic imprint left by the claws that carved them. Everything was punctuated with blood. It ran across the runes and dripped from the ceiling. And in the center of it all a young Eldar woman, her robes soaked and torn beyond recognition, knelt as if she was just beginning her meditation.

Cynathir inched into the room. His eyes were on the woman, and as soon as there was room the tip of his spear was leveled at her as well. Sinkaliel was not far behind though the others were apprehensive.

“I’m glad it’s you that came, Cynathir.” The Eldar, Laeriel, whispered. “And you too, Sinkaliel. Anyone else…I might have made it out of here.”

“It’s alright now, Laeriel.” Cynathir said softly as he did not want to startle the seer.

“No, it’s really not.” Laeriel’s body shuddered violently but the tone of her voice didn’t change. “It’s still inside me, Cynathir. I can only suppress it for so long.”

“What did you see?” The Eldar lord had to ask, not just to keep her talking but for his own benefit.

“Hunger.” Laeriel replied, her body heaving as she sobbed. “An impossible, all devouring hunger. Every light was consumed, not snuffed out but consumed!” She shook as her voice was near breaking. “I tried to turn away but it was so fast, it reached out from the homeworlds right into me.” No one dared touch her to try and calm the seer down. “And it consumed me too. It got them all, Cynathir. Billions. Its eyes opened and those that it saw it devoured.” Her fingers clenched into her bloody fists. “I heard some cry out in triumph when it awoke, as if they had been trying to get it to open its eyes…But then I heard them shriek in terror and they were silent.”

“How many?” Cynathir asked. His voice was calm. Sinkaliel looked up at him. She had known like everyone else that their lord often understood more than he let on about, but this was first time that she looked on him with suspicion.

“All of them, Cynathir.” Laeriel seemed to understand the question. “Everything that it could see and reach. Billions. More lights than there are stars in the sky. It all went dark, and then there was a blinding light and a moment of silence was replaced with a scream that tore me apart. So loud that we could even hear it here.” She shuddered again and bowed her head. Drops of blood drizzled to the floor from the angles in her features. “Cynathir…Cynathir it’s coming back…”

The deadly blade of that spear inched closer to Laeriel to where it hovered over the back of her neck. “It’s alright. You can sleep now, Laeriel. Go to the gods of our fathers and rest.”

A bark of laughter stayed the Eldar lord’s hand. “And I thought you would understand…” Laeriel rasped, her voice starting to change. It was a sound familiar to both Sinkaliel and Cynathir. “There is no rest for us, anymore. The thing inside of me has already consumed my soul, Cynathir. And it or something like it will soon have yours as well. By whatever hand we fall, we are doomed.” Sinkaliel glanced towards the runes on the wall and the word ‘death’ that defaced them. “What is inside me stands above what you fought outside. It is a mirror of the horror itself, Cynathir. Kill me. You have no choice. It will destroy this entire settlement if it gets loose and the last piece of me that is an Eldar recoils at that thought. You can’t save me.”

“We will see.” Cynathir replied before the end of his blade plunged through Laeriel’s neck. They were all frozen over her corpse for a long moment, waiting to see if the monster that she had warned them about would burst forth even though she had been silenced. Sinkaliel breathed a sigh of relief before the others, she could feel Laeriel’s connection to the Empyrean being severed before anything could cross over into their world.

“She’s gone.” Sinkaliel finally told the others. “She deserves proper burial no matter what she might have become. She is as innocent as anyone on this world.” She tried to find tears for her friend but none would come. The sadness within her could not fill the emptiness that still occupied her being. Rather than granting a release it just added to the void. It made her sound tired. It made her sound like she didn’t care. “It’s different when we lose one of our own.” She murmured. Cynathir nodded a silent reply. “Someone please bring something that can cover her.” The seer implored those around her. One of the Eldar nodded and then returned to the temple.

Cynathir and Sinkaliel were the last to leave the sanctuary. Once Laeriel had been covered the Eldar lord gently slid the door closed. He gathered up the edge of his robe and began to wipe her blood, mingled with the black daemon’s blood, from the blade of his spear. “Laeriel was one of the first born here.” He noted tonelessly to Sinkaliel.

That got a smile from the seer, as hollow as it was. “I was so young.” She replied. “Barely old enough to call myself a seer but there I was trying to train the next generation…I will miss her smile.” Some warmth had found its way back into Sinkaliel’s tone but there wasn’t much. Being in the temple, normally a calming experience, still carried an echo of the trauma she had felt earlier. It was impossible to be comfortable here. “It was the first time I actually felt like a priestess. I was just a girl when we left the homeworlds…what happened to the time, Cynathir?” She asked her lord as she hugged herself.

“We can only hope that it was spent wisely.” He noted with a sense of finality that made Sinkaliel’s shoulders hunch uncomfortably.

“Do we have days ahead of us?”

Cynathir turned to look at the seer, and for her he mustered a smile. “Of course. They may not lead to places that we expected to go, but, we’ll get there.”

His words gave Sinkaliel a small smile, but it was dashed when the doors to the temple were flung open. “Lord Cynathir!” Georan, the stout Eldar, stood in the doorway. Sinkaliel could see that the people had gathered again in the square behind him. “You have to see this! Come on!” He gestured with a rough, field worn hand before disappearing back into the square. Cynathir’s jaw tensed. He spared a look at Sinkaliel, hoping that the words that he had just uttered would not be immediately contradicted, and gestured for her to follow him back out of the temple.

Every face, old and young, was craned up towards the moons. Despite having severed their ties to the empire the exodites had maintained their link to the webway, a sprawling network of passages and portals that rendered the perils of the Empyrean harmless. During the daytime a pale ring of wraithbone was suspended above the settlement between the planet’s two moons. It was the sole portal through which ships could reach Inon, their last link to the world that they had left behind. At night it was nearly impossible to see. Now everyone was looking at it. Cynathir was moving more quickly than he had before. It was rare for anyone to see him rushed and Sinkaliel had to hurry to keep up. Georan was already well ahead of them.

“What is it, Georan?” Cynathir asked. He didn’t need to, everyone already told him what the problem was by where they put their eyes. Sinkaliel was already looking. She nearly bumped into Cynathir from behind but instead merely brushed against the shaft of his spear.

“A fell light.” The stout Eldar replied before gesturing up towards the sky. Cynathir at last turned to look. He knew what he would see, but feared it all the same.

The normally inert ring was on fire. Impossible, each Eldar told themselves, nothing can burn like that in space. And yet it was wreathed in flame, hungry fingers of all colors licking at the edges of the ring as if trying to consume it. Greens, golds, reds, yellows and the most vibrant shades of purple roiled in the void above the settlement and were reflected in the gentle seas on the world below. “Cynathir…” Sinkaliel breathed as she took in the lively display.

“The webway has collapsed.” The Eldar lord pronounced. Every Eldar in the square pounced on his moment of candor but turning their eyes to their leader. What had been strange now became even more frightening.

“What does it mean for us, Cynathir?” Georan voiced the question that each of them was facing.

Cynathir opened his mouth to reply but before he could speak the a sound like thunder rolled down from the ring. Impossible, again, as it was suspended many miles above the planet’s surface, but nevertheless the winds began to shift and the mountains reverberated with that burst of power. A pain gnawed at the space between Sinkaliel’s temples. “Something is coming through.” The Eldar lord noted. His usual calm tone was disturbed and his fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear. The weapon had not left his side since the trouble began.

Thunder rolled again, but this time it sounded like a beast roaring as it strained at its bonds. From the gaping maw a ball of flame was vomited forth and it raced towards the settlement. Reflexively the crowd edged back, as if it was going to strike them, but it soon became apparent that it would miss. The same colors roiled around the falling object and the flames began to take it apart. Though Sinkaliel heard it first soon all the Eldar could hear a keen wailing from the object, not from voices but from the wraithbone that composed it resonating against the chaotic psychic flames.

“It’s a damned Void Hawk.” Georan breathed. A cruiser ubiquitous through the empire Void Hawks were operated by the military and by the noble houses alike. It was impossible to see any marking on this one but Cynathir knew that it had brought Ezekiah and his attendants to Inon. Normally such a large vessel would not have been able to fit through the ring, but apparently it had been widened.

The ship continued to wail as it plummeted towards Inon. The atmosphere burned up around it, lending the more natural glow of plasma to its more colorful raiment. The clouds parted around it or were burned up. It wasn’t falling as fast as it should have been, just fast enough to burn the atmosphere but to Cynathir’s eyes it was actually slowing down as it neared the surface. Sinkaliel saw it as well. “That ship is alive.” She breathed. “Or something like it…Gods I can hear them all screaming…”

There are hundreds of Eldar on a single Void Hawk, Cynathir thought. Not one of them should survive the impact but whatever damage had been done to them it might be too late. He continued to watch the falling ship as its colors began to dazzle the gentle waves of the sea. The settlement held its collective breath before it struck the water. The force of the impact was such that the shock wave from the explosion rolled up the valley and rattled windows into their wraithbone frames.

The water did nothing to put out the chaotic flames. It hissed and steamed from the more natural heating of the vessel as it fell, but it could not touch that otherworldly fire. Cynathir frowned deeply at the sign. “Everyone.” He raised his voice so as to cut through whatever preoccupations clouded his people’s minds. “Sound the bell to raise the militia. We will soon have to defend our homes.”

Georan rushed off to sound the bell while the rest scurried to their homes. Cynathir turned abruptly and headed towards his own quarters in the assembly hall. For a moment Sinkaliel was left alone in the square. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the colors that worked just beneath the ocean’s surface. Its hunger spoke to the yawning void within her.

Battle of Inon

Cynathir flexed his fingers in the armored gauntlet and was satisfied that decades of disuse had not rendered it too stiff. Behind him Sinkaliel sat on his bed and watched the Eldar lord don his armor. The seer herself wore only a simple wraithbone breastplate and a more rugged set of robes than she used for everyday wear. There was a sword in her lap but she hadn’t checked its blade. Her brows were furrowed as she watched Cynathir.

“Do you really think all this is necessary?” She asked.

“You saw the Void Hawk beneath the surface.” Cynathir replied. “It’s infested. Only a matter of time before what’s left of the Eldar within break the surface.” He turned to face her. He wore armor befitting an Eldar prince; pure white for the most part save for a few fleeting blue highlights on his shoulders and down the outside of his thighs. “I had hoped to never wear this again.” Cynathir noted, as if to convey to Sinkaliel how deeply he felt the threat.

“It fits you.” Sinkaliel replied as she rose from the bed. She slung the sword he had given her into her sash and stepped up to the armored Eldar. “The people will take heart to see you like this.” She noted before reaching up to adjust the fit of the dull grey cape at his neck. “They will never doubt their victory so long as you are ahead of them.”

“Thank you.” Cynathir replied. He caught her wrist as she tried to retract it. He held it for a moment before he let go and turned to retrieve his helmet. The Eldar lord’s movements in the armor were anything but stunted. To Sinkaliel they seemed even more fluid, as if wearing the armor awakened a dormant strength that no one on Inon had ever glimpsed. It was a simple helmet to go with the simple armor, for the most part blue save for the white faceplate. There were eyes only, no other features. Cynathir cradled the helm in one arm while he took his spear in the other hand. “I want you to stay with the second line.” He told the seer. “The younger ones and the women will take heart from your presence.”

Sinkaliel’s lips pursed but she didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.” She replied to him. It was the first time that they had stood across from one another as commander and subordinate, and the lexicon that went with such status was sour in her mouth.

“Be quick to get out of danger.” Cynathir told her as he started to the door. “You are a powerful seer, more powerful than you give yourself credit for, but I want to see you after the battle and when I look into your eyes it’s Sinka I want to see and not…something else.”

Sinkaliel didn’t reply. She just nodded and fell in behind the settlement’s leader. She didn’t want to give voice to the fears that had crept into her bones. Cynathir had done enough in a few words to capture them. Though there was nothing that seer nor warrior could do to think of a solution.

The square outside of the assembly hall had not had must rest that night. It was well into the morning now, still dark but dawn would caress the mountaintops in a few hours. The settlement’s militia had been drilled out precisely as planned. Rows of farmers and craftsmen had been transformed by rugged clothing, a few plates of wraithbone and shuriken catapults into a full fledged militia. Georan stood in front of the ranks, a chevron on his breastplate marking him as the captain of the informal force. His voice was gruff but it lacked the force of a harsh officer. He chided those who had let their training slip and made sure that the equipment that the settlement had for its defense was in working order. Despite these duties, however, Georan seemed to know exactly when Cynathir had emerged from the top room of the assembly hall. He turned, and all the militia behind him snapped to attention.

There was a breeze picking up. In the middle of the night this was a fell omen, a harbinger of what changes might have been wrought on the world by the shattered gate and the burning vessel that was far too close for comfort. It caught Cynathir’s cape and twisted it a few times before allowing it to fall flat. The Eldar lord planted the butt of his spear on the walkway and looked out over the militia that would defend Inon. “I know that this morning when many of you were tending your fields and your workshops you could not have known that before you rose again you would be called on to defend this settlement. We have been uniquely privileged with decades of peace. Now, we must, with our blood and our strength, purchase more.” None of them had ever seen Cynathir in his armor, and in their expression the Eldar lord could read the same reaction that had been on Sinkaliel’s lips: it fits. “Before I arrived at Inon I studied at the feet of the great warrior Asurmen. I have spoken with many great seers. It is true that they might have foreseen a disruption this kind. To what extent and to what end no one can know, and I do not pretend to have an answer to that. But I do know that the enemy that we now face is born of the Empyrean.”

Murmurs rolled through the ranks and feet shifted. It was the response that Cynathir expected, and he continued: “The two creatures that you saw earlier tonight were daemons. They were creatures born from a consciousness in the Empyrean and grew from the corrupted souls of our visitors. The seer Laeriel also died because such a creature tried to emerge from her, which should tell us all that even the innocent can find no refuge from our enemy. It is clear to me that they are the result of a shift in favor of the great enemy of Chaos. I know that this militia was formed to protect our settlement from pirates, aliens and perhaps even our own empire. Now I must call upon it to defend us from the most insidious enemy that an Eldar may face. I have confidence that we will face what horrors may come our way with the nobility and courage that has characterized the whole of our endeavor here. The gods protect you.”

Georan took Cynathir’s final words as the signal to put on his helmet and gesture for the gathered militia to begin to move out. Cynathir turned sharply at the front of the walkway and moved towards the ramp that sloped gently down to the square. Sinkaliel was right on his heels though her steps were noticeably quieter than his. “How great do you think this enemy is?” She asked softly once she took her customary place just behind his shoulder.

“Large enough to shatter the webway a long distance from the homeworlds…Catastrophic at the very least but it is likely that they may yet be able to contain it. Here, we must do our part.” Cynathir replied as he palmed his own helmet and slipped it onto his head. His voice was now slightly distorted, but remained clear. “It may be a blessing in disguise despite those who will die. They will welcome Asurmen and Ulthran back to the homeworlds when they see the error of their ways.”

Sinkaliel was quiet for a long moment as the pair reprised their walk down the streets of Inon. Only the streetlights were on, everything else was closed up and dark as families hid in the corners of their houses. In a few hours all the life had been sucked out of the settlement, the only activity now the orderly marching of ranks of Eldar militia. Though it was the middle of the night the moons of Inon, the shattered gate and the aurora rising from the sea was sufficient to provide illumination for all the Eldar and their keen senses.

Cynathir brought a few of his fingers to the side of his helmet. “Understood.” He replied to a distant voice. He didn’t turn back to Sinkaliel, she would know to listen. “The first daemons have been spotted moving quickly towards our position. Very fast by the sound of it.” The Eldar lord projected calm, and though the words brought the fact of the invasion closer home to Sinkaliel than it had ever been before she could feed off of the tone in his words and nod along mutely. “Take the second line. I will assist Georan at the front.” He picked up his steps even before he was done speaking and with long strides broke away from Sinkaliel.

The Eldar order of battle was designed to maximize the strengths of their loosely organized but skilled force while minimizing the enemy’s ability to strike at them. Georan’s front line, composed of the strongest and the quickest men and women in the settlement, fanned out into the sprouting fields and took positions behind what cover they could find. It was not a hard line, gaps from one Eldar to another disguised the true strength of the force while allowing it maximum flexibility in the face of an unknown enemy. On the rooftops of the nearest buildings the best shooters in the settlement had been given the long rifles, lasers that could reach farther and shoot more accurately than the deadly shuriken catapults. They looked down their scopes and relayed what they saw back to Cynathir and Georan.

“Incoming. Dozens, through the undergrowth.” One of the Eldar snipers fired and a lance of bright red light scorched through the night and the trees to tear into the shoulder of one of the daemons. It wasn’t an errant shot, the beast had reacted that quickly. Everyone in the first line could see, for a split second as the laser flared against the daemon’s plates, the nature of their foe. The general shape of an Eldar remained but like the chamberlain and his attendant it had been peeled open for another being to step into what remained of its skin. Black chitinous plates, oversized claws and translucent white skin were all lit up while its slanted eyes were squeezed closed in a disquieting mix of pain and ecstasy. It fell and kicked up a plume of dust in doing so. Soon it was back on its feet, now in the thick of its brethren.

More red beams lanced from the rooftops of Inon as the snipers set to their work. “No leader identified.” One of them relayed over the comms system. His training had his trigger finger itching for that one daemon who would be at the head of the others.

“They have no leader.” Cynathir replied. He had taken up a position at the heart of the line, next to Georan where they crouched in a furrow. “Only instinct. Keep firing.” He nodded towards Georan and the militia’s captain rose from his position.

He didn’t have to say anything. It was enough that the front line could see him. The night was soon filled with the fluttering screech of tiny wraithbone shurikens as they were discharged by the Eldar militia. They had all marked their enemies long before the order to fire had been implicitly given. Though none of them had proved good enough to be a sniper at such a range they were just as accurate. The daemons shrieked as their hide and their armor were tore into by the wraithbone shards. Georan gauged their shrieks and watched their forms contort in the shadows. He raised his own rifle to his shoulder and began to add to the volume of fire. He inched forward, pressing the advantage while it seemed to be his. His line responded in kind.

At first the wails that arose from the daemonic line seemed to be the same unsettling mix of pain and pleasure that now issued from the throat of each dying daemon. Only Cynathir recognized the different pitch, not just reacting to the pain inflicted by the Eldar militia but anticipating the meal that was soon to be theirs. He had stayed behind while Georan marched forward but now he rose to his feet and sprinted in a way that his armor would not have seemed to allow.

The daemonic line either parted or fell away. The imperfect creatures who had first tested the settlement’s defenses were all but spent. The true denizens of the Empyrean, not merely contortions of the souls that they consumed but true fragments of the distant consciousness that formed the whole of their hunger, sprinted between the ranks of the former Eldar and weaved in between the careful lines of suppressive fire that the militia had established. They resembled their imperfect kin with their black armor plates and their wicked claws. Some even had the same shape as an Eldar but twisted so that only a hint of recognition remained. They were tall beyond what an Eldar could ever achieve and distorted the natural beauty of that race into an alluring, androgynous and ultimately repulsive visage. They had hooves or claws for feet and sickle like claws for some replaced their entire arm. While the sniper could not spot any leader among the daemons they had no difficulty finding Georan at the center of the line.

One of those claws, a wicked chitinous scythe with ribbed edges, was aimed at the Eldar captain’s chest. As quick as he was he couldn’t overcome the speed of this foe. It screamed at him with its woman’s face, not so much a shriek as a song that paralyzed him where he stood. He barely perceived the reflective edge of Cynathir’s spear intruding on his vision from over his shoulder. The Eldar lord had disguised his approach behind the captain’s stout frame but now he burst out from behind him with his spear brandished to meet the encroaching claw. It proved to be no match for his spear and was cleaved through by the blade. The severed tip slapped harmlessly against Georan’s chest plate but he recoiled from the strike as if run through.

Cynathir planted his foot and dipped his shoulder so that the blade that had already clove through the daemon’s arm could slice across its chest. Black ichor spewed from the wound and darkened the ground underneath his feet. The daemon howled and raised its other arm to swipe at the Eldar lord but he was already inside that reach. His back foot swept up the circle and the tip of the spear slashed through the daemon’s throat. Its head was not severed but the blow was mortal and it toppled back where it could claw at the wound and inflict even more damage on itself. Cynathir heard Eldar screams among the unearthly wails of the true daemons. “Compose yourself.” He told Georan even as he could feel a new set of the creatures bearing down on him. “Begin and orderly retreat, firing as you go.” He didn’t see Georan nod in reply as he turned to meet the oncoming daemons.

Cynathir spun and swept low to separate a daemon from its knees in one clean motion. He sidestepped the falling torso even as another of the creatures attempted to flank him. Using the momentum from the first strike he collared it around the neck between blade and guard. There wasn’t enough forced to sever the daemon’s head but he got a good purchase on its hide and took it to the ground where it sprawled over its comrade. The third came at him from behind but Cynathir raised his spear, now pointed away from his back perpendicular to the ground, and with one step impaled the daemon through its chest. The creature howled, and there was hardly a note of pleasure on its tone. The Eldar lord spun and tore a ragged wound down to the ground from where the blade had been stuck. The spear flourished over his head as he spun it, drops of black blood spraying around the battlefield, and came down to bury its blade into the back of the first daemon. The second attempted to rise and swipe at Cynathir but he had already drawn the shuriken pistol at his side and as it moved he released a stream of the deadly, cutting fragments into its face. It died along with its brethren.

To Sinkaliel Cynathir’s battle looked more like a dance than the carnage that it was. She could see the black blood flowing over his armor plates in thin rivulets. Her line was firing now as well in order to support the orderly retreat of the first line. Snipers filled any gaps were the Eldar were hauling their wounded comrades back from the line of fire. Still, more of the daemons were flowing up from the sea. If the she could see it, then so could the rest of the militia. For her part the seer prayed. She went through the ritual of communicating with her gods in the Empyrean. It was more difficult to find that link than before, but soon calm flooded her and she reached out to the minds of the rest of the militia so that it could be shared. She focused on the serenity that she always achieved when contemplating her goddess Lileath. Calm your hearts, she willed for her comrades. Steady your aim. There is no foe that you cannot defeat, and even should you be overcome the embrace of the gods awaits you. I have seen in a dozen times. Have faith, have hope, and fight.

Georan had become separated from Cynathir as the latter displayed the teachings of Asurmen to his daemonic foes. It was more difficult to settle his heart and the hearts of the first line as the daemons continued to come right up to their face. But the shuriken catapults could kill them, provided that they were hit enough times and in the right places. That was his task as he managed the orderly retreat. Fields of fire crisscrossed to provide greater coverage over those areas where the disorganized daemons were making their push. One area of the line would best tested more than another. This allowed Georan to coordinate his fire as the militia had been drilled to do, and slowly but surely as the shock and psychological torments of the alluring daemons wore off and Sinkaliel’s prayers found them they were able to keep the enemy at bay. Georan’s voice seldom rose and he was beginning to reclaim his calm and his confidence that they were going to win the battle. Then it seemed that the sun had arisen in the south along the road to the coast. A beautiful, pale light that reminded him of the soft mornings when he and his wife would lie together and greet the day.

No matter how many of the daemons Cynathir dispatched they faced him without fear. He was immune to their wailing cries that tried to pierce deep into his consciousness and call forth either fear or obedience. Even the demi-daemons, those corrupted Eldar who had not yet achieved the full daemonhood that awaited him, tried to mob the Eldar lord in the hope that they might slow down his spear. To Cynathir it made no difference; no matter how many daemons poured from the sundered hold of the Void Hawk he was there to destroy them. He held the center of the Eldar line alone. With his presence fire could be diverted away from some daemons in order to overwhelm others that might have cut through the lightly armored militia soldiers. Cynathir was gaining an understanding, if not an appreciation, of his enemy. They never attacked head on, preferring to come at him sideways and with quick, precise strokes that were designed not to overwhelm, but to exploit. With this in mind he knew immediately that the battle had changed when a wave of demi-daemons charged him head on, as if to obscure the approach of something behind them.

They fell with one stroke of Cynathir’s fearsome spear. His suspicions were immediately confirmed when a tail topped by the wicked black spikes that had become the trademark of these daemons lashed out in a straight line to try and take his head. The Eldar lord leaned to the side, his earlier battle with the changed Ezekiah flashing in his mind, and avoided his death. The tail was too fast for his spear to trap, and it returned to the beast who had launched it. It was the first daemon that lacked the contours of an Eldar. It was long and sinuous, and unlike the strangely alluring daemons who had so far taken part in the battle it was decidedly ugly. A drooling tongue protruded almost lewdly from its long mouth and two slanted yellow eyes peered at him from just above it. Despite its proximity to the ground the fiend was quick and was soon snapping at Cynathir with its two large pincer-like claws. The Eldar lord had no doubt that they could split him in half with ease. He parried the strikes with the tip of his spear which found the armor on the claws sufficient to resist the blows that had easily dispatched other daemons. There was no dance or song in this thing, it was calibrated purely for bloodshed. It inspired revulsion above the basic contempt that Cynathir reserved for all daemons.

While Cynathir was distracted from Georan’s flank the latter was nearly blinded by the soft light that spilled in from between the attacking daemons. A song reached his ears and began to soothe his mind. He forgot about the battle around him, indeed the figures involved in it seemed to slow to the point that he could pick out an individual shuriken gliding in front of him like a deadly snowflake. The muted colors of nighttime Inon took on a new vibrancy and the very air seemed to hum around him in a rapturous song. The captain was thus entirely prepared for the figure that mounted low rise and with it brought the pale dawn. The Eldar maiden seemed to glide along the surface of the world as if to touch the dirt with her immaculate feet was a profanity that the universe could not abide. With her arms outstretched her nude but modest form beckoned to Georan, and the song that lifted his spirits beyond what the routine on Inon had been able to inspire emanated from the aura around her. Wisps of silk ribbon, not for covering but to add to her raiment, drifted about her form on gentle winds. “Cynathir…” Georan breathed as he beheld the maiden. “…It was not daemons but a goddess that descended to Inon…”

Sinkaliel was aware that something was buzzing in her mind. It had reached up from the emptiness inside of her and latched on the back of her mind and simply observed what was happening her thoughts. She tried not to dwell on it as she continued to direct the efforts of the second line and bolster the morale of the militia, but she could not entirely ignore its presence. The priestess continued to focus on the image of Lileath, her goddess, the maiden who could grant calm with her mere presence. With the self assurance that contemplation of the goddess provided she put out of her mind any lingering effects from her prior encounters with the daemons.

Georan was joined by other Eldar as they beheld the maiden who had graced the battlefield with her presence. When at last her serene visage fell on Georan he felt his soul well up in his chest as if a connection had been made between them. Her expression changed from one of the deepest contentment and confidence born from divinity to an imploring look that was fixed on Georan. At first he was confused, but when he saw the daemons, made all the more abhorrent in comparison to the maiden, leap towards her he knew immediately what she wanted. The captain barked orders to those who similarly basked in her glow and they resumed the battle, no longer in defense of Inon but in defense of the new goddess among them.

Cynathir was distracted from his battle with the field by the unexpected cries of Eldar being cut down. He glanced away from his foe for as long as he dared to see a stream of shurikens from Georan’s group cutting down his own men. He had to quickly turn back as that wicked tail reached for him again. For the moment there was nothing he could do, and so he had to rely on another. “Sinkaliel!” He cried into his helm.

The seer stood bolt upright as she heard Cynathir call her name. To her the battle seemed to be progressing well, the lines were holding but she couldn’t deny the urgency in his voice. She turned to the captain of the militia to see how he was faring. He continued to direct fire in the competent way that she had come to expect from him. Sinkaliel’s brow knit when she noticed that nothing was attacking him head on, that the enemy was always coming from the angles but never exploiting them to try and split the Eldar line. The buzzing at the back of her mind grew more intense to the point that it was almost a whisper. It tried to soothe her suspicions with cooed reassurances and promises that the seer immediately recognized as empty. She abandoned her other duties and focused on tracing the connection back. The voice grew more insistent, more pleading, telling her that she didn’t really want to know, that in ignorance she could find the peace that she should never achieve so long as that void remained within her. It was almost pouting. But the tone in Cynathir’s voice prevented Sinkaliel from wavering. She closed her eyes and began to trace the connection back across the battlefield…and when she found it her eyes snapped open and she delivered a psychic pulse to blow it away.

The glamour left the siren almost immediately after Sinkaliel found it out. The visage of Lileath which had enraptured Georan vanished as if torn away by a strong gale. Georan’s eyes widened with fear, revulsion and shame when he saw the alluring daemon that had transfixed him. It was a mercy, perhaps, that he did not see the bodies of the comrades that he had cut down. Those gentle strips of ribbon soon hardened into flexible tentacles that, knowing that its mistress’ cover had been blown, snapped out towards her prey. The siren screeched its unholy, discordant wail as Georan and a pair of his comrades were run through. It lifted them into the air and tore their bodies to pieces. It reveled in the shower of their hot gore, and set about laying into the rest of the stricken line.

Cynathir ultimately proved the more skilled between him and the fiend. The tail strikes became too predictable and he was about to provoke one when stepping out of the range of the beast’s claws. It was too eager, too hungry to consume him, and so its tail was caught when Cynathir angled his spear into the ground. Enraged the fiend merely shivered and charged which allowed the Eldar lord to sidestep a snapping claw and gut the beast down the length of its translucent white skin. But he was not as fast as he would have liked to be. He closed his eyes tight when he heard the gurgling scream that he knew belonged to Georan. Cynathir tensed and, with the threat of other daemons bearing down him, turned and hurled his spear towards the siren.

The grisly sight of her fellow colonists being torn apart by the siren was bad enough for Sinkaliel. What inspired true horror, and led her to cover her mouth as she drew in a breath laced with terror, was what happened after. She had seen Eldar die before. She attended the funerary services of every colonist who had perished in her tenure at Inon. She was a seer; intimately attached to the Empyrean which welcomed the souls of the departed in the warm embrace of the gods. She had never felt sorrow or confusion in the face of death. It was something that, as one of the truly devoted, had never held any fear for her. Georan’s death was not like those. His soul did not depart, its connection to the material plane severed by the destruction of his corporeal form, it was consumed. Something far away, and with a reach that Sinkaliel couldn’t fathom, had been waiting for the moment when Georan’s presence in the Empyrean would no longer be anchored to a consciousness in the material world. When that weakness became manifested what should have been the calm ritual that awaited all Eldar upon their passing became a rape that tore out the very heart of their being. Sinkaliel could watch it unfold for each Eldar who had fallen. Those wicked claws that could be felt more than seen took hold of the souls of each warrior and she could hear each captive presence wail as it was consigned to slavery for all eternity. The seer shuddered and almost collapse as her knees grew weak. She wanted to scream or to weep for what she had witnessed. She didn’t even noticed the siren’s demise as Cynathir’s spear broke through her chest from behind.

With the death of the siren the daemons finally seemed to have a limit. The Eldar line had held, now only more of the demi-daemons appeared to challenge them and they were swiftly cut down. Even without his weapon they granted Cynathir a wide berth as he strode to retrieve his spear. Wails in the distance told the militia that though the battle had been won more daemons waited to claim them. Cynathir wrenched the tip of his spear from the body of the siren. It gasped, even that sound a strangely harmonious song even though it grated against his ears. His white armor was covered in black blood and ichor. The second line was coming down from where Sinkaliel had directed it to see to the wounded in the first. He looked to find the seer and saw her on her knees flanked by several concerned militia. She was sobbing. Cynathir’s grip on his spear tightened as he looked back towards the settlement. There was little doubt in his mind as to the path that they now had to take.

Sinkaliel and Cynathir sat alone in the room where only a few hours earlier they had played host to the chamberlain Ezekiah. Now it stank of the entrails of daemons as Sinkaliel carefully washed Cynathir’s armor. For his part he cleaned his spear, and so far no words had passed between them. The sun was starting to come up, but is soft glow had not yet penetrated the high windows of the assembly hall. Exhaustion was as palpable in the room as the stench of daemons. Cynathir, dressed in loose robes, tried to hide in his smooth movements the fact that his muscles were aching. He looked at his own reflection in the top of his spear as he posed the question to Sinkaliel: “What did you see?”

“I don’t know.” She replied mutely. The armor was already clean, she was just going through the motions. “But I’ve never felt so afraid.”

“I have to know what happened to them.” Cynathir ran a cloth over the blade.

“You’ve already made your decision.” Sinkaliel countered. “We only have a few hours, don’t we, until they come again?”

Cynathir nodded. “And almost a score dead to show for it. We won’t last, Sinka. I’m not sure it’s worth trying.”

“It took their souls.” She replied. “It took them and they’re gone, forever. There’s no escaping that grip, that…hunger.”

“No.” The Eldar lord agreed. “And letting more die in the defense of a lost colony is the worst crime we could commit. The gate is completely sundered, energy from the Empyrean will continue to pour in even if we could destroy the Void Hawk. Things will start to change.”

“So what do we do?” Sinkaliel asked. She finally looked up from the armor and towards Cynathir. “We still have the dead to tend to.”

Cynathir looked across the mat to her. “There’s nothing to consecrate. They’re gone, Sinka.” He paused. “We’ll make it quick.”

“We’re leaving, then?”

Cynathir nodded and rose from the floor. “Inon is lost. We have no choice but to enter the webway.”