The Vision

For days they had crept through the shadow of the forest, trailing the horde of rat creatures that penetrated into the forest of Athel Loren. The furred beasts spread out across the wide area, pouring out from an unknown chasm in the mountain range. The commander from the leading kindred had delayed the ambush until reinforcements arrived from the treeman Borithmor and his kin. Throughout the day, scattered bands of elves waited for the signal that help had arrived, as they were all eager to assault the invaders.

Tilting his head slightly to displace leaves from his field of vision, the waywatcher could see rats of all sizes skitter past only a few paces in front of him. Beads of sweat trickled down as his cover of leaves and twigs kept his body heat trapped. The uncomfortable temperature combined with his desire to slay the invaders, making him want to let lose an arrow right then and there. He chirped out a shrill call, and over the course of a few moments received similar sounds in response as his fellow waywatchers confirmed their position. They were scattered, and like him on their bellies under a pile of leaves, assuredly sharing his desire to shed their cover and strike at the enemy.

In the background, he saw the treeline shift slightly. Overhead, the cry of a great eagle rang out over the forest. Some of the rat creatures scanned the sky in fear, but many had become used to threatening sounds after a few days march in Athel Loren. As the waywatcher adjusted his head slightly to see if any other activity was going on, he felt several pricks along his back. Looking up to his forehead, he could see several tiny forest sprites leaping off his body and onto the forest floor, sprinting towards the skaven host. All around him the forest floor shook as dryads burst past his concealed position, roaring as they closed in on the rats. On the opposite side of enemy army more dryads and spirits were driving in on the enemy flank.

From behind him came a bellowing roar so loud that his ears rang out in pain. The approaching thuds of a treeman running was met with the sight of a long, wooden limb lifting above the waywatcher’s prone body and crashing down in front of him on the forest floor. The giant creature of the forest swung his huge arm out over a pack of skaven, sending a dozen flying into the air. As he watched the forest spirits battle, he waited intently for his signal to attack. Most of the skaven were in a state of panic as the forest came alive and began to slaughter them. But off to the north end of the battle, a brilliant light caught the corner of his eye. Bright green fire leaped out from some deranged invention and scorched a host of dryads in a single blast. All around the battle, more green fire leaped out as skaven weapon teams gained their composure and began to incinerate the forest spirits.

The treefolk were powerful and terrifying, but lacked precision. That’s where we come in. The waywatcher knew he and the rest of his kin had to take out those weapons teams now before they wiped out all of Borithmor’s forces. Apparently his commander felt the same way, because a clarion horn call pierced through the din of battle. Raising up to one knee and drawing his bow in one movement, the waywatcher appreciated his much-expanded field of view from when he was prone on the ground. Signaling to his kin with shrill whistles, he identified the most immediate targets. Aiming carefully but quickly, he let loose his first arrow. It soared in on its target, piercing the neck of a skaven holding a warpfire thrower. He keeled back, his hand still on the release, and continued to spew forth liquid fire. The nozzle now aimed at a large pack of skaven, setting their short fur ablaze and creating panic in the surrounding area. All around him, he could hear other arrows release as his kin shot at their targets. Some missed their targets – only grazing the shoulder or hitting the leg of a rat – but most hit home and at least temporarily inhibited the skaven ability to set Loren to the torches.

The skaven had adjusted and established two fronts against the flank attacks of the tree spirits. It would prove a deadly error as the Asrai forces charged into the battlefield from what had previously been the skaven front lines. Elves on horseback sent a shower of arrows into the battle before drawing their spears and preparing to charge. From above, eagles and warhawks dove in on the battlefield, sowing terror as they grabbed skaven and tossed them into the trees. From all sides the skaven were assaulted. The ground itself awoke and roots surged upwards, encasing skaven and crushing them wholly.

He continued to scan the battlefield, occasionally slaying another rat with deadly precision. He eyed what appeared to be an important skaven, and as he was about to fire a jolting pain shot down his body. He winced and closed his eyes in reaction, collapsing to the forest floor. The sensation was extreme, feeling as though his soul itself had been cut into. When he opened his eyes again the landscape had completely changed. Before him stood a wolf, not an unusual site in Athel Loren. But the familiarness of the scene ended with the creature, for around the waywatcher was a snow-covered mountaintop. He turned to look around to try and find out more about his location, only to find that he was unable to turn. He felt every sensation, his senses taking everything in, but he was unable to move or to speak.

As he fought to scream at the top of his lungs, he found himself saying words that he never intended to utter. “They never once called me the Everchosen. Not once.” From the bottom of his vision, he saw his own arm reach out in a gesture towards the wolf. He realized; however, that while it was in fact an asur arm it was certainly not his. This provided more questions than answers; while he realized he was viewing someone else’s actions he had no idea whose they were.

“The Eye, the Sword, the Mark, the Armor, the Steed…None of that makes you the Everchosen.” The wolf seethed. “Not even close.” Was this a ritual? The waywatcher had no clue as to what was going on, but he knew the taint of chaos when he sensed it. He knew of the title Everchosen. He is viewing it from the body of an Asur; was Malekith being crowned Everchosen?

He found his host body speaking again, “Then finish it.” Before him, the wolf became consumed by shadow until only his golden eyes remained visible. The waywatcher began to realize that it was never a wolf at all, only a demon in wolf form. Every fiber in his being wanted to grab his sheathed twin blades and lash out at the shadowy aberration, but he again succumbed to the realization that he was trapped in the sensations and experiences of another elf.

After hesitation and more retorts, the shadow placed a crown on the elf’s head. The waywatcher recognized it as a crown from the court of Nagarythe. It was then that he realized it was not Malekith who was being crowned, but an elf the waywatcher thought had long departed from this world. The demon placed it on his head, and a rush of energy overtook him. In the distance, four ominous figures nodded in approval. The waywatcher saw his arms raise a gem of some kind and place it in the crown that had just been placed on his head. Suddenly, the entire world became visible. He appeared to be in control now, as his vision took him past mountains, tundra, fields, past the dwarf holds and over a raging battle – his battle – that was going on in Athel Loren. Another wave of pain rolled through him, and he shut his eyes in reaction.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back on the forest floor. He stood up slowly and looked around. Six other waywatchers appeared to be doing the same thing he was, and the remaining two looked at them with expressions of concern and fear. The waywatcher looked down at his arm to see a brilliantly lit eight pointed star tattooed on his hand. He looked around, and sure enough the other six had the same glowing mark on their hand. The two who bore no taint of chaos cried out at the sight.

The waywatcher heard his name, his true name, called out for the first time in nearly a century, “Enthardon. You know whose vision we saw.”

The waywatcher, Enthardon, nodded quickly, “It appears, fellow Aesenar, that our father’s whereabouts are now known. We must make haste.” As Enthardon his six brothers began to depart from the battle, the two remaining waywatchers moved to stop them.

“You are no Asrai, you never were!” one of them shouted. “Stop right there, whoever you are, or you shall know my marksmanship personally.” Enthardon turned to look at the elf who had up until recently been a close comrade of his. But Enthardon knew that his secret could not be told, no matter the cost. Nodding to another Aesenar, Enthardon saw a short elven blade slice cleanly through the Asrai’s neck and the waywatcher collapsed to the forest floor. A few paces to the west, the other asrai in their band met the same fate.

The Aesenar now gathered around each other. Enthardon looked at them all and sighed, “We thought we would be at home here. These asrai are the closest to true Asur left on this world, and even then we are not fit to coexist. We all thought the magic of this place would conceal our long lifespan. It appears we may never find a home, save one.” He paused before saying there was one home for them, as they all knew what he meant. Enthardon was sure that visions of the glorious court of Nagarythe were flowing through their minds just as they were in his.

The din of battle replaced Enthardon’s voice until another Aesenar stepped forward. “We all saw the same vision. We all saw our father become the Everchosen. Perhaps, that is where we may finally find peace. At our father’s side.” The other Aesenar nodded in approval, and Enthardon looked up to speak again.

“Celfayas I cannot fathom the road our father must have taken to now be the chosen of Chaos. To be honest I don't care, as we all know there's only one reason why he would accept such a damned pact. As I have already said, we need to leave this place, if for no other reason than this forest will not take well to us any longer – especially with the mark of the four on our arms. Alith Anar awaits.” His brothers nodded in approval, and as the asrai and treefolk destroyed the last remaining skaven, the seven Aesenar began their long journey north.