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The New Word (Complete)

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#1 · (Edited)
What is up, heresy online:victory:!? Bringing you something I recently wrote down, hope you guys enjoy :grin:!


The New Word


Chapter One: Underground Metro

Lyra Savakis. The Superiors saw a young girl in her early twenties, chestnut colored hair styled in a fishtail braid. Four years’ worth of training had given her middling, athletic build a more robust edge over some of the other girls. Her skin was a natural light shade of beige, on the verge of becoming bronze in her prime years yet to come. Bright oceanic eyes gazed through a window on the metro-bus taking them through the hidden places of a vast Hive city. Her face was like most of the other girls raised alongside her in the scholas: sculpturesque, hard, and radiant. Nothing stood out about her, but the Canoness must’ve noticed something in her that no one else could.

An endless stretch of underground walls are blurred by the constant motion of metro-bus. It must’ve been speeding at a minimum of eighty miles per hour; she could even feel the pressure in her gut despite her power armor. A silver bullet in the dimly lit darkness. Engines scream to the top of their capacity. Thrusters and stabilizers constantly wobble to keep the anti-grav train in suspended motion. The nightscape of Helike came through the darkness on occasion. The capital of the Hive planet Tyrannus.

Her wary eyes fell upon anyone in her vicinity; usually, she’d be sitting in her seat with a look of mild contempt plain on her face. Having to travel with the common citizenry often provoked similar expressions. Those were the days she would proudly where her helm to hide it. There was no reason to in this instance, the train was nearly empty save two dozen battle nuns of the Adepta Sororitas. Many dressed in resplendent blue battle robes that one would usually don over their armor. Half of the women riding the train wore none. The initiates must’ve felt empowered by the bolters that glinted in the light. Lyra knew that she did.

A tiny smirk crossed her lips at the memories that surfaced. Oh holy of holies, grant her the strength that saw her through the massacres of Dynara and Itanos. Bless her with the strength and immortal essence of St. Celestine, and reunite all mankind under the one true Imperium of man.

The metro-bus began to skid into a gradual halt. It slid forward for a few more kilometers before coming full stop before a station atop a great vista overlooking Itanos. The Hive city awaited them like a tempting mistress, calling to them to explore every inch of its surface in a never ending adventure. She could see the estates of the nobility and the Imperial palaces reach out into a star littered night. Below her was the heart of villainy and corruption: the under city. The city of lights looked to be in the midst of a festival. Fireworks spiraled up into the stars like surface-to-atmosphere battery barrages.

A shame the deed of the day would be killing. To stamp out anything that moved if it resembled the hedonistic cultist, the abhorable demon, or the pitiful undead. Whichever one crossed them first.

Arva was sunk into an adjacent seat, blinking the sleep from her bleary-eyed stare. She extended Lyra a nod. “I’m ready to crack some heathen heads. How ‘bout you, Lyra?” Her exhaustion was completely acceptable. The hour was late and the last minute debriefings had stolen some of their energy. Like Lyra, she too was dressed in thick royal blue robes. The pair of them looked like clerics, not initiates belonging to the Order of the Emperor’s Grace.

“I am ready.” Lyra eventually spoke, staring down at her bolter intently, inspecting every piece of it like she always had since the beginning of her training.

Sister Meril’s matronly voice grated through her V.O.X. grill, taking on an aspect of war Lyra had never quite experienced before. “Whoever dies this day, I certainly hope you two are not among them. Give our foes the flames of retribution and the honed steel of your ammunition. All of you!”

Arva and Lyra both bowed their heads slightly and uttered in reverent tones. “Through fire and steel, we give the enemy our absolution.”

A proven Sister shouted from the front of the train. “On your feet! Sororitas! On your feet! The train has stopped! Ready your weapons! Be ready to kill anything! Welcome to Itanos!”

The air was crisp and cool; the essence of winter had touched the city, though no snow was falling outside the station. The noise of anti-grav cars and ground vehicles disturbed the night, but could not drown out the sounds of gunfire. When the train left, all of them would be trapped in the heart of Itanos. Where that was, Lyra did not have the faintest clue, but she was here to deliver the Emperor’s will. With any luck, she’d do so under his cloak of protection.

Canoness Kaska Rosi glided off the station train. Trailing her resplendent armor was a Golden Fleece cloak, laced through the open maws of stuffed Falxian Lion Heads. The metro lights made the sienna skin on her naked face gleam like polished stone. Dark jade eyes swept through the throng of her soldiers and trainees. Her lips uttered benedictions and prayers on the star struck recruits. The bodyguard and able bodied sisters formed a tight noose around them. “One dozen initiates and a hand full of battle sisters… Not odds I would like, but there’s no time like the present to start shaping this rabble up. Move them out!”

Meril laughed at the tenseness in her girls’ posture, trying to relieve the hesitation in their expressions. “Do not let fear cloud your judgment now; you were all only boasting a day ago! Perhaps we should pray as we march?”

“From the lightning and the Tempest”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”

“From plague, temptation and war”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”

“From the scourge of Kraken”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”
 
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#52 ·
***​
Code-Lavender had done more than simply save the lives of Ayriel and his entourage of Spirit Seers, he knew something had stirred deep in whatever supervised the entirety of the Ghost Crypts. The haunting moans echoing from the maws of demons was eradicated in a glorious light, and the alien screeches that followed no longer plagued his every waking step. Dormant halls, laden with stasis pods and slumbering Eldar souls, now shone with a new life, lit by an artificial power that easily replicated a midday sun. Where fresh blood seeped through the recesses and grooves of hallow gateways, a strange lavender fluid swept away every trace of life fluids. Aryriel, Lriean, Qunalan, Iraa, Mae, Kasilienesh, and his escort of Warlocks briskly walked through paths once thought lifeless, saluted by dozens of Guardian Defenders and Dire Avengers that had awoken ahead of everyone else, None of them recognized the Eldar that their Autarch marched ahead of, but they did not question their presence.

Tarianna’s disembodied voice swept through the circular chamber that the team currently found themselves in. “Autarch Muran, thirty seven percent of our warriors have successfully awoken through the cryo-stasis. We will near fifty percent functionality of our forces within the hour. How shall we proceed to reclaim our base of operations?”

Autarch Muran towered a head over even Aryriel, his vermillion and creamy white armor so splendid and detailed that everyone around him instantly appeared inferior in status and ranking. Upon his back was an elegant warp generator that the Warp Spiders used to leap in and from the immaterium. Within his sword hand was a great spear, decorated with pulsating, violet runes along the haft of the weapon and ended with a bladed tip that looked as if it had been dipped into a volcanic furnace. He wore a helmet carved with an image of Khaine’s howling face, blackened and cracked with an intricate detail that resembled molten lava. He did not pause in his movement at Tarianna’s words, instead deciding to answer her question with another one. “One issue at a time, my dear, give me a status report on the effect of Code Lavender.”

“Very well, Autuarch.” Tarianna sighed in resignation. “Ninety—five of breaches exposing us to the Warp have been effectively contained and dismantled. Most hostile forces not of this reality have already been purged by Code Lavender. They are no longer a threat. Our main concern should now lie with our intruders and the Dark Kin, Autarch.”

“Right,” Muran expelled a single breath. He spared a glance over his shoulder in Mae’s direction. “You must forgive our rush, but if the Dark Kin manage to scramble to full functionality before us, our time awakened could prove incredibly short. Have you considered my proposal, Spirit Seer Mae?”

Gentle laughter wafted through Mae’s war helm, she inclined her head toward Muran in agreement. “I have, your lordship, but I am afraid that I only bring a small fraction of the Imperial Army with us. In truth, I should not spare you a single soul, considering there is a planetary invasion happening above the surface, even as we speak. And if that wasn’t enough, I am not even certain about who you or your warriors are.”

Muran’s expression was unreadable through his helmet, but the calmness in his body movement relayed his relaxed and understanding mood. He indicated the Ghost Crypts and his surrounding warriors with a sweep of his hands. “So you have warned, but alone, none of us present in this place could ever hope to prevail, army or no! You have no reason to fight by my side and I have no reason to fight by yours, except that you are an enemy of my enemy. Should I include you as a friend? You would be the only one I can turn to at this point. How many have you brought to fight with you?”

Mae shrugged. “Lriean?”

The Eldar Relic Hunter stepped forward, receiving a number of quizzical stares at his Imperial Guard uniform, he paid them no heed as he bowed low before Muran. “Nearly two thousand fighting men with armored support, Autarch. We expected trouble down here, but not three armies looking to annihilate one another. I doubt such a force would be enough to change the inevitable: certain death for us, should we seek conflict with the Dark Kin and the fanatics of Chaos.”

“Do you know what this place is, Lriean Tarithinon?” The Autarch pointed toward Lriean’s chest with his long spear. He changed his target every few seconds, going across the expedition’s commanders. “Do you, Seer Mae? Or you, Chosen of Khaine? There are ten thousand Eldar souls here, roughly. Some have been lost to time and the trifling of demons, others simply by accident. Look around you, this is what remains of a great Webway Nexus, hundreds of individual portals that stretch across the galaxy. I am Autarch Muran, the commander of the last remnants of the Craftworld Myriell. Some leagues above us, the Kabal of the Blinded Blades no longer remains dormant. Once many centuries ago, our two warring nations came together for a great battle against the surging Arch-Enemy in the sector. The resulting battle was disastrous, our home world, Myriell, was destroyed, along with hundreds of web way portals with worth beyond value. The survivors of the first Tarmathon War landed planet side on this world, what you call Tyrannus, and harbored themselves in this subterranean city, one of three sleeping under the vermin hives of the Imperium. We were to awaken sometime beyond the forty-first millennium and arise to see if the Imperium had been defeated so we could reclaim our system. Yet that does not seem to be the case.” He turned his gaze toward Lriean. “From what Craftworld do you and your friends hail?”

“Teyl-Jhen, my Autarch.”

“Teyl-Jhen.” Muran reiterated the words, then cackled boastfully, relieved and joyful. “Ah, Ulthwe’s sister Craftworld? So after all of these years, she still survives and fights today. My heart sings to hear such good tidings. I see the Arch-Enemy are threatening this sector once again, but now it lies in Mon-Keigh hands. I would simply take my warriors and be rid of this place forever, if our escape routes were not blockaded and most of the Ghost Crypt fallen to the Arch—Enemy. Spirit Seer, perhaps if we joined forces against the Dark Kin and the Arch-enemy here, I would be obliged to aid your attempt to save the lesser human race still fighting upon the surface. Though I will simply say now, I shall not fight a war for you. As you pledge your forces to one conflict, so to shall I pledge mine for one battle, no more and no less.”

Iraa interjected. “Tell me, Muran, what is it about this place that makes it worth guarding for centuries? I understand that all of the Eldar lives hidden away here are a great reason enough, but is there something more to this than preserving the Eldar and the Webway gates?”

Muran nodded, his grunt grim.“During the first war for Tarmathon, the Webway within the sector became unstable, became overran. The citizens and warriors we sent toward safety never made the journey, and the only reason we knew was because a select few were able to make it back into the settlement. We were forced to destroy many of them, to protect the sector and ourselves, but the portals that were calmest, we maintained in secret, but did not dare travel through them in case they became corrupted. We were forced to go into mass cryo-stasis when one of those gates began spewing warp ether into settlement, and demons the likes we had never laid eyes upon descended upon us the moment we thought we were safest. We were not able to destroy that gate, but instead sealed it away, deep within this ruin, where even Tarianna cannot reach.”

“Lriean.” Mae whispered, her interest piqued. “Perhaps this could be what the Arch-Enemy is seeking?”

“Honored Mae,” Lriean protested. “I already said my opinion on the matter, there’s no way we can simply defeat an entire army sent to capture this place. Not to mention a second one that has always been here. Reinforcements would be days away and if what you said about a planetary invasion is coming true, there’s no way a single soldier would be redirected here to help us, not in time, at least.”

The Spirit Seer shook her head disapprovingly. “Everyone, listen to me. There is no chance of winning this war if we cannot deny our enemies their prize. I understand the odds are against us, both the vast majority of us belong to a race that has always faced the impossible and lived to tell of our deeds. And for those of you that are not, you have a planet and potentially an entire sector at risk. Aiding the last of Myriell’s populace will in turn grant their aid in a pivotal battle that I foresee is coming soon. If we cannot destroy the Arch-Enemy fighting underground, then we already have no hope of rescuing Tyrannus. If we cannot force the Dark Kin into submission, then we shall simply become victims to a fate far worse than death. As Lriean has mentioned, defeating the enemy conventionally will amount to too many sacrifices. So I propose that, with the help of every Seer available, we locate the main agitator of the events happening in this catacomb and cut the head from the writhing beast. Success or failure, we do not have the time to spare to foresee which one shall be ours this day. But we must act, none—the—less.”

“My Autarch, Seer Mae,” Kasilienesh pushed through the crowd of Warlocks and fell onto his knees. “Long have we foreseen the disaster that is upon us. We are as dedicated as you are in bringing stability back to this part of the Galaxy. The Warlocks of Ulthwe’ are yours to command.” The rest of Kasilienesh’s comrades followed his lead and bowed similarly, reciting their allegiance.”

Aryriel fell on one knee before the warriors of Myriell. “I am unaware of my own fate, but I shall do what I can to bring us victory. My blade is yours, Mae, whatever help it may be.”

Jelann joined Aryriel in the center of the chamber. “The Inquisition will honor the alliance between our peoples. We shall fight to the last drop of human blood to defend our world and see this foe from within eradicated.”

Lriean inclined his head respectfully, a wicked smile on his lips. “And, of course, you have the wits of my crew and our expertise. This is our mission and we’ll follow it to the end, so long as we’re paid.”

Muran flipped his spear downward and thrust it into cold wraithbone, he also fell on one knee and bowed before Mae. “I owe you a debt for aiding my people. You could have turned your back on us, in order to save the lives of your own. However you may fight today, I promise my warriors shall fight with two fold the strength against your enemies above. I look forward to entering combat once more, beside you.”

The elder Spirit Seer glanced around the chamber, noticing that each of Muran’s assembled warriors were similarly bowed before her. “The hand of Fate is random indeed, to reward us with such a reunion. It is a shame that it must be on such terms, but at least we may fight alongside each other, as in days of old. It is settled then. Lriean, Jelann, and Qunalan, assemble the Imperial Expedition, ready them for battle. Everyone else shall be fighting with Myriell’s Warhost, which we are still unsure of their current numbers.”

“Five thousand in total,” Muran quipped immediately. “We should have reached forty percent full functionality, so that is two thousand warriors available to fight right now, with support, of course. I am confident in the numbers we already possess for the current mission. I do not want to commit my entire force to this battle, anyway, or I would risk complete destruction.”

Mae nodded in agreement. “Then we must make do. Let us prepare for war.”
 
#53 ·
The Bridge of the Leviathan writhed with unnatural flames, brought by a supernatural storm and things far more physical. The battle between the Forlorn’s Beginning and the Kabal of the Blinded Blades was fully joined. Mirathir observed hundreds of her own throwing grappling hooks over the tall barricades that brimmed with poisonous splinter rounds. Fanatic human after human climbed up the wraithbone walls in spite of the casualties they received for gaining every inch. The cultists answered with numerous, withering volleys of laser fire while other weapons attempted to swat anti-gravity vehicles swarming the skies.

Raiders filled with half naked Dark Kin passed overhead in quick sweeps, each one unloading an entire squad of gladiatorial Wyches into the midst of the charging cultists. Reavers swept down on their jetbikes, their blade vanes cleaving through bone and flesh without effort. Hellions dived into the thick of battle, impaling unsuspecting victims with their double bladed weapons. The Kabalites strode upon the still flame wreathed walls with such an arrogant confidence that Mirathir could not help be angered by their defiant bravado.

The first barricades were already near being overran and yet the Kabalite Warriors fought on with grim determination. Their bladework with daggers or even the barbs and blades of their armor far exceeded anything Mirathir could throw into them. Even her Wardja could not stand up to their martial prowess. The only thing she could rely on were her numbers and her closest allies, of course. She needed to be in that pivotal battle, destroying the new faith’s foes.

The Raven Prophet stroked her greater demon’s hair from upon her animal shaped back. “Nyst, take us in, quick and easy.” She glanced back at Theodora, who was grappling onto her for dear life. “Try not to get killed before proving your worth today.”

The Greater Demon shrieked an unearthly cry and broke into a thunderous charge through the loosened ranks of the Forlorn’s Beginning. Everywhere they passed, banners were raised with renewed vigor and the surrounding army surged forward. Demonic engines that noticed them made to cover their approach to the battle, the shells of Defilers and Forgefiends ripping through Dark Eldar skimmers that passed too close to their commander. The battlefield was already littered with over a thousand fallen from the Chaos ranks. Mirathir could not tell how many had died behind the barricades, but she knew the enemy was bleeding. That was good enough for now.

Mirathir pointed through the gap in placed purposefully between the walls. “Between the barricades!”

The shadow of the barricades had fallen over them by now. Splinter fire tore into the assaulting ranks of the Forlorn’s Beginning, tearing them from the walls with precise volleys. More and more came on to join the fateful few that had already made it over the top. The vast majority of Dark Lance turrets had been ripped from their emplacements by the claws of Defilers. The enemy soldiers fighting up there were vulnerable now.

The Centaur creature merely shook her head, slowing into a half gallop. “I must decline your order, Master, it is certain death for you.”

Mirathir stubbornly kicked her mount like a horse. The Demonic entity did not seem amused. “And it is certain death for my entire army if the Dark Kin continue to hold it. We must lead the charge where the fighting is thickest if any of these men are going to follow me further. Theodora and I can defend ourselves. Now go, I command you!”

Nyst snorted derisively, her throat filling with mocking laughter. “It is your lives.”

The Dark Kin had built small metallic stakes some feet within the gate, large enough to impale a number of inhuman beasts should the enemy be smart enough to deploy them. They were untouched, surrounded only by a floor filled with dead cultists that had attempted to breach the defense. The Cultists that had shied away from the killing zone began to amass once again at the sight of their commander marching towards it. The Bringer of the White Flames, they called her. A champion of the four to wield such power. Forward. Mirathir shouted over the den of battle and Nyst led the charge. The screams of hundreds of blade wielding cultists over took the razor edged cries of the Dark Kin as they rushed in after her.

There were no Dark Eldar defending the barricades between the walls. Instead there stood a phalanx of pallid skinned, half naked monstrosities that looked as if they had been stitched together over and over. They braced against each other in a wall of corpse—like beings, holding their cleavers and hooked blades in anticipation for the fight to come. Mirathir extended her hands to form another bubble shield that encompassed Theodora and her in its sapphire aura. Acid spewing weapons were unleashed as the Greater Demon they rode literally smashed aside the first row of stakes in her way.

Nyst actually shrieked at the touch of the liquid and her impregnable hide came sloughing off on the tough, scaled surface. The result was worst for the Cultists that had followed her in there, fully aware that they were going to die terrible deaths for a greater reward. Exposed skeletons covered in liquefied remains tumbled to the ground wherever these weapons struck and in vast amounts. The Demonic Champion opened her fanged maw and vomited forth a stream of liquid warp flame. The phalanx writhed and shrunk backwards as the first half a dozen ranks in the center of the formation writhed as they burned alive.

The Wardja and the Forlorn’s Beginning charged through the gap, hacking down any survivors as they pushed through the warp fire. They collided into the line of Wracks with a force that left something to desired, some bounced off of the wall of pallid muscle, others just hacked and hacked trying to spill as much blood as they could. The Wracks answered with slow but precise attacks, pushing their way into the human wave breaking against their bulk.

Theodora weaved her hands of possession and drove dozens among the chemically enhanced specimens to such heights of frenzy that some could simply not be stopped. They threw their comrades around as if they were sacks of wheat, their blades lopped and severed until their armor was covered in unnatural gore.

Lightning crackled and spat from Mirathir’s free hand, striking Kabalites amassing on the battlements that overlooked the assault. A handful simply exploded with direct hits, others suffered fatal burns or electrocution. She kept the shield strong in the other hand, reflecting a storm of splinter fire desperately trying to claw them down.

Nyst waded into the battle despite the horrific acid wounds across her lower body. Her mighty talon claws on her feet came crashing down, maiming and crushing anything it could swipe beneath it. Her hands tore open flesh sacks filled with potent toxins, causing her to hiss in frustration. Warp flame continued to spill from her mouth, immolating dozens that charged into her, attempting to hack into her wounds.

“Master!” Nsyt roared over the chaos. “I sense a familiar smell approaching!”

Mirathir scowled. “Imperials?”

“No.” The Demon bellowed with laughter. “Something far more recent, coming straight for us.”

“Xehia!” Mirathir shouted, twin streaks of lightning cutting through the skies toward the Venom Chariot speeding towards her. “Die already!”

One of the blasts missed its mark, the other blinked from existence as it smashed against the chariot’s flicker field. The skimmer opened fire with its splinter cannon, punching into Nyst’s upper body and causing her to reel back several steps. As the vehicle swept to the right, Mirathir picked out several warriors in heavily marked and modified armor, carrying an assortment of weapons that looked far more menacing then what the average Dark Kin should be wielding. She had heard of these ‘Trueborn’ before, a branch of the warrior elite from Commorragh.

Xehia’s laughter wafted over the screams of battle as the Venom suddenly pulled over the Greater Demon. The Dracon leapt away from her bodyguard, wicked glaive shimmering in sickly green light as she flicked the activation rune. She slipped through the shield of sorcery the moment Mirathir was able to stand on her feet. Xehia caught Mirathir with her elbow, dodging Thedora’s fireball and managing to dissect her neatly in two before falling into the thick of the melee battle with the Raven Prophet caught in her arm. Theodora’s torso fell away without a word, Mirathir felt her anguish overtake her, blocking out the pain from falling onto one her cultists, Xehia’s full weight atop of her.

Xehia took the Raven forcefully by the jaw with belied force, moving into a position to snap her neck. Her grip was harder than the caress of iron around the wrists, no doubt fueled by combat drugs. The Wracks fighting around her suddenly doubled in their efforts, pushing to form a clear space for their archon to perform without hindrance. The Dracon’s voice came out in an agonizing sound, her helm cutting into Mirathir’s ears like a sharp knife. “You should have taken me up on my offer, you would have lived much longer that way. Perhaps a couple more days in my collection. Perhaps I will just take your eyes and regrow you? That sounds like a fine idea.” She cackled maniacally, holding Mirathir’s rebelling face in her hand even as she raised a pair of fingers to the fallen Eldar’s eyes.

Mirathir spoke a few words in diabolic and her fingers pushed out with irresistible force, throwing Xehia into the nearest Wrack and leaving gashes on Mirathir’s cheeks. The Dracon snickered defiantly and rolled to her feet in a quick roll. The power weapon in her hand crackled and snapped, she gave the glaive a few swings. “I did not think it would be that easy. I wonder how good your swordplay is.”

A Wrack leapt backwards behind a savage elbow from his commander, Xehia snorted, and then waltzed through the gap between her and Mirathir. She swung upwards in a half—hearted strike, one that Mirathir could easily dodge. She followed up with two more attacks, each one faster than the last. The Trueborn stared on in silence as the Raven sidestepped the second strike and blocked the third with a psychic shield. “Not bad, but incredibly boring.”

Mirathir allowed floating runes to swarm over her right hand, she drew her ceremonial sword from its scabbard and white flames rushed up the blade at her touch. The runes carved into it glowed with a blackened aura, promising death to those who touched it. Without speaking another word, she pushed forward with her shield hand, pushing Xehia back several steps before she leaped away from Mirathir’s reach. Xehia slipped away from a second attempt to drive her back and answered with a flick of her blade, flying playfully just beyond reach of Mirathir’s midriff.

Mirathir spat onto the bridge, smiling her disappointed look. “Have you come to play games after all? This is no way to win a battle.” She lifted her hands and geysers of white flame sprung from them, engulfing Xehia in a torrent that was impossible to dodge.

“I have a gift especially for you.” The flames receded, leaving only the murky darkness of an activated shadow field where the flames had struck. Mirathir could not peer through the flickering field, but the howling shriek that emitted from it sent her onto her knees with her hands clutching at her bleeding ears. A winged entity shot through the shadow field and flew over the battle, Mirathir thought it would leave after a moment of lingering. Yet it sensed her psychic mind and instantly rerouted back towards her.


The physical essence of the Arch Angel shimmered into nothing, but the presence remained. The pain of a demon attempting to invade her mind sent the Raven Prophet screaming helplessly. She could only reinforce the gates to her mind, she could only resist against this powerful force. She glanced up with gritted teeth, catching Xehia standing there with her weapon lowered, watching curiously. Mirathir screamed louder, Xehia spun on her heel, and then disappeared into the throng of her Wrack servants.
 
#54 · (Edited)
Beyond the Bridge of the Leviathan, the last fortress of the Dark Kin within the Ghost Crypt was proud and unbent. Most of Xehia's guards marched off to war in her defence, but a choice few chose to remain behind, observing the battle from afar. At the foot of the Leviathan’s bridge, sits a sealed vault, large enough to hide away a massive vortex leading into the myriad depths of the web way. The stench of ozone lingered over the sealed entrance, growing thicker with every passing hour. The Dark Kin remember what awaits on the other side. Something dark, terrible, and thirsting for souls. None of the remaining guards realize their fate until it is far too late. They do not flee from conflict or scream in fear, but gather at the gates. One last phalanx formed for their lord and Dark city.

The brilliant light of the web way swirled and crackled into life, it shone through the cracks of the closed vault. The earth trembled beneath their feet, quietly at first, but now the ground is shaken by the rumblings of something far beyond mortal comprehension. The vault trembles. The light now burst from the seams. The doorway that has been locked for over a millennia threatened to give way. Then… there is a choir of voices intoning as one, ethereal and malevolent, rising up in vicious howls and war cries.

The Lady of the Tower spoke and the vault is undone. The explosion obliterates flesh, armor, and wraithbone. There is no screaming, only the sound of souls being silenced forever. Those few loyal warriors that remain fire their splinter weapons with wild abandon into the pulsing waves of blinding white light. Their howls go unanswered, but shadows begin to emerge from the web way gate. First there are three, twelve, four dozen, and then a hundred. Massive, centaur like creatures with bodies of humanoid females fused with the bodies of lions and reptilian creatures. Each one is a looming creation of long fangs, sharp claws, long talons, and liquid fire breathing maws.

The Web way portal is large enough to fit an Eldar titan with little room to spare, but the Lady of the Tower slipped through without effort, nearly as tall as a Wraithlord. A sapphire skinned giantess that stood on two hooves, impossibly slender as an Eldar, the musculature and physiology of an Ork, and the cruel majesty and features of a Queen amongst demons. The right side of her chest, waist, and left leg were cloaked in a pure white garment, inlaid with gold and inset with emeralds and sapphires. Her left breast was covered by a long column of raven hair, penetrated by a pair of long, curving horns that jutted from her forehead. She commanded three demonic relic blades in three lithe arms, the fourth held up a great spell tome, crackling with eldritch power. And her eyes, they were as hollow and dark as oblivion.

The Lady of the Tower raised her three blades in the air and eldritch lightning struck from each of them. The pitiful guards of the tower are annihilated one by one, their souls feasted upon. When all are dead, the centaur horde is finally unleashed.

NOTE: Edited that last part, tense usage should now be more uniform :p.
 
#55 ·
I loved this read. Though one thing seemed a bit odd. I mean
And her eyes, they were the darkness that lurked within the soul.
I would have taken a page from Conan the Bsrbarian and said the void between the stars instead of soul, but thats me.
 
#56 ·
Thanks, Beavis, always good to hear from you:). I will look into changing that sentence with something else :grin:.
 
#57 ·
Chapter Eight: Final Countdown

Governor Bastien Nikolaou sighed in resignation, somberly watching his Capital writhe in a thousand infernos across a hundred levels of his hive city, Helike. The orbital dockyards in the sky were raining down across Tyrannus in pieces. The Thousand Sons armada loomed over the besieged planet from twisted and bruised skies, as if the collective gaze of some apathetic God, content to allow an entire planet to burn. The skies were filled with thousands of aerial craft, combatting each other for the fate of the planet. The situation on the ground was even bleaker than these one sided engagements.

Bastien stroked his auburn beard, spotted with grey, as he continued to watch the battle for Helike from the glassine windowpane of his Council Chambers. He spoke in his richly refined, baritone voice. “There must be another alternative, Inquisitor Arruns. I cannot accept that there is no appealing option to protect the citizens of my world, of my city! Look at her burn! This day has come far too soon! A fate that you were supposed to help this planet avoid, Inquisitor. You have failed.”

Inquisitor Arruns and his surrounding generals remained behind the tactical map of Hive Helike, bent and pouring over each facet of material as it streamed in from the battlefield. The Inquisitor grunted in dissatisfaction. “This battle is not over yet, Governor Nikolaou. Though it is regrettable, protecting your palace is the most essential key to winning this siege. The Thousand Sons are certainly attacking Helike to ensure they sever the governmental head from the rest of Tyrannus. Helike has already fallen into chaos, her regiments are scattered and trying to defend whatever they can manage. A full scale demonic invasion is sweeping through the upper city and is threatening to surround us overnight. And the Thousand Sons are clearing a landing zone too close to the Palace for comfort. We must rally whatever resources we can and defend the fortress to the last man, Governor, and that is the bleak truth.”

One of Tyrannus’ P.D.F. Commanders grunted his approval. “The Inquisitor is correct, if planetary leadership falls so early in this siege, Tyrannus will not last much longer. The palace must hold at all cost. A fact made more feasible if the Order of the Emperor’s Grace would send their reinforcements from Gythium.”

Arruns pressed a finger onto the holographic interface of the map and zoomed in on the Adeptus Sororitas Fortress Monastery. “Any word on what is holding them up?”

Bastien scoffed. “I have received a couple of hails, their Canoness and taskforce has yet to arrive from a heretical hunt somewhere in the Hive, Inquisitor.”

Arruns looked up from the tactical map, immediately alert. “Governor, when were you going to say anything about this?”

“I just assumed that—“

“Never mind,” Arruns quipped. “Someone get a Tech—Adept in here and several servitors! Lord Commander!” He called from over his shoulder as he strode toward the Council Chamber doors. “Take over the defense of the palace walls, gather every spare soldier you can and ready the defense. Acolyte Alaric, assemble my personal entourage and enough transports to move an army across the city.”

Two of the Governor’s personal elite slammed shut the chamber doors behind the Inquisitor and his hurried Acolyte. Alaric had been dissecting emergency broadcasts and tedious information for the better part of three hours. Arruns had to give the man his due, he worked well under pressure. Alaric snapped off his comm. link and addressed his superior. “My Lord Inquisitor, I have just received word about Captain Justilius…”

“About him?” Arruns snorted, aghast. “What about from him?”

Alaric shook his head. “He’s dead, Arruns, his Battle Barge was annihilated by the Thousand Sons armada. However, he tasked three Sundered Legion marines with the bringing back of several important heretical rogues before he was killed. I believe you gave them orders to take these individuals into custody? They have teleported back onto palace grounds and our awaiting further orders.”

Arruns cursed beneath his breath, he did not have any time for this. “Send an escort to take the prisoners into our custody and put them in the dungeons. Tell those Astartes that they should report to the palace walls and defend it to the last man.” He paused in his orders for a split second. “Are there any Eldar still here?”

“Just one, sir.” Alaric hissed. “She killed a servant, apparently and was relocated to the dungeon.”

Arruns replied, “Who was the superior of that servant?”

“Uhh… Philemon Demarchis, sire.”

“Well,” The inquisitor bubbled with grim laughter. “Philemon is a heretic, so technically, that Eldar did us a favor. Send someone to go fetch her and send her to me, I could still have use of that alien. I will be at the armory to collect my things.”
 
#58 ·
The torture that went on below the darker chambers of the Governor’s palace had swiftly come to a standstill. Stark white light flooded Taryi’s isolated cell, reflected from porcelain tiles polished enough that her reflection glared back at her. She sat on an uncomfortable bed, her knees pulled up to her chest as she observed her mirror mirage. In the far corner of the room was a gothic dress, discarded and thrown aside for a plain black jumpsuit. She soaked in the recycled air into her lungs, as she had for several days.

There was bright red blood plastered around one wall, where chains and restraints dangled uselessly. Taryi stared at the congealed liquid, her eyes downcast with regret and sorrow. Why had she slain that pitiful little human? Why was Philemon’s business even more important to her? All she could think of was Kasilienesh’s last words to her, about the removal of her war mask. Perhaps her spirit was controlling her body, making her flail blindly in an attempt to rekindle the endless rage she had drew so deep upon. Now all she could feel was remorse and an overwhelming sense of stoniness and empathy.

Her breaths came to her in calm inhalations. The chill, dank air tingled on her pallid skin. And she could hear herself think for once. Not of war, murder, and pride, but her forgotten family back on Teyl-Jhen. The time she used to fight the young men when she was but a child. The end of her intimate relations with Qunalan. Contemplation was becoming her friend over anger. It was as if her mind was filling her in on everything she had seen, but could not really see.

A sharp buzzing sound snapped Taryi from her reverie, she turned towards the door as the metal slab slipped away from its locks. A young human male leaned in from the hall outside, dressed in the clothes of one of the Inquisitor’s acolytes. The boy appeared hesitant and regretful of his sudden entrance, but he cleared his throat and stepped into the bright light.

“Alien.” He said. “You must come with me. Inquisitor’s orders.”

The Howling Banshee made no move, but glared at the acolyte inquisitively. “I am being executed, human?”

The boy simply laughed, awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Uhm, no. However, we must go quickly. You’ll understand once you are before the Inquisitor.”

Taryi slowly came to her feet, popped several bones, and made to walk past the acolyte. She whispered a scathing warning as she stepped by him. “I hope I will not have to kill him.”

***​

Out of all humankind, the worshippers of the Machine God struck fear in Taryi the most. They were horrific creations, born from the melding of primitive technology and sacrificial flesh. The Eldar possessed similar arts, but were more elegant and free for the brave souls to fight and do as they wish, though what they wished to do was very little. She continually came across human bodies that had been severed from their enslaved minds, now fully dedicated to the menial tasks and labor that a simple A.I. would be capable of doing.

The elevator shut down to a halt. The grating along the doors slid away and revealed a noisy cacophony of the Astra Militarum’s vast armories. The vast complex was dimly lit and stunk of oil and gasoline, plasma fluid and furnace flames. Hundreds of robed semi-machine humans milled between uncountable stockpiles of weapons and armor. Massive mechanical arms moved across the chamber, building other machines and hauling supplies. The darkness that draped the armory was peeled back in some places by blazing forges, and in others with storms of large sapphire sparks. In the distance, tanks and other vehicles were being pieced together on a complex conveyor belt.

The human called Alaric indicated that Taryi follow and merged into the bustling crowds of Tech—Adepts. Faces congealed with machinery glared back at her with compassionate hatred, red lenses and augmented eyes sized her up as if an inferior being. One look at the inquisitor’s acolyte sent them hurrying away, too afraid of facing the organization’s wrath. The pair walked deeply into the vaults, where the light was a fraction brighter and the machine arms twice as loud.

Two Tech—Priests surrounded Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius on either flank, performing sacraments and rituals as several other minions worked on doning him in an ornate suit of armor. The entire suit was silvers and obsidians, with some splashes of polished gold from the décor. A large weapon was strapped or built into one of the gauntlets, doudle barreled and connected to a large ammunition feed. Four machine minions were required to keep a large thunder hammer from falling to the ground. The blunt ends of the weapon were stainless steel, engraved with scripture that Taryi could not read.

Arruns caught wind of their approach, his gaze bore down on them through a ceramite helmet with a chrome finish and bright blue visor slits. His voice thundered alongside the machinery, amplified by mysterious means within his armor. His laughter struck her like a fist to the gut. “So she comes at last. Taryi, is it not? Well met, it has been a while since we have last seen each other.”

Taryi skipped to the point. She felt uncomfortable amongst all of these robed priests and walking armored suits. “What is to be my punishment, Inquisitor?” She fell to her knees. “I have sinned against you and drew blood in your own palace. I went against your command and my own pledge to aid you in any way I could. I placed myself in your hands without conflict.” She searched the Inquistor’s concealed stare, as if what she was about to say would pain her. “All that I ask is that you spare my life. I am not ready to pass from this world, not yet.”

Arruns scoffed, but indicated that she rise. “Please stand, my friend. I must say that I am a little disappointed in you, Taryi. You should know never to ask an Inquisitor for mercy.” He paused as he considered his next words. “Philemon Demarchis is a traitor. Thanks partly to you, we found that out before she could depart this system and make fools out of the Inquisition. There will be no punishment for slaying a heretic on the Emperor’s sacred soil.”

Taryi cocked her head slightly, her expression troubled. “Then why did you summon me here?”

The machine minionis offered the Inquisitor the thunder hammer when the priests signaled that they had finished their work. Arruns took the massive object and laid it upon his shoulder similar to a child waving a toy. “Do you remember your bodyguards that kept you safe when you were first here? Lyra Savakis and Arva Liatos? Well, they and hundreds of their sisters, including their entire order’s commander, are fighting for their lives somewhere in the upper city. There’s also a demonic incursion transpiring in the nobles’ quarter and I must retrieve my allies before they can be overwhelmed.

“I have a good team of bodyguards, brave and skilled men who would lay down their lives for me whenever I come under threat. But I have a feeling that I will need just about everyone I can muster to my side. Lriean has told me a good deal about you, he says you’re a great warrior. So does Kasilienesh. I could use your help, Taryi. Help me bring back Canoness Anatolijus and your friends. Do that and I shall give you not only an official pardon, but a great reward worthy of an Inquisitor to you and your team. I have noted that your search for treasure has left a little to be desired.” Arruns chuckled at his last sentence.

Taryi’s cheeks flushed cherry with embarrassment. “I am not used to the human way of war. I fear that I shall be useless to you.”

Arruns hefted his pauldrons in an over exaggerated shrug. “Then fight as the warrior women of your people, the Howling Banshee personified.” He stepped aside to allow an adept to take his place, holding up a suit of sleek, alien armor and a double bladed pole arm in a bundle of rich cloth.

“You’ve modified it.” Taryi stated emotionlessly. She took the Executioner and shoved it into Alaric’s hands. Then she reverently grasped her armor and held it up for full examination. There were much more vibrant and decorated robes weaved around the waist, leggings, and chest plate of the armor. Beneath them, Taryi could see thin plates of reinforcing silver ceramite that coated the limbs, ribcage, and legs. That explained the reason behind the heavier weight. “You shouldn’t have.” A warm smile crept onto her lips. She was prepared to take up the blade again and see what her body had gained from her period of rest. “Very well, I will fight with you against the forces of chaos, inqu-“

“Arruns, please.”

“Inquisitor.” Taryi finished. “When do we depart?”

Arruns set the pace back towards the armory entrance. “I still have a dozen guards arming themselves, but the force I am taking will be mostly ready by the time we arrive at the dockyards. Let us move swiftly and rescue our dear friends at once.”
 
#59 ·
“Lord Inquisitor,” The static laced voice of a Valkyrie pilot came through the speakers toward the back of the aerial craft. “We’re approaching our destination. No resistance in the air, good tidings for getting our lads on the ground.”

Arruns remained strapped into his seat in the hull of his personal transport, Flight of Grace. A small team of five Tempestus Scions and four humans clad in archaic armor and shields shared the ship with Taryi and himself. He barked at the comm. system. “Give me an image feed!”

Taryi leaned in beside him as a holographic image snapped into existence from a device along the Inquisitor’s arm brace. The scene below was one of chaos and the glory of battle. The Order of the Emperor’s Grace manned the battlements of a palace wreathed in embers, smoke, and dying flames. What remained of the complex was but a crumbling, blackened husk surrounded by a courtyard and plaza thick with the slain. There was spilt blood everyone, along the palace walls and everywhere in between, and there was still more being spilled.

Taryi estimated about seven hundred warrior nuns were in a desperate siege against the demonic forces of chaos. The demon army surrounded the entire fortress on all sides, a seething tide that clashed repeatedly against the high walls of the burnt down palace. They dashed themselves against it as if water upon stone, she saw the piles of dead left from their previous assaults, stacked high enough for a demon to nearly climb onto the battlements. Forged engines of flesh and machine converged on the weak points the defenses borne from previous fighting. A flood of ethereal creatures flooded through an entry point where the main entrance should have been.

There was intense fighting in the courtyard, raging around ruined vehicles and hastily built fortifications. The sisters manning the walls and battlements were occupied with fighting a flood of aerial borne monstrosities that fell upon them in a great swarm. Taryi wondered if Lyra was still amongst the survivors.

The pilot’s voice crackled again. “Orders, Inquisitor?”

Arruns snapped off the display and laughed grimly. “All fighter craft engage the enemy in the air, all bombers focus on ground targets. All transports, swoop in and get our friends out of here! Anyone bought here to fight, get your feet on the ground!”

The seat harnesses came off quickly and the soldiers within the Flight of Grace stood on their feet. Taryi took the opportunity to flex in her new armor, nearly the same except with a thin coat of ceramite across most of the surface. The weight increase was noticeable, bogged her down on slightly. It would be easy to work within the constraints for once, perhaps she would favor the extra protection more. She donned her banshee’s mask as the hull rampart fell open.

The noise of battle washed into the aerial craft in perfect, horrific clarity. The Valkyrie swept further over the palace and descended as close to the walls as their pilot could manage. The Tempestus Scions in front of the ramp opened fire with their modified las-guns, cutting down any winged creatures that came flying towards them. Battle worn Sororitas glanced up from their dire struggles to watch Arruns’ relief force throw themselves into the fray. Thunderbolt fighters tore into the swarms of demons in the sky, clearing the path for the rest of the larger vessels.

“Go, go, go!” The Leader of the Scions waved Arruns’ bodyguards forward toward the slowly moving battlements. One by one, the Scions leapt ono the walls of the fortress in a loose line, until Taryi’s turn came.

“Good luck.” The Inquistor raised a fist in salute. He pointed toward the four men he called ‘crusaders’. “You four, I’m following Taryi, get yourselves on the ground and fight your way up to me. Or we’ll come down to you, whichever happens first.”

The Howling Banshee gripped her executioner and suddenly rushed down the rampart. There were two furies tearing a sororitas apart where she was going to land. Taryi was already leaping through the air the moment she realized. Her two handed pole-arm twirled around in her two handed grip, cleaving through a blackened wing membrane withought effort. She bounded off her feet in a backwards somersault, dodging the second beast’s claw with the waist of a human woman gripped in its other.

Bolter fire erupted everywhere around Taryi, the atmosphere was filled with golden burst of thunder and lightning, pulverizing demonic bone and flesh all around her. Black blood arced, spraying her armor and sash. Things screamed their pitiful death screams in her pointed ears. All she saw was the pair of furies before her, one clacking along the wall, the other rising into a gliding charge.

“Teyl—Jhen!!!” The amplification of her Banshee Mask produced a furious, ear splitting cry that had her attackers shrieking in a frenzy. Taryi crossed the several feet between her and her enemies in two bounding leaps, catching the gliding fury in the belly with her double bladed executioner. She flicked the activation rune of her power weapon and the blade split open the creature without effort. Taryi side stepped the clumsy swipe of the other, spun in a one eighty movement, and brought her bottom blade up in an uppercut. A claw arm began spewing blood from where the hand fell away from the limb. She continued her strike until it reached the neck for a swift decapitation.

“Demons are coming from below the walls! Don’t let them cut us off!” The whoosh of a hammer came from behind Taryi and she spun around in time to witness Arruns pulverize a Bloodletter’s ribcage with a swing of his thunder hammer. The thing collapsed in nearly two pieces, too weak to sustain its physical form and sputtered from existence. Arruns stamped his foot into the empty space where it once lay and parried an overhead strike of another minion of Khorne. “You there!” He shouted at an injured warrior nun clutching a gash in her thigh. “Where is your commander!?”

“Anatolijus?” The warrior nun stared at the Inquisitorial rosette on Arruns’ person. “She leads the defence at the gates!”

“Damn it!” Arruns bellowed through his vox grille. “I thought she would be up here!” The rest of the Inquisitor’s bodyguard formed up around him, shooting down anything that came too close. He flicked his hammer once and took the head from a rotting creation. “Taryi, we need to get down there! We’ll have to move down the walls. Where all of these demons are coming from.”

Taryi watched a squadron of Sororitas on jump packs soar from the courtyard onto the wall. They hammered into their foe with brutal sweeps of their chain swords, blood splashing all over them as they pushed their way into the fight. “Of course, Inquisitor, I will follow.”

“Come, team!” Arruns shoved his way through the phalanx of his Scions, the Eldar maiden hurrying after him.

The Inquisitor brought his left fist up into a momentous punch that struck away a grasping hand away with several more broken bones than it once had. His hammer came roaring down and crushed the sternum of a demonette. His scions covered his confident gait as he strolled across embattled walls. Unarmored creatures collapsed in waves against their fine shots, until a stairway revealed itself.

Arruns shrugged. “Aliens first.”
Taryi was not certain what he meant by that, but she had been away from battle for far too long. Her blood was pumping in rush through her veins, her heart was practically leaping in her throat. She relished the challenge of a close quarters combat. She sprung into the stairway without another word, plummeting into shadows barely lit by artificial torches along walls of unadorned steel.

The roar of bolt pistols echoed within the hallowed halls, the roar of chain swords and the screams of the dying joined them. Taryi slipped into a widened corridor where gunners could open fire on enemies outside the wall. Several sororitas were defending themselves against a dozen demons of different gods. There were few corpses, several humans that had perished mere moments before.

Taryi kicked off her feet in a momentous charge, slamming shoulder first into a pulse filled Plague Bearer and sending it sprawled onto the ground. She ducked beneath a diagonal strike of a hellish blade and cut upwards, leaving a weeping gash on a Bloodletter’s chest. Another demon meant to round past the wounded servant of Khorne, but the beast roared in defiance, incidentally cracking bone with a flail of its arms.

Taryi leapt aside of the overhand strike that followed, twisted on the flat of her feet, and thrust with all of her might through the open maw of the demon attacking her. It stared dumbly back at her, before using its last stability and strength to slide further down the executioner to rend the fragile Eldar apart. More humans rushed in behind her. The creature’s face was blasted apart by precise volleys.

“Emperor cleanse your filth from his world!” A superior flicked her blade back and forth, severing several limbs and even more heads with practiced fluidity. Her other pair of compatriots unleashed round after round from their pistols, cleaving a bloody swathe through the horde now that a fraction of pressure was taken off of them. The room was filled with babbling demons, their bodies too broken to be of any kind of threat. She glanced first to the Inquisitor and then to the alien. “Thank you.” She stated, begrudged. She glanced back to the Inquisitor. “You must be searching for our commander, my lord? Take several more levels down, she should be in the courtyard. We will join you."
 
#60 ·
“Sisters!” Sister Superior Anthanasia stood beside squad Angeliki’s standard that Nomiki now kept raised. She roared from atop a mound of demonic corpses piled against the battlements. “Take heart! Reinforcements have come! If you die, make sure the Emperor does not find you wanting!”

Lyra rolled beneath a flaming sword and came up with a savage thrust of her knee into a Bloodletter’s groin. The demon screamed amusingly, but she cut off its wail with an arched sweep of her chainsword. The head rolled away into the swirling melee. She cursed beneath her breath as another aerial creature swept down from the skies and attempted to snatch her. Alexandra was behind her a moment later, Lyra leaned away from her comrade’s bolter as it found its mark several times in the Fury’s chest. The demon ploughed headlong into the melee, knocking Alexandra and several other sisters onto the ground.

Hesper was suddenly given a clear view and she hefted her melta gun toward a throng of foes surmounted over the wall. The weapon powered with a hellish glow before unleashed a torrent of superheated energy into the enemy. The creatures fell in pieces before her, but still the foe came forward for more punishment. Thea and Arva covered their recovering comrades with another strafe of their bolters, riddling anything that came too close with crater sized wounds.

The Repentia and Seraphim fought on as well. Eviscerators and Inferno pistols shed blood and immolated together in a righteous song of battle. Superior Maria ascended into the air with several dozen other sisters and brought gory death to the winged monstrosities dominating the air. Yet each time they came back to the earth, their would be several less still amongst the living.

Mistress Oria continually assembled more reinforcements from her Repentia to throw back into the fray. They fought everywhere within the foretress, painting its walls with fresh blood and viscera. Few demons could match the momentous strikes of their two handed Eviscerators. Wherever they went, demon blood was shed and it poured amongst the battlements in an unending tide.

“Nomiki!” Thea darted across the wall and leapt into the air, chainsword held overhead. “Move aside!” Her blade came flashing down. The teeth whirred. Skull fragments and lilac skin sprayed everywhere as Nomiki dropped onto her knees, standard still in hand.

“The bastards just keep coming!” Alexandra spun into Lyra’s guard as Lyra spun into the empty space she left. Her chainsword parried a crab—like claw, pushed it away, then then came back down to slash across the lithe creature’s right leg. The thing shrieked and cartwheeled backwards into Lyra’s clubbing death blow.

A Thunderbolt fighter craft banked hard, its weapons unleashing a withering torrent of fire that cut down anything in front of it. Another swept down from another angle and did likewise. Creatures were falling from the skies, left and right, splattering across the stainless steel battlements. Just more casualties in this bloody war.

Nomiki leaned over the lip of the wall and thrust with her banner, the sharpened pole end crushed through another demonic creature clinging onto a firing slit for dear life. “I think they mean to extract us.”

“I hope so!” Lyra shouted as she parried a hellblade, spun in a circle, and brought her blade down to cut into an exposed waist. “Because there is no winning this battle!”

“Careful, new blood!” Thea shouted in laughter. “If we weren’t fighting for our lives, the Superior would have you flogged for blasphemy!

There was a flash of brilliant pinkish light behind Lyra, she twirled around with her blade pulled across her chest. A bluish skinned creature with many mouths stared back at her, spewing flames from its dozen maws. The Flamer attacked before she could even react. One moment she was standing in her defensive stance, the next she was engulfed by warp flames. The heat was substantial, she could feel her skin slowly cooking underneath her armor. She could not hold back a chilling scream as the flames meant to engulf her.

“Lyra!” Anthanasia raised her bolt pistol and emptied her clip into the creature. Still the flames came on, in spite of its unnatural cries. Arva and Thea answered with another volley of fire that finally brought the creature low. It’s body sputtered weakly as flames consumed it. She ran towards the still smoking spot that her sister was. “Lyra!”

There was a wheezing cough and the fanning of a gauntlet that cleared the lingering tendrils of smoke from Lyra’s form. She was on one knee, her armor blackened completely from the front, warped in some places. Her robes were nothing but tatters and cinders, but she still moved. She was still alive.

“I am alright, Superior.” Lyra coughed sporadically. “I think.”

Anthanasia opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden transmission cut her off. The Canoness’ voice came through, clear and authoritative. “All units! Reinforcements have arrived with our means to escape this cursed place. Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius has his troops in position for us to begin a withdraw. All units on the battlements, fall back to the transports! I repeat, fall back to the transports! Be quick, if you are too slow to make the withdraw, you are on your own!”

“All units.” Another voice came. “The Repentia will continue fighting to last woman standing. Hurry and leave this place!”

Anthanasia sighed with relief, she addressed her squad with a finger pointed toward the aerial craft sweeping in. “Squad Angeliki, fighting retreat! Fighting retreat! Alexandra and Hesper, help sister Lyra to the transports! Let’s move!”

Angeliki hurriedly moved past their Superior, whom waved them down into the walls. Other squad leaders were doing likewise, even as the Repentia continued their fight as best they could. The fight was already turning against them the moment that some of the sisters disappeared toward safety. Furies descended upon them with renwed fury, plucking them from the wall as if they nothing more than small rabbits.

Thea and Arva descended into the dark chambers of the estate walls. The tides of battle were immediately blotted out here. Yet there was always the nearby roaring of demons. They readied their bolters as she came into a narrow corridor. Demonic entites surged from another hall into the teeth of their guns. Bolter casings slammed onto the floor in rapid succession. Leaping Demonettes were cut down, but more leapt through the storm of fire.

Alexandra and Hesper dropped their charge and entered the fray with their blades purring. Hesper mistepped and a Demonette swept her feet out from under her with belying strength. A demonic claw found her neck and snapped close before she could even scream. Blood erupted onto the whooping creature before bolters could send it back into the other plane. Hesper writhed on the floor for only a moment before Thea gifted her with the Emperor’s peace.

“Be more cautious, sisters. This is where we are most vunerable.” Was all Anthanasia had to say. She quickly charged sister Stheno to aid Alexandra with carrying Lyra.

Through the winding corridors, Angeliki proceeded. More demonic entities leapt at them from the shadows, but bolter fire constantly thwarted their attack. Other squads were making progress alongside them from different and similar paths all at once. The interior of the walls was filled with all manner of battle and screaming as the factions vied to cut through each other.

“Watch out!” A random sister called as she charged at a huge beast of the Blood God headlong.

The creature was more lithe and graceful than the average Bloodletter, its gaze alight with a malefic intelligence that far outweighed its other ravaging ilk. It had a black brand across its chest and a long, blazing blade that dissected the sister’s head from her shoulders with one half—hearted blow. Behind the beast was one of the many gateways that led out into the courtyard. There was a mound corpses at his feet of those who had tried to gain access to it beforehand.

“Stand back!” Anthanasia cried. She stepped to the front of the squad. “Give us some room! This one is mine!”

The Herald of Khone howled with scathing laughter, mocking the bravado of his new opponent. It spoke in common gothic with an accent that had everyone human flinching in pain. “Come then, little human. One more skull for my lord’s throne!”

The Herald stomped its hooves onto the cold metallic floor and lowered its horns in a swift charge. Anthanasia rolled aside, her bolt pistol firing into the creature’s exosed flank with abandon. The Herald pulled up short from colliding into the other members of Angeliki, apparently a notion of honoring the duel between him and their Superior. He shook off the pain from the wounds blasted onto his left thight.

This time he came on in a normal advance. His long blade clashed against the whirring teeth of Anthanasia’s chainsword. Hot sparks showered her power armor as she attempted to push the blade away. The Herald’s strength was overpowering, with a squeeze of his bulging muscles her own chainsword came a fraction away from cleaving into her own armor. Anthanasia dropped her bolt pistol and gripped her sword with two hands.

The Sister Superior immediately rolled away, out from under the Herald’s blade, but the creature was upon her again in a moment. It howled with unbridled bloodlust. Chainsword and Hellblade clashed repeatedly, peeling back the shadows with cascading light. Anthanasia spun and weaved with every one of her strikes in order to avoid a terrible death. The demon of Khone simply laughed, amused.

The Herald stomped a hoof into the ground and the entire floor quaked beneath Anthanasia’s feet. Already made weak from fighting, she collapsed in a heap, but rolled onto her feet just as quickly. She side—stepped an overhead strike and ducked beneath the creature’s massive arm and into its guard. The demon reared up, its shrill scream promising violence as monomelcular teeth sliced through skin and muscle around the ribcage, driking deep of blood. It continued to howl for long seconds until it began laughing once again. A massive knee connected into Anthanasia’s ribs and sent her spiraling away.

Anthanasia rolled across the floor, her helm knocked away her bolt pistol another foot away. Feeling the Herald’s feet thunder towards her another time, she swept up her sidearm, turned onto her shoulder, and emptied what remained of her clip into the beast’s groin. The herald roared in fury, compelled by an unholy power that isolated any notion of pain its body. It raised its sword in a downward slant and thrust home for the kill.

Anthanasia could not even close her eyes when a brilliant blue flash blinded her. She heard a piece of a blade clatter onto the ground and when the light subsided, there was an alien creature that guarded her prone body. The Eldar female twirled effortlessly around a clumsy, clutching hand, leapt high over antoher and onto the outstretched arm. She leapt again from the creature before it could swat her like an ant, landing on one knee behind the Herald. Her double bladed pole-arm came through the creature’s ruined groin, sending electrical jolts of agony through the outmaneuvered demon.

The Herald collapsed to his knees. Something or someone moving in heavy power armor sprinted into the corridor, wielding a massive Thunder Hammer in both hands. The man within let rip a thunderous roar, the hammer swung, and a demonic skull expoloded across the entire chamber. The body fell to the ground.

There was an Inquisitorial Rosette embedded into the suit of power armor that had saved squad Angeliki from total annihilation. An Inquisitor then. Lyra watched the Inquisitor help her commander to her feet, addressing them all as he did so. “Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius, at your service. If I were you, I would hurry to the nearest evac. transport and get the hell out of here! Understood?”

“Understood, my lord.” Anthanasia inclined her head in grateful thanks. Her voice came out in breathless gasps. “Angeliki, move out.” She paused to regard the Eldar female. “I did not expect to find you here in all places, Taryi. Lyra and Arva have told me much about you. I am glad that at least some of that appears to be true.”

Taryi inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.

“Taryi, go with Angeliki.” Arruns ordered. “Make sure they are not cut down by anything else. If you happen to make it back to the Imperial Palace, then I will seek all of you out there. Now go!”
 
#61 ·
The fighting in the courtyard was unlike any other fight Anatolijus had ever experienced in her long career. Just beyond the wall of sandbags that her Celestian and Retributor squads continued to defend, a demonic horde was sweeping toward them like a maelstrom of death. The Canoness had paused in giving orders, every sister under her command had singular purpose: purge the demon. She was content to witness the retribution brought by a hundred multi-melta and bolter weapons, flamers and heavy bolters that pushed the seething storm back towards the breach in the gate.

The demonic host continued to advance across a field of corpses left from the previous battle and a score of their own to meet their enemy. Close quarter fights had broken out across several sections of the defense. Dozens were dead and many more were dying. Precious human lives that she could ill afford to lose. The Canoness spared a quick glance over her shoulder to see the remaining tanks of the Imperial army pouring their own weight in fire into the advancing enemy. Just beyond them, Inquisitor Ulpius’ aerial transports swept in for quick landings.

Thank the Emperor for his salvation, Anatolijus thought with a grim smirk. Already, the Sororitas that she ordered to fall back from the fortress walls spilled from the access points of the estate fortifications. Her troops in the courtyard covered them as best as they could, but that could not save some of them. Here and there, a sister was pulled into the horde and cleaved apart. Yet the majority came on, still intact, across the gaps in the courtyard defense being opened just for their safe passage.

Gina, the standard bearer and personal bodyguard to the Canoness, finally spoke up from her hour’s long silence. “Golden Throne, do these beasts not know the meaning of numbers? If we cannot hold them here, then what can be said for the rest of Helike?”

“Do not give into the council of despair, Gina.” Anatolijus allowed herself a small smirk. “Or I will have to kill you, here and now. In truth, my sword arm is itching to show these cretins just how mortal they are before my wrath.”

Gina slowly shook her head, still in awe by the never ending horde coming towards them. “You should save your strength, Canoness. Use your sword when it can make a difference.”

The Canoness shot her standard carrier a withering look. “And when will that be, Sister Gina!? When we’re fighting the final war beside the Emperor himself?”

Gina bowed her head in apology. “I only meant that Inquisitor Arruns sought us out because there may be one more battle that is worth fighting. One that we can actually win and turn the tide of this terrible war.”

“Still your tongue or see yourself flogged by my hand!” Anatolijus hissed through gritted teeth. “There is no terrible war so long as the Emperor reaps his vengeance upon those who would see his will undone.”

Several dozen Sororitas from the battlements stampeded past them, toward the first aerial transports. By now the courtyard was filled with her own troops that were falling back. Swirling melees and point blank volleys raged across the courtyard as the Sororitas fought for every inch of space to break themselves free. The retreat was a mess, but it was the best that she could hope for given the circumstances.

A voice roared over the storm of battle, amplified by the unnatural distortions of a vox grille. “Anatolijus! Canoness!”

The canoness peeled her eyes and searched the crowds of unorderly soldiers. “Who is that calling my name so?”

There was a crackle of bluish lightning behind a pair of sisters giving support to an injured comrade. As they made to move past her, a figure, or several, stepped into the warped light. A man encased in silver and black powered armor, surrounded by a dozen Scion bodyguards. He held a thunder hammer upon his shoulder and a storm bolter built onto his left wrist. She immediately recognized Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius and sighed in halfhearted relief.

The Canoness chided under his stare. “To be rescued by a radical…”

Arruns’ gentle laugh reverberated as a boisterous shout to those that surrounded him. “It is good to see you well, Canoness, even if our long overdue reunion will pass without appreciation.”

“You have my thanks.” Anatolijus forced a polite smirk. “I suppose I am in your debt. It is a dangerous thing to owe an Inquisitor a favor.”

Arruns shrugged his mighty pauldrons. “The only one I would ask of you is to fight with me against the Thousand Sons. The bastards have sown chaos throughout the capital and the other hives. They’re preparing to launch a final attack on the Governor’s Palace. This will be our final stand, for Tyrannus and the Tarmathon Sector.”

The first aerial transports ascended into the air before streaking through the skies once again. More craft swept in to take their place, their ramparts falling early to allow in as many as they could. Tempestus Scions organized the flow onto each transport, waving on more and more troops until they could take no more. The entire rescue mission would be over soon. Anatolijus only had a few hundred sisters under her command to begin with at the second siege of this accursed fortress.

“A fitting end for such a war.” Anatolijus sighed, her fingers grazed against her temple. “I would gladly give my life in the halls of the Governor’s fortress. If that is what is required to stop this menace, then I shall sacrifice my entire army to see the Thousand Sons stopped on Tyrannus’ soil. Let us finish the evacuation, I am eager to see our real nemesis in person.”
 
#62 ·
On the battlements of the Governor’s Palace

The energies of the warp surrounded Tyrioc. Within the labyrinth of the Immaterium, there was only the presence of watching demons and the eyes of the Gods. He listened to the insane babbling of the warp creatures as they reached out for his mind. The barrier he erected around his mind was strong and held the vermin back, but he could feel their presence like an overwhelming force that threatened to shatter the inner sanctum of his mind. There were others as well, whispering his name, chanting it as some dark incantation that would bring them into the other world.

Then the warp shattered before him. Blinding white light poured through the flapping breach and engulfed him, so hot and soul cleansing that he knew this must be the end. What a premature death on the road to endless glory.

He always thought of the worst whenever he succumbed to teleportation.

The warp shattered in the blink of an eye and suddenly it was completely gone. Tyrioc spied around his surroundings even as a dozen more flashes of white light burst into reality all around him. Hulking figures encased in sapphire and gold tactical dreadnought armor, decorated in all manner or horns, spikes, and bards, emerged from each flash. Their silver bolters and crackling power fields peeled back the shadows atop the battlements of the Governor’s palace.

Hive City Helike stretched across the horizon and sloped down as a sprawling mountain range of ferrocrete, metal, and gothic architecture. Tyrioc watched huge swathes of the city collapse in unending flames and signs of battle erupt from a hundred other parts. The combined screaming of the innocent rose up into one singular pitch of agony and torture. The music of a city in its death throes played fittingly even as the final battle for the carcass of an Imperial world was already underway.

At the foot of the Governor’s Palace and upon its first gates, a legion of cultists and demonic allies waged a bitter struggle against the Imperial forces charged with its defense. It was an infantry battle more than anything, the Imperial Guard and P.D.F. had drawn up tens of thousands of soldiers to throw into the meat grinder. Tyrioc could not spare any of his Thousand Sons to fight such an unrewarding battle, but he could spot the silhouettes of Adeptus Astartes armored vehicles lending their support to the fight. Land Raiders lingered behind the hordes from beneath the shadows of lesser Titans and Knights of the traitor Mechanicus. Vindicators spearheaded a hundred charges across the frontline, demolishing hostile defenses with relentless barrages. Rhinos were lying in wait until a decisive blow could be delivered to the enemy.

That was their battle. Tyrioc had his own above the swirling chaos of lesser mortals and he would see it through.

The first Imperial troops that realized their defenses had been breached were laid to waste by precise volleys of bolter fire. Tyrioc had killed so many using his favorite weapon that he barely had to try and aim anymore. Wherever he pointed his storm bolter, men dropped with ragged holes in their corpses. The defenses upon the third tier of the fortress walls were still being organized. Hundreds of Imperial Guard swarmed about the wall, moving equipment and heavy weapons, building entrenchments and setting up kill zones. Forty terminators rushed into them like demi-gods of battle. Power mauls cracked and splintered, axes hacked through bones and flesh, and bolters swept through the increasingly chaotic crowds as they broke nearly all at once.

Automated turrets revealed themselves from high vantage points and unleashed withering salvos against Tyrioc’s bodyguard detail. Where a dozen mortal Astartes would have collapsed as smoking ruins, the Thousand Son legionnaires persevered and continued their slaughter. Those wielding assault cannons and missile pods made short work of the turret emplacements, but many more appeared to take their place.

Hydra Flakk Tanks hidden on the higher landing pads burst into motion and unleashed withering payloads of shrapnel into the skies. Drop Pods streaked through the air at impossible velocities, effectively outmaneuvering any attempt to destroy them in the air as they touched upon solid ground. They came down across the third tier in their dozens, joined by the white flashes of Thousand Son marines teleporting into the battle. A hundred bolters roared where there were once forty and reaped five times their number in deaths in the blink of an eye.

The Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons ordered their subordinates about as they unleashed spells into the enemy that came to reinforce their comrades. Bolts of eldritch lightning tore through flak and immolated the flesh that laid beneath. The horror of the Imperial Guard as they realized their doom was thick in the air, Tyrioc savored the emotions as he all but strutted across the walls. Before he could even blink, something heavy and searing punched into his armor. He grunted at the sudden force and looked down upon the blackened crater in his armor the size of his fist.

Ripples of yellowish weapon discharges lit up the night, assailing the Thousand Sons from above from every direction. The Tempestus Scions shouted and barked as they ambushed their foes. Plasma fire rained down on the traitors, punching holes through ceramite without effort, but not even that was enough to bring down a single Son of Magnus. Archaic looking transports that rumbled on four separate treads rushed in from the front and rear of the Astartes force. Gatling guns spewed dozens of ejected shell casings in moments and missiles streaked from the top of the transports, punching Tyrioc’s men off their feet.

Men and women encased in carapace plate leapt from the dozen or so transports and slipped into the half erected entrenchments wherever they were found. They were followed by hundreds of average guardsmen and P.D.F. troops, whom in turn were flanked by lumbering battle tanks. Standards were quickly hoisted by both sides and the real battle was begun.

Tyrioc screamed a wordless cry and his terminators were following hard on his heels. The lesser Astartes of his legion fell into cover wherever they could, trading fire with men, turrets, and battle tanks. He punched through a collapsed sandbag wall and stomped through a field of enemy dead. His storm bolter rattled in his ears, slaying three Scions with a pair of shells for each.

The Terminators crashed into the first line of defense before he could. Power mauls lashed back and forth, bludgeoning through carapace plate and cracking a dozen bones beneath. Whoever they touched fell screaming in unendurable agony before they were crushed into lifelessness. Tyrioc flipped his blade as a Sergeant amongst the Imperial elite leapt up to catch the Sorcerer’s sword on his own. The power fields snapped and crackled, Tyrioc easily leaned into the blow to dissect the man’s head from his shoulders.

Several multi-meltas unleashed atomizing beams of energy into a pair of terminators. Even the resiliency of the rubric curse could not save a Thosuand Son from a head pulverizing blast. The pair of bodyguards slumped over and quickly crumbled to dust. Missiles streaked into the melee and destroyed the armor of another tactical dreadnought bearing Astartes. Tyrioc was down to thirty seven of his elite.

Tyrioc unleashed a mental impulse to his other sorcerers. “Bring in the Hellbrutes and the mercenaries!”

Formations of traitor aerial craft were already sweeping in towards the battle in their hundreds. They bore the war machines of the legion: Land Raiders, Predator and Vindicator Tanks, Forge and Maulerfiends, and the infamous Helbrutes. Dozens of them were already in the process of landing across the massive battlements of the Governor’s Palace when a fusillade of weapon’s fire smashed them into pieces. Tyrioc looked up to see a fleet of Imperial fighters and transports sweep over the battle, unleashing strafes of withering firepower that engulfed the Thousand Sons’ positions. Marauder bombers swept in on the trail of destruction they left and virtually wiped out entire pockets of Legionnaires in explosions of white hot flames.

Tyrioc snorted in disgust. “Damn them, did they think it would be so easy?” He placed a finger on his comm. link. “Continue the assault! Their one trick has been played.”
 
#63 ·
I haven't forgotten about this, just letting people know :). Once exams are over this week, I'll be working on an update pronto :). We're getting very close to the end, probably two more chapters until we're completely through. Then an epilogue to wrap everything up, maybe with some thoughts on the entire thing.

So yeah, stayed tuned :grin:!
 
#64 ·
As promised, the Eldar arrive before the Imperial Expedition at the Bridge of the Leviathan...


Chapter Eight: The Forlorn Tower and The Golden City


Autarch Muran reclined in his seat onboard his personal Falcon Grav-Tank, quivering slightly from the turbulence it was gliding through. The skimmer’s interior was painted in a bright blanche light that reminded him of some hidden room upon a craftworld, near somewhere where the planet ship hummed. His helmet swept through the hull, picking out Farseer Mae, her apprentice Iraa, and the Chosen of Khaine, all shaking slightly with the vibrations of the vehicle. A number of Spirit Seers, Warlocks, and Farseers were also onboard. They were the last remnants of Myriell’s council, the survivors of the lost craftworld. Beneath their facades of calm and stoic faces, the sense of fright was written in their psyche. Everyone could feel each other’s hopes and fears, lapping at the nearest minds like a wave of raw emotion.

Muran remembered when he had felt such dread. He remembered the countless deaths that were brought upon his people, first by the Dark Kin, then finally by the warp itself. It was impossible to think that any Eldar God had foreseen these catastrophic events and aligned them perfectly for some ray of hope to shine through at this juncture. The Eldar trapped on this doomed planet had truly been alone for centuries. He would have to lead his people to create their own fate.

“Chosen of Khaine?” The Autarch breathed through his helm. The resultant voice was a blisterous distortion, yet somehow elegant despite it. He waited until the young Striking Scorpion looked him directly in the eye. “Do you believe in destiny?”

“Autarch?” Aryriel cradled his helm in his hands. To think that the Aspect Warrior could kill something just by putting it on and using an impulse from his mind. The young eldar thought on the question for a moment. Muran already knew the answer before he spoke. “No. I foolishly believed in it once. I would never do so willingly again.”

The Autuarch leaned forward in his seat, a gauntlet on his knee. “Such is the story of those chosen by Khaine. The Bloody Handed One is greedy and cruel. He offers with one hands and takes with the other. I can tell when I look upon you that you know something of loss and suffering. I can also see a strong presence of vanity, tempered by a humble spirit.

“One must believe in destiny to overcome the treachery of the Great Enemy. How can a warrior fight well when he believes that he will become damned? How can one hope for victory against an enemy so numerous and unending? Faith in the Gods alone shall suffice, for they still walk amongst us. If you are a child of Khaine, you will not think about your own life when your greatest trial arrives. Let his wrath course through you as never before, allow him to guide your hand, for he shall steer your blade when you challenge his enemies. When I allow myself to think only of sacrificing my life and the death of my foe, I become more than the mere creature I am. Destiny compels us to achieve the impossible, so for just this instance, I urge you to believe in it just this once.”

“Autarch,” Tarianna’s voice spoke over the Falcon’s inter-comm. “Our forces are approximately within twenty kilometers of the Bridge of the Leviathan. The tunnels that I have guided us through will bring us just beneath the bridge, near the Twin Gate Outpost.”

Muran’s grip tensed around the Bright Serpent, the spear tingled with a warm sensation. “You cannot give us anymore information, Tarianna?”

“The Twin Gate Outpost is beyond my reach, Autarch. There has been random debris falling into the maintenance tunnels. Analysis has determined that they are the remnants of Pre-Fall technology. The Dark Kin must be combatting a threat upon the bridge. Lastly, I am detecting a resurrection of immaterium energies leaking into some parts of the Crypts. The source is beyond my reach. That is all I can provide, your lordship, my deepest apologies.”

Farseer Mae broke the silence that followed. “I am afraid the skein cannot be read, there is a presence that is clouding our mind sight. We will enter combat as the lesser races do: blind, but prepared for anything.”

“Destiny.” Muran reminded. “It shall bring us out of the dark and preserve us. That aside though, a resurgence in immaterium contamination is a cause for concern. Surely, the Dark Kin would have noticed such a breach.”

“This Web way gate,” Iraa piped up, “that you mentioned was sealed off before this place could be overrun. Where is it, exactly?”

Muran instantly understood what the Spirit Seer meant. “Nearly twenty kilometers above us, at the Twin Gate Outpost. The seal must be broken. Our true enemies have revealed themselves.”

Another female Farseer from Myriell entered the conversation. “Then our priorities change from defeating both Dark Kin and Arch-Enemy, to destroying a Webway Gate. To think I lived for so long only to die such a meaningless death.”

Another mumbled. “Fate has a sick sense of grandiose today.”

Muran shouted over the rising chorus of panic. “It is the only way to defeat what lies beyond that gate! Destroying that Webway gate is our only option! Summon your courage, we will be in the midst of battle any moment now!”

“Warning.” Tarianna droned over the bickering Seers. “Hostile craft engaging allied forces. Autarch, you will be beyond my sight in approximately thirty seconds and counting.”

Muran waved his hand over a large dataslate carried by one of his advisors. The Bridge of the Leviathan appeared, blurred by formations of green and red arrows moving back and forth across the map.
“Squadrons Radiant Spear, Bound Serpent, and Twin Moons, engage incoming targets!”

Muran studied the holographic image intensely and feverishly hoped that he had not lost his knack for warfare.
 
#65 ·
Fire Prism Gunner Aolesh leaned forward in his seat as the Grav-Tank, Heroes of Anarith, zoomed through the exit of the mechanical tunnels. A hundred pinpoints of bluish light surrounded his vehicle as they emerged just beneath the vast Bridge of the Leviathan. Each pinpoint was a skimmer vessel of the Myriell Craftworld, divided amongst Squadrons Radiant Spear, Bound Serpent, and Twin Moons. Fire Prisms, Night Spinners, Falcons, Vypers, and Crimson Hunters poured from the tunnels and into the sickly emerald light of the cavern.

“Be careful, brother,” His brother Holesh spoke telepathically. “Hostile formations incoming. I know it’s been a couple centuries, but try not to miss, eh?”

Aolesh would have made some hissing retort about his brother’s lack of piloting skills, but realized that his steering through the tunnels was actually magnificent. “I pray for both our sakes, Holesh, that I will not.”

Aolesh could see the formations of slick, bladed oceanic craft that glimmered like serpent scales beneath light struck water, descending from above the bridge to meet them. As the Fire Prism continued to climb, the cavern ceiling blossomed with explosions and streaks of weapon discharges. There was a battle being fought here already.

Holesh called over the comm. link.. “Hold your fire… Hold… Isha’s Tears, incoming fire! We’re in range, fire away!”

The void beneath the bridge was filled with hundreds of unleashed cannon payloads as the two factions collided. Aolesh smiled, watching cutting beams of dark energy rush past through his goggles. Bluish pinpoints surrounding Heroes of Anarith suddenly burst into jade tinted spheres as holo-fields absorbed impacts. He trembled as he could hear the psychic shrieks of pilots that had already lost their crafts.

Heroes of Anarith weaved between squadrons of bladed Raider transports, at the fore of a dozen other Fire Prisms. Crystalline light from the primed cannons touched passing grav-craft and dashed them into pieces with fiery explosions. Aolesh swivelled the main turret gracefully, searching a worthy kill. As the Raiders began to fan out around the advancing Fire Prisms, he picked out a squadron of heavily modified attack craft. One look at the triple lances that blazed from their hulls was all the evidence he needed.

“Careful,” Holesh cautioned, having sensed his brother’s thoughts. “There are more hidden beneath some form of stealth shields. You’ll attract their attention. We’ll need a diversion before we tackle those brutes. I’ll call in for some support.”

Aolesh gritted his teeth, locking onto a small group of wicked jetbikes flying through the chaos. He switched the focus on the prism cannon and pulled the trigger. The magenta streak smashed squarely into the reaver champion, he disintegrated the moment the blast exploded into a bright sphere that caught several more bikes in the backlash. He smiled to himself as several of them tumbled into the darkness below.

He said. “I think we have a problem. Reaver squadrons are joining the battle.”

Holesh merely laughed. “Keep looking, little brother…”

Aolesh made to swivel the prism cannon around for another blast, but his targets were pulverised by a fusilade of heavy shuriken fire. He watched as a cloud of Reavers was slowly eaten away by nimble Vyper Jetbikes as they charged into the battle. Even more diverted from their headlong descent and began to swarm some of the vunerable eldar craft. Heavy payloads of splinter cannon fire and the occasional blast of superheated energy tore into the first teams that attempted to intercept them. The resulting explosions were large and blinding, enveloping some of the jetbikes that strayed too close.

Aolesh laughed sadly. “Impressive show for the Vipers! For the second they survived.”

Wielder of the Radiant Spear,” Holesh spoke into the channel. “Heroes of Anarith have spotted hidden squadrons of gunships lurking behind the engagement. They seemed poised to surprise us any moment now! Permission to engage with support?”

A voice came back over the channel. “Understood and granted, Heroes of Anarith. Hold off on engaging until the Crimson Hunters strike.”

“Understood.” Holesh changed channels. “All nearby Fire-Prisms, fall-in and follow our lead.”

The Crimson Hunters broke through the Dark Kin’s aerial swarms with an ease that made Aolesh jealous. He watched dozens weave through the formations of Raiders and Jetbikes just overhead. Grav-craft blossomed in sheets of brilliant flame and reaver champions were blasted from their bikes by precise strikes wherever the craft flew in number. The Kabal of the Blinded Blades must have sensed the danger they posed, entire squadrons attempted to intercept them, but regular transports and tanks could not keep up with them. Fighter craft from the Dark Kin also veered off to intervene, but were frustrated by the Wielder of the Radiant Spears’ pre-emptive steps to distract them.

“Now!” Holesh cried. The formation of Fire Prisms accelerated through the gap they created in the Blinded Blades’ defenses.

In the same moment, the Crimson Hunters found their mark on the invisible targets. There were a dozen explosions of imploding shields, followed by gouts of flame, forcing the anchored gunships to mobilize into action. The Heroes of Anarith were upon them before they could make their escape. Aolesh fired the Prism Cannon once more and speared a Ravager through the belly. The combined fire of a dozen cannons cleaved through the first squadrons even as Dark energy lances desperately tried to intercept them.

Holesh sped through the worst of the storm of fire. The Fire Prism tilted and flipped over several salvos and Aolesh destroyed another target. The Talisman of Asuryan attempted the same maneuver beside them. Both of the brother’s screamed in outrage as the Talisman’s cockpit took a direct hit and collided into a fleeing Ravager Gunship. The collision tore the Dark Kin craft into several pieces before an explosion of retinae scarring light took place behind them. The Terror of Ellune darted through the flames, but was struck from behind by a Razorwing Jetfighter and vanished into the abyss.


The Wielder of Raidant Spear’s voice came over the channels. The Implacable, engage! All remaining squadrons! This is our chance! The enemy is faltering and several paths lay open! Ignore the Dark Kin and make for the Twin Gate Outpost! Get our warriors on the ground, so that this unholy taint may be forever extinguished! Khaela Mensha Khaine be with us!”
 
#66 ·
Trueborn Azorek observed the battle at the Twin Gate Outpost devolve into wholesale slaughter from above. The venom chariot weaved through a storm of dark energy beams and speeding grav-craft, the splinter cannon mounted on the hull spitting death at the vicious demons below. He noted the sense of horror building in his heart at the mere sight of the magnificent demoness that emerged from the broken seal of the webway and reveled in the sensation while he could. On the heels of their Mistress, a small horde of centaur-like Greater Demons flooded through the broken gateway, their lower halves clad in animal fur or scales and their upper bodies, an alluring humanoid shape.

A feminine voice, razor-sharp, cut through the comm. link on Azorek’s helm. “Azorek, I need your squads on the ground, push the enemy back through the webway!”

Azorek rolled his eyes, what an obvious guise to have him commit suicide. “Of course, Lady Xehia, your will be done.” He switched the channel to the one his trueborn used. “Those of the blood! For the Dark Tyrant!!!”

The Trueborn responded with whooping and vicious war cries as several Venom Chariots suddenly descended into the chaos below. The whole picture of the battle at the Twin Gate Outpost became horrifically clear as Azorek’s chariot bobbed and dipped through formations of blockading Ravager gunships. Hundreds of slave Wracks and Kabalite Warriors were rushing in from the battle at the bridge and into the towering bastion. Within the courtyards of the fortress, where the ether spilled from the corrupted web way, the fighting had become a desperate melee.


Azorek shrieked the moment the Venoms came close enough for disembarkation. “The dark city awaits you!!!”


The foremost members of Squad Razer Talon leapt from the grav-craft together and behind the massive corpse of a Greater Demon, scared to hell by potent toxins. Azorek jumped to join them in the same moment a gout of warp flame struck the Venom’s cockpit. He landed gracefully behind his warriors. The wreck of the Venom corkscrewed until it skidded across the courtyards of the Twin Gate Outpost. Greater Demon and True Kin alike were swept up in the fiery craft until it plummeted through a fortress wall.


Azorek and his minions cackled madly. “That’s one way to make an entrance! Where are the rest of my Trueborn!?”


Ereki was already leveling his blaster and opening up with repeated salvos into the melee. Sollanesh joined him and together, their heavy weapons punched several gaping holes through a fire-spewing Centaur, from front to back, and felled it. Azul and Gorresh primed their splinter cannons and unloaded into the horde of charging Greater Demons that tore their way through the tattered kabalite warriors. Azorek had counted four confirmed kills before he even deign to blink. He also realized that a number of demonic entities had diverted their attention directly on his troops.


A Greater Demon of emerald skin and a scaly hide for her lower body erupted in a sudden charge that trampled through the Kabalite squad attempting to surround and isolate her. Several Dark Eldar were trampled under her hooves and her vicious claws tore innards from flesh with but a reflexive swipe. Splinter fire followed her as she broke through the barricade of warriors, pot marking her skin with cracked and sickened flesh, but the thing was made of sterner stuff.


Several Wracks rushed forward to intercept the charging demon and in turn were reduced to paste, even as they hacked wildly at her legs. Azorek switched the rune on his blade and lowered his blast pistol. The secondary weapon struck the Greater Demon directly in her right arm, Razer Talon cheered as the limb came away in a spray of blood. Azorek always thought that demons could not feel pain, but agony filled those black eyes and the demon skidded across the courtyard as it collapsed. Ereki and Sollanesh argued over the kill after they had blasted the creature apart.


The rest of Razer Talon arrived in mere seconds, alongside Archangel, in the spots in the closest danger of being overrun. The True Kin merely laughed at the sight of their lesser brethren being slaughtered. They fed on their terror and deaths. Wherever they aimed their weapons, demonic flesh was torn asunder and demons died, greater or no.

Then the mother of the Demonic horde entered the battle.

The demonic entities that fought against the Blinded Blades understood the eldar tongue, at least the darker dialects. The ‘Lady of the Tower’ was on their lips even as they died charging into the phalanx of the True Kin. Azorek had no clue as to what sort of place that could even be, but he knew that his soul would never be fated to enter such a realm. When his life was eventually claimed, his soul would be at the mercy of the Prince of Pleasures, the rival of all Eldar. Fighting these monstrous creatures gave Azorek no fear of his ultimate fate.

Yet before the Lady, Azorek knew despair, and the realization that he had sacrificed the lives of his warriors by throwing them into this battle.

The Lady of the Tower bore a massive tome on her third hand, and three swords that arced with eldritch lightning on the others. She was deceptively quick, despite her dominating presence. She crossed the length of the courtyard in less than a dozen bounding leaps, crushing her fallen into the wraithbone, and was amongst the Trueborn. Blaster fire from across two squads was funneled at her and to Azorek’s surprise, actually struck her several times. The Dark Energy weapons merely dissipated against an emerald aura that sparked into flames wherever it was touched.

Ereki was stamped into paste, so quickly that Azorek barely managed to blink before he was kicked backward across the courtyard. The three blades flashed back and forth, fast enough to leave a trail in the motion of the Lady of the Tower’s body. Sollanesh was cleaved diagonally by the first blade and his body, armor and all, disintegrated into a fine jade mist. Azul was impaled through the chest by the second, the sword howled as it stole his soul away from the deprevations of She Who Thirst. Gorresh’s upper torso fell away by the third, his corpse ignited into ethereal flames.

The rest of Razer Talon and Archangel died in a whirlwind of violence, a grand display of grace and elegance that Azorek had ever seen. He picked himself off the floor, even as the Greater Demons that served this demonic mistress began to herd themselves into a mob behind her. What remained of the Blinded Blades’ forces were quickly falling back beyond the Twin Gate Outpost, toward the fanatic Mon-Keigh. They were doomed to die against either foe, without the rear or front secure, there could be no escape. They would all die together.


But not Azorek. He whispered into his comm. link and the pilot of Archangel’s Venom Chariot descended onto the Outpost moments later. The Dracon quickly leapt aboard and the skycraft took off. Azorek cackled manically as they quickly ascended, but his laughter died in his throat as lightning arced from the Lady of the Tower. A powerful strike connected against the Venom’s engine and caused it catch fire. The pilot fought for control, but the Venom veered off course and away from the Bridge of the Leviathan.

It was as his chariot dipped beneath the bridge, that Azorek saw a curious sight. Hundreds of sleek grav-tanks soaring toward the bridge, away from a raging battle below, and painted in the colors of hated craftworld Myriell. For a moment, hope soared in his heart, and then the explosion of the Venom chariot took his life.
 
#67 · (Edited)
I've been avoiding cutting back to Mirathir for several posts now, been meaning to, but I've always ran up against a wall. Tonight, however, that wall collapses. And no, I haven't forgotten about certain Hospitallers, in case anyone was wondering ;).

***​

Mirathir heard her mother’s voice call from somewhere beyond the void. The sensation of psychic communication coursed through her nerves, breathing life back into every cell. The screams of the raging demon withdrew from her thoughts. It recoiled away from her essence with a vile shriek and suddenly vanished from her mind’s inner eye. The invasive aura of oppression and stabbing agony subsided as if the receding of the ocean’s tide. Yet Mirathir could not wake herself from the dreamscape. Her mind forever raced across a white ether.

“The ancestors bid you come home, my daughter…”

Mirathir replied, startled. “Mo… mother? Is that you? How is this possible?”

“The ancestors bid you come home, my child, but you are washed with taint. I fear for you.”

Mirathir’s thoughts pulsed across the ether, her voice disembodied. She was outraged. “No, you’re nothing more than a mere demon! Your tricks shall not fell me!”

The white ether began to slow as her spirit became anchored in this strange reality. Before Mirathir’s eyes, a convoluted shadow began to take shape in the blinding light. The shadow became lithe and beautiful. Her features formed into concrete physicality, but there were large pieces missing. An outline of a face similar to Mirathir’s stared into her soul, eyeless and without lips to speak. And yet it spoke.

“Destiny is nothing more than a piece of glass, child. It is broken and cracked in a myriad of places. The wise may claim to study them, but the stories they foretell are infinite and forever altered by your actions. Do not mistake your bout of fortune for security, my daughter, not even for a fleeting breath. It is all just waiting to shatter by the tiniest pinprick. You have chosen the only path given to you, but it is not the only answer.”

The Raven Prophet’s voice quivered, confused. This shadow of her mother was no foul creature. “Why have you come to me only now?”

The shadow reached out to touch Mirathir’s bodiless spirit. “Uplift yourself. Your journey has not ended. Come, take my hand. Do not be afraid.”

Mirathir shirked away from the spirit and heard it sigh harshly in irritation. Once again, it reached out with the both arms invitingly. She observed the spirit, bewildered, but quickly realized that without its guidance, she could be stuck in this reality forever. Uplift yourself, it said again. She gritted her teeth and with reluctant acceptance, snatched up both offered hands. The white ether suddenly rent itself apart with a guttural roar that quaked her spirit. Beyond the gaping wound in reality, there was smoke and the carnal taste of death in the air. Then the world transformed around her.

A familiar voice cut through the noise of billowing smoke and crackling flames. Faint explosions transpired in the near distance, they drowned out the battle cries of the living and the screams of the dying. “Master?”

Mirathir fluttered her eyes open to a sickly emerald light that lingered in the heart of the cavern. The Bridge of the Leviathan remained under prone her body, which was cradled snuggly in Nyst’s arms. She glanced up at the greater demon that gazed down upon her and smiled weakly, aware of the alien blood encrusted over her face. The corpses left in the wake of two vying factions surrounded them for what looked like forever. She was where she had been before the crazed demon had assailed her mind: at the first walls of the Twin Gate Outpost. The field of butchered dead were surrounded by wrecked engines of war and were lit by blazing pyres of still burning vehicles.

Mirathir noted the absence of her own armies. She looked up at Nyst with a curious look. Her voice came out fragile and dazed. “Where is everyone? Have we won the battle? I can still hear the sounds of battle in the distance, but everything is so quiet. Eerily so. Have you ever had this kind of peace before, Nyst? Have you ever known the calm after the storm? Or do your kindred howl onto the end of eternity? Ha, so this is the fate I have chosen, insanity?”

The Greater Demon swept her clawed fingers gently through the Raven Prophet’s hair. “I have known the true silence for several centuries and would know several more, if you had not found me. A loan eldar girl fell from the stars, from a great battle that was fought amongst them. She wandered a dead planet for days, hungry and tired. Alone. Then fate sought to guide you into my domain. Imagine a demoness’ surprise at the mere sight. Insanity, you say? No, wisdom, my master. You knew that you did not wish to die. You chose the only path worth taking. You placed your faith in the truest of lords… and now she is unleashed upon the world. You have succeeded, Mirathir. The Lady of the Golden City has arrived. You finished your mission.”

Mirathir pondered on the revelation of her success. Yet she did not find comfort or solace in the news. She thought about her loving mother from centuries before and tried in vain to keep her eyes from turning misty. She placed a hand on the Greater Demon’s wrist. “Did you foresee all of this? Did you know already the feelings I would have, right at this moment?”

Nyst smiled tenderly. “Didn’t you? For centuries, we have journeyed across these familiar stars together. Without one another, we were nothing, merely destitute beggars in search of something beyond mere happiness. Now we have come to a crossroads. You must make a decision. And with myself being the objective and omniscient being that is inherently flawed, I shall remain by your side until you make that decision. And before you ask, I have not seen foreseen it. The demon snickered devilishly. “That would simply ruin the moment.”

The ancestors bid you come home, my child, but you are washed with taint. I fear for you.

Uplift yourself.


Delusions. The Raven Prophet was anything but naïve. There was no undoing this endless scourge of death and despair. There was no room for her at the sides of the dead eldar gods nor in the infinity circuit. The Greater Demon had truly spoken honestly. Mirathir had chosen the only path that remained to her. She feared death. She especially feared it when she was only a child. She felt ashamed that she still felt that way now. It was the greatest of reliefs that Xehia had not slain her outright.

Wherein lied the true path?

A thought suddenly crossed her mind. She blurted. “Where are the defenders of this webway conduit? Where are the craftworlders? They will attempt to stop the Lady… We must defend her until our last breaths.” A quick burst of laughter escaped her lips. “There is nothing worse to the powers of the warp than an oath breaker. And I have sworn myself to them like any other mad fool. This galaxy is filled with victims and fools. I have chosen the way that shall obliterate such ignorance in the flames of warp ether. I have chosen the way that makes me stronger. The Raven Prophet is no mere plaything. Take me to her, Nyst. Take me to our mistress and tormenting overlord. I must rally our forces.”

The Greater Demon snapped her jaws approvingly. “As you desire, my master.” She quickly urged Mirathir onto her back, who was quickly regaining her strength. At her master’s command, Nyst darted across the bridge with crushing hooves.
 
#68 ·
Two updates today:grin:.


The Twin Gate Outpost was ablaze with unnatural flames and filled with the screams of the dying, living, and the mechanical as Nyst finally reached the gateway. The wraithbone doors had been blasted into cinders, only a large archway remained. Perched upon the long arch, an eldar maiden weeped over the countless souls that had perished beneath her. The high walls of the bastion were crumbled in a score of places, breached in several others. Above the maiden statue, hundreds of sleek and bladed eldar grav-craft were engaged in a spectacular battle.

Nyst charged through the shattered gates and slid from one side of the passage beyond to the next. A hail of shuriken fire followed her. Mirathir leaned further across the Greater Demon’s back as laser discharges stitched themselves into the wreck of a Dark Kin craft she hid behind. There were panicked cries, followed by a spike of suppressing fire.

Nyst hissed in frustration and pressed herself against the twisted craft. “Master, clear these vermin from our path. I have already sustained enough wounds for one day.” Her quick laugh was stifled with pain. “I’ve been in this plane for too long. I am beginning to feel my injuries.”

Mirathir had already noticed the gaping wounds on Nyst’s body, a handful of severe wounds where the flesh had been melted by potent poisons. Bloody ichor streamed from the craters in the demon’s flesh unchecked.

Mirathir held a hand over her head. Flickers of eldritch lightning danced along her fingers. “Give me a better angle on those guardians!”

Nyst leaned halfway into the open. Mirathir leaned with her and caught sight of a dozen guardian defenders hunkered behind a barricade. There could be no crossing into the outpost without pushing them aside. She could not recognize their colors, it belonged to no craftworld that she had ever encountered around the Tarmathon sector.

Mirathir drew upon her psychic might and unleashed an arc of lightning into the eldar. A blinding flash overtook her for one moment, followed by a light rain of gore that fell upon the scattered survivors. She blew out a breath and loosed another bolt, followed by another. Two remaining guardians routed and sprinted madly for refuge.

Nyst leapt over the barricade and into the chaos that enveloped the courtyard. Wreckage and debris collected across the battlefield, littered with the fallen. The Dark Kin were scattered. Holed up in their makeshift cover as they battled an onslaught of Centaur creatures and their cultist minions. The Greater Demons from the Forlorn City tore apart anything their claws found and unleashed warp flame from their mouths. The Kabal of the Blinded Blades used their potent weaponry to vaporize anything that came too close, but not even their expert gunners could hold back such pressing numbers.

And amongst all three factions was a new contender: aspect warriors from the craftworlds and their civilian warriors. The nameless eldar that defended this decrepit ruin advanced into their enemies under the cover of aerial bombardments and precision strikes. Guardian Defenders and Dire Avengers disembarked from their transports onto the higher tiers of the Twin Gate Outpost. An endless rain of shuriken fire descended upon bunkered groups of kabalite warriors and cultists. Mirathir observed them cut to ribbons in mere moments.

Eldar in heavy emerald armor striped with golden filigree struck from hidden places. Their chainswords whirled back and forth around them and slew half-naked gladiators and shadowy fiends apart in a marvellous display of skill and gore. Howling Banshees charged into combat with the lumbering Greater Demons, the numbers of their foe already dwindled by the Dark Reaper and Fire Dragon Shrines.

Then Mirathir caught a glimpse of the Lady of the Tower. She was nothing more than a mere blur, she weaved through her foes so fast. The light of three blades cut through the air and sung a wailing song as eldritch lightning forked into her challengers. The breath caught in Mirathir’s throat as realization dawned upon her that her life’s work was complete.

Her Queen was free and in the flesh.

For the briefest moment, the Raven Prophet made out her master’s stare being cast down upon her. A knowing smile tugged on her lips.

A voice so sing-song, but mournful and more powerful than anything Mirathir had ever heard before entered her mind. “You have succeeded, young mortal, your anarchic wake has cleansed the failings of the others. Never in a thousand years did I believe that one such as you could give me form. Of all the races, I am pleasantly surprised by the eldar most. In this moment of despair, death, and anguish, I shall bind all of your work into a new faith. My word is not damnation, but the refuge of the lost and forgotten… the forlorn.

“I am bound by the word which is mine and I shall honor the pact that was struck betwixt us. Mirathir, my herald, I am most pleased by your actions. I name you a prince amongst demon kind and bestow upon you a fortress within my realm. I also give unto you the blessings of the warp, upon your first death. You shall be forever changed in the likeness that I have given you the power to choose.”


The Lady of the Tower still spoke as she fought, her words degenerated into a fathomless choir of whispers.

“... You shall want for nothing.”

“... You shall be a wise queen.”

“... Fulfill your every desire, upon every whim.”

“... You shall never know death.”

“... You will be eternal.”

“... I would look upon you in the flesh, raven prophet.”


“Our master is in peril,” Mirathir unleashed another blast of lightning from her fingers. The blast caught a young eldar girl in a guardian suit and obliterated her. “I can sense psykers. How much would you gamble that the Seers are attempting to interfere with our plans? They cannot be here solely because our presence is an affront to them.”

Nyst snorted and snapped her jaws testily. “Let us discuss the enemy’s plans after we’ve disposed of them, Mirathir!”

Mirathir kicked at the Greater Demon’s flanks. “Let’s go!”
 
#69 ·
The Wave Serpent’s pilot skillfully descended through the storm of dark energy hurtling towards them and inside the bastion of the Twin Gate Outpost. Aryriel caught glimpses of other craftworld transports already on the ground, disembarking their troops under the cover of a withering fusilade of fire. The Striking Scorpion slammed on his helm and breathed in as the suit’s systems displayed on his visor. Only the Autarch stood behind him, covered in head to toe in ornate armor and a heavy helm with a long golden plume. The Warp generator on his back whirred silently as everything within the grav-tank fell into silence.

The Seer Council held up their eldritch witch blades and whispered incantations to incite the wispful runes weaving around them. Aryriel marked them one last time: Kasilienesh of Ulthwe’, Iraa the Spirit Seer, Farseer Mae, and a small group of Warlocks from the three allied craftworlds. He could feel the raw power echoing from their minds and lapping at the fore of his mind.

“All passengers, prepare for immediate disembarkation . Warning, the deployment zone is hot. I repeat, the deployment zone is hot. Rampart collapsing in ten, nine, eight…”

Muran flicked the activation rune of his weapon. “The fate of entire craftworlds shall be decided upon these ruins. Stand united in this dark hour and see our enemies extinguished!”

The recycled air onboard the grav-tank filled with enraged cries of exertion as the ramp fell backward and the Seer Council charged onto the battlefield. Vivid lightning flashed behind the bright yellow tint of his visor, quickly followed by sprays of blood and chunks of gore. The terrible howl of Witch Blades sang a mournful tune as they cleaved through armor and flesh and gave way to frantic screaming.

The Autarch of Myriell guffawed and prodded Aryriel with light jabs of his spear’s shaft. “Go! Chosen of Khaine! Before we are too old to fight!”

The Striking Scorpion needed no encouragement. He dashed through the hull and sprang across the ramp with a mighty leap. The Twin Gate Outpost was a crumbling ruin, littered with the corpses of three committed armies and the wreckage of their technology. Several twisted bladed grav-craft surrounded the fanned out Seer Council, buried beneath heaps of rubble that teemed with lithe shadows. He thought of them as nothing more than the shadows of the Dark Kin that must be bunkered behind the wreckage at first. Realization quickly dawned upon him as his feet found purchase on the rocky ground that the shadows were unnatural things. One detached from the ground and swung a serrated blade in his direction.

The mandi-blasters on his helm were activated on an impulse. A stream of yellow shards embedded themselves into the shadow’s face and it loosed a screeching wail as it staggered. The corporeal creature quickly shifted into a physical form, all emerald and ritually scarred skin that danced with baleful flames. The Mandrake tore open it’s toothy maw with another resounding cry as it half stepped, half slunk away from Aryriel’s natural counter-blow. The rusted blade in it’s grip whirled back and forth, scraping harshly against the teeth of his chainsword in rapid sequence. Aryriel parried an overhead strike meant to cave in his skull and answered with a savage knee into the Mandrake’s stomach.

More otherworldly cries surrounded him as he fought. Shadows once content to remain in the dark came slunking forward and moved to quickly surround their prey. A blinding flash of super-heated energy hurtled past him and smacked a reckless twisted creature in the chest. The thing howled as it’s innards were atomized and whatever was left became nothing more than a blackened mess. Muran materialized beside him, his great spear dipped in a crackling power field. He cast the spear through the stretched open maw of another Mandrake, unleashed another salvo of his fusion pistol, and then ripped free his main weapon in time to crack the pommel into an unprotected face.

Aryriel headbutted his opponent without thought and sent him reeling into the debris. His sword arced in a blur, so quick that the Mandrake’s head remained in place for a sliver of a second before plopping onto the blooded stone. His arm lashed out, pushed away an overextended strike before his chainsword flashed in a horizontal arc that rent through an unguarded midsection.

“Look out!” Muran’s body slammed Aryriel into the uneven ground as laser fire rippled from further behind the wreckage.

Las-fire tore through the ranks of the Mandrakes, who were caught from behind and completely exposed. The shadow creatures shrieked as they were riddled with volley after volley. One of the Warlock’s of the Council grunted in surprised as a trio of bolts bore into his back. He folded in on himself as Iraa turned around and unleashed a torrent of flames at their attackers.

Muran sent a psychic impulse through his ranks. “This is Muran! I need assistance!”

The guttural tongues of the Mon-Keigh shouted over the chaos as several of them charged onto the Seer Council’s position. Iraa cried out as a bullet flung itself into her arm, but managed a vile curse as she sent up a wall of flames at the feet of the cultists. The first amongst the humans became enveloped in the flames, their screams sending their comrades hurtling backward and firing blindly through the flames.

An Exarch’s voice cut through the comms. “Coming to your aid, Autarch! Keep your heads down!”

“Are you well, Chosen of Khaine?” Muran managed before a deafening explosion made the ground beneath them tremble. More laser fire materialized from above as a squadron of Swooping Hawks descended from the aerial battle. For mere moments, the sound of armored bodies flopping into the dirt could be heard.

Aryriel’s heart hammered in his chest and his blood was flowing, but he realized that nothing had touched him yet.. “I am not wounded, Autarch... “ He shoved himself back to his feet and helped Muran to his. “Yet the battle if far from over. The last time I was in a conflict of this scale… well, I became exiled.”

Muran placed an affirming hand on his shoulder. “I would wager it was not because you were a coward? I have already seen your courage and cannot find you lacking.”

“It is a complicated matter.” Aryriel mentioned with an air of finality. He peeled his eyes and surveyed the battlefield. “My cousin, Lriean, he has not yet arrived? I see no sign of the Imperials.”

Muran nodded and though he did not give voice to it, Aryriel could imagine the grim expression written on his features. “Give him time, Chosen of Khaine. Who could know what might assail him in this grand ruin?”

The exile merely shook his head. “We could all be snatched away by the jaws of damnation if we give him too much. Khaine’s blood…”

Muran holstered his pistol and produced his data-slate depicting the battle of the Twin Gate Outpost. “Over half of our forces are on the ground. Yet we’re taking more casualties in the air. I’ve lost a quarter of the Implacable and a third of Radiant Spear.” He pointed toward the other side of the outpost with his power weapon. “There’s an outpouring of demonic creatures further north. My commanders are reporting a massive entity overwhelming them there. Reports also mention that this creature is whittling our aerial superiority. We must give them aid!”

“My Autarch!” Farseer Mae approached, followed by her Spirit Seer --whom cradled a wounded arm--, and the Warlock from Ulthwe’. Aryriel glanced at the other Warlocks, whom were gathered a respectful distance away, waiting for the Autarch. “I would request that I take my comrades and bolster the defenses at the gates of the Fortress. More cultists are pouring in every hour and their numbers should be checked.”

Muran grunted with approval. “Understood, Farseer.” He shifted back to Aryriel. “Chosen of Khaine, you should go with them. They are of your own kin and need you more than I do.”

“Then,” Aryriel said breathlessly. He looked north, where the flickering traces of the webway were visible. “Perhaps I was not fated for destiny as you thought.”

Aryriel could sense the smile beneath Muran’s helmet. “I believe that destiny tends to find us, Chosen of Khaine, not the other way around. Now I must take my leave of you all. Good fortune to all of you.”

“Lriean has not yet arrived.” Iraa uttered dejectedly as the Autarch’s footsteps resided. “Every moment without reinforcement could spell our doom.”

“My cousin will come.” The Striking Scorpion was certain to edge his voice with his steel. Doing so seemed to stir some faith back into the Spirit Seer. “I can promise you as much.”

“Your cousin has never known a real war also.” Kasilienesh said. “Perhaps he could not stir the Imperials to fight. It was foolish to believe that they would do our work for us.”

Mae tilted her helmet slightly in askance. “The Mon-Keigh have every reason to see this fight through as we do. If we cannot eliminate the threat, then this planet is doomed and all of the souls upon it. In either case, there is nothing that can be done about their arrival except to continue fighting. We should make haste toward the main gate, I can sense a powerful force approaching.”
 
#70 · (Edited)
The hour of confrontation has come, who will win!? :grin:



“Honored Seer!” One of the Dire Avengers slinking behind a makeshift barricade of torn wraithbone and twisted metal whistled sharply at Aryriel and his comrades. “Where are you headed?”

Aryriel spied several other Avengers hiding in the dust and debris, their rifles pulled over their chest as they leaned into the open, searching for trouble. Each of them wore a crimson crest on their teal helms, their sapphire mesh armor interrupted with more streaks of red. Upon their flanks, three scores of Guardians hunkered down and formed a nigh invisible phalanx upon the path that led further into the courtyard. Grav-platforms that held aloft heavy weapons hovered in place and watched the killzones for movement. Many of them bore chainswords and shuriken pistols, even the occasional fusion gun.

Farseer Mae thrust a fist into the air and signaled her comrades to halt in their tracks. She gazed down upon the Dire Avenger, whom remained crouched in the dirty wreckage. “We make for the main gate of the Twin Gate Outpost! If you are not occupied, you should join us there and aid in its defense!”

The Dire Avenger took a hand away from his shuriken catapult and placed it firmly on his chest. There was an eerie malice in the way the crimson slits in his visor pulsed. The twin banners on his back billowed in a gust of air permeated with blood and gore. “I am Exarch Verithan of the Shrine of the Destined Hand. I am honored by your presence, but I must inform you that the main gate has already fallen into enemy hands. Something broke through the Defender team sent to guard it before reinforcements could be sent. Whatever may be lying in wait beyond those gates are certainly headed in this direction. The Mon-Keigh shall arrive any minute now. You are welcome to aid us in repulsing them. Perhaps we would be obliged to help you take the gateway back?”

Iraa spoke as Mae nodded firmly. “The thing that broke through the guardians? Have you seen it?”

“No.” Verithan mused. “Yet I recall the Guardians mentioning that there was only one creature assailing them. It was not backed by another force. It tore through them quickly, we lost communication within two minutes. It must truly be a beast worthy of legend…” The Exarch pointed at Iraa’s limp arm. “Would you wish one of our medics to look at your wound?”

Iraa managed her whimsical laugh, something that had become rarer as of late. “I am fine, but thank you, Verithan.”

Mae quickly led her entourage into cover, behind a collapsed slab of wraithbone just above the Shrine of the Destined Hand. Their decision to slip into cover could not have been more timely. Aryriel found himself a small enclosure to perch himself in the same moment one of the Guardians shouted over the sound of screaming soldiers.

“Mon-Keigh!!!”

“Destined Hand, lead your kindred!” Verithan leapt onto his feet, his free hand made a cutting gesture at the four scores of cultists that charged from the shadows. The Dire Avengers unleashed a rippling volley of laser fire that hewed apart the front ranks of the enemy. The Shuriken cannons immediately filled the air with a shrieking howl as they joined the defense. Their heavy cannons stitched death through the humans wherever they were caught out in the open. The Defenders finally joined the fray and hacked down the last remnants of the charge.

“Find your cover!” Verithan shouted. “Grenades!”

A string of explosions detonated amongst the Eldar. More cultists revealed themselves from behind the wreckage that blocked off the path to the main gate. Their weapons coughed distinctively, lobing primitive fragmentation grenades onto the eldar. Guardians tumbled backwards with brutal force from stray impacts. Others were more unfortunate, their bodies shredded by shrapnel or pulverised into a gory mess.

Aryriel’s thoughts raced through his head in a blurr. “Farseer, Warlock, cover us!” He hefted his chainsword and leapt down amongst the scattered Dire Avengers. His armored foot landed upon a carcass leaking blood in a hundred places. “Storm Guardians, follow me! Cut them down!”

Primitive laser weapons opened fire at the mere sight of Ayriel, a dozen shots hurled past him and into the Storm Guardians as they rallied behind him. The first dozen were cut down as they attempted to charge, but Aryriel’s armor held against round after round smacking into the heavy suit. Streaks of lightning soon flashed through the air into the shielded cultists. The earth heaved under the momentum and force of psychic might. Screams followed as wreckage twisted into itself and collapsed.

“Teyl-Jhen!” Aryriel rushed through the storm of fire and leapt up the wall of wreckage as if it were nothing more than a steep hill. The Storm Guardians shouted their own cries as they charged in behind them and finally clashed with the foe.

Aryriel suddenly spun on the tip of his foot, away from a point blank shot from a grenade launcher. Another Guardian appeared by his side as the round flew past and in moments, the fusion gun left a crater in his assailant’s chest. His chainsword flashed in a diagonal slash through another Mon-Keigh and cleaved him from shoulder to stomach as he landed. Laser fire desperately trickled in after him, attempting to find a mark. Aryriel rolled away into a deep crevice within the wreckage. He leapt out as quickly as a striking serpent, his mandiblasters sending needle sharp trails into the exposed chest of another cultist.

Once committed in battle, the Storm Guardians quickly gained an upper hand against the Mon-Keigh. They leapt from enemy to enemy, their swords arcing and their bodies sliding away from death in a graceful dance that left the Mon-Keigh staggering in confusion. A cultists would attempt to charge down one eldar, only for his opponent to slip away and let him fall to the blade of another.

Aryriel found himself joining the dance in it’s fullest and felt a burst of pride and joy. When was the last time he had fought alongside comrades? Beside kindred whom knew swordplay and discipline as he had? As he fought on, memories replayed themselves in his thoughts and took him back to that fateful war so many years ago.

He twisted around a bayonet strike and cut his blade sideways across an exposed chest.

The pitiful spawn of Slaneesh squealed in delighted agony as the teeth of his blade found it. Black ichor sprayed everywhere as it collapsed onto the warm sands of the island. He looked up and saw only chaos, the Eldar fighting for their lives as an army of demons descended upon them.

“Aryriel!” Iraa shouted as she hurtled a blast of raw psychic energy into a cultist ready to plunge a dagger into his back.

Aryriel decapitated his opponent with a flick of his blade.

“Aryriel!” Reiko sobbed, tears poured down her eyes as the Archon jerked her by her hair onto her knees. She cradled her left hand -- no, only her wrist, that weeped blood -- as she look downcast at the floor.

“Ah, and whom might you be?” Archon Tali smirked, her face placid. “A young boy trying to play hero?”

“And you’re a coward.” Aryriel retorted hotly. “Do you have such little faith in yourself that you would willingly duel such a young girl? You truly call yourself a dreaded archon? Leave her and face me instead.”

Tali feigned a hurt expression. “You are alone, Aspect Warrior. And you are foolish for believing that I would be as well. I’ll cut you a deal. You defeat even one of my Incubi and I’ll give you the honor of facing me for the girl’s life. It should prove quite entertaining.”

Aryriel leaned away from an uppercut, the knife embedded in his attacker’s fist flew upwards, then suddenly changed direction. He snatched the mon-keigh’s hand as the knife came mere inches away from his visor slits. The bones shattered with one twist, Aryriel let go of the arm and brought his chainsword down upon human’s skull with both hands. The man’s screams were cut short as gore exploded onto Aryriel’s faceplate.

One of the Incubi volunteered without a word. He hefted his glaive up toward his chest and immediately began to swing at Aryriel as he approached. The bodyguard of the Arhcon was quick, deceptively so. By the time Aryriel had made several dodges, the Incubus had already made fifteen fatal attacks meant to cleave his limbs and head away from his body. The glaive in the Incubus’ hand crackled with a sickly green energy field and rent through metal and stone as it carved a path through the chamber.

Aryriel’s mandiblasters slammed his opponent in the face, but earned only a silent whisper of a laugh. The Incubus made a cutting gesture, but then feinted in hopes that Aryriel would attempt to parry. The Striking Scorpion was nearly foolish enough to do so, but quickly distanced himself with a great leap backward. Had he stayed his ground, he would have been cleaved from head to groin…


The Striking Scorpion lashed out with a savage kick that connected into a midriff. He suddenly spun in a pirouette that struck down two more cultists attempting to pressure him from two sides. There was a great blast of lightning that forked close to him -- too close. Something sounded vaguely eldar as it screamed. He raced up a slab of tortured metal, leapt off one foot, and whipped his chainsword around in a full spin.

He nicked something, and it shrieked such an otherworldly cry that Aryriel’s heart quaked with utter fear for a moment. It was a sing--song voice, that sounded reminiscent of the sounds of a waterfall. Then a powerful force slapped him away, like an insect, and he went skidding across the ground until he thumped into a wall.

“I see you.” By the Gods, the creature was monstrous, looming over him with an open maw, filled with fangs. It sat perched upon its hind legs, over a mound of eldar corpses it had created. Aryriel knew that the Autarch was among them. The Greater Demon yawned in boredom, it’s humanoid facial features feigning relaxation and enjoyment. “You wonder what I am? I can tell that you are. I suppose my answer to you would be ‘does that truly matter?’ in this instance. I am something far beyond your comprehension. I am Nyst…”

He heard a ghastly whisper calling his name. It sounded like death. “Aryriel! Aryriel!”


Aryriel slowly fluttered his eyes open. The world beyond his visor was a blur of dust and blood. His back ached painfully. He was no longer holding his sword. Realization dawned on him that this was where the heroes died, however valiantly, and were sent to whatever gods awaited them on the other side.

Verithan lowered himself into Aryriel’s vision and laughed quietly. “This is not the end. Not yet. Not for you.”

Aryriel coughed up a trickle of blood. He managed to wheeze at Verithan. “Ironic that you would say that, Exarch.”

“Your friends are in danger.” Verithan said matter-of-factly. “We must all fight and accept our fate.” He leaned backward and pointed toward the battle he had just been in.

“I see you.”

The creature had not changed since the last time they had met on the battlefield. Nyst, the Seers called her. Neither had her master. Her hauntingly beautiful master, however corrupted and twisted as she was. Mirathir fought upon the back of the Greater Demon, casting powerful spells that slew eldar where they stood. Nyst herself weeped from a dozen wounds, but fought with all of ferocity that she had so many years ago. Could there truly be no defeat for this demon?

Mae, Iraa, and Kasilienesh provided spells of their own and unleashed them upon the sorceress, but her demonic pet was able to absorb each blast and chortle as if they tickled her.

“Your sword.” Verithan offered the blade with no small amount of reverence. “Whomever taught you the way of the Striking Scorpion. Pass onto him my compliments.”

Aryriel took the offered sword and clambered to his feet. “For the eldar!”

“For the eldar!” Verithan shouted over the den of battle and unsheathed his power sword.

The surviving cultists attempted to bar Aryriel’s path as he and the Exarch charged back into the battle. Between Verithan and himself, the pair of Eldar carved a bloody path through them without effort. The remaining Storm Guardians rallied around them quickly and hurled themselves into the Greater Demon.

Aryriel ducked beneath Nyst’s razor sharp tail, a thing he had long remembered, in time to avoid being cut in twain. A pair of Storm Guardians weren’t so fortunate and were sliced apart by the wild lashings. It was only then that the Demon seemed to notice the eldar behind her. She kicked out with her hind legs that crunched into a Dire Avenger’s chest. Nyst continued her onslaught with a spew of warp flame that went over Aryriel’s head. The blast was cut short with a pained yelp as Verithan answered her with an overhead strike that cleaved through one of her back legs.

Enraged, Nyst whirled around, her diamond hard claws ripping through the armor of another Guardian where Verithan had once been. Aryriel pulled himself over the demon’s extended arm with one hand until his feet was upon her bicep. The demon attempted to swat him away, but he leapt away before she could. He landed upon her back, behind the sorceress and promptly kicked her off before she could even blink.

The Chaos sympathizer, known as Mirathir, thumped onto the ground with a forceful grunt. She glared up in surprise and exchanged knowing stares with the Striking Scorpion.

Mirathir smiled wickedly. “You have an odd sense of time, son of the Tarithinon blood, to fight a war on the brink of being lost forever.” The Raven Prophet leapt to her feet, whipped back her hair, and fluttered her lashes. “You could not miss the chance to immerse yourself in my beauty, I know.”

Aryriel looked down upon her, his face set in a snarl. “Witch! You’ll answer for the wars fought on Tarmathon and Tyrannus! And all of the Eldar lost on those battlefields!”

The moment he sprang toward her, Mirathir cloaked herself in ethereal energy and threw him several feet across the melee with an invisible force.

Mirathir laughed triumphantly. “I’ll deal with you later!”
 
#71 · (Edited)
Farseer Mae allowed her psychic might to channel through her veins unchecked as she brought it to bear on her foes. Her witch blade hummed in her hands, neatly cut through armor and flesh without effort. She could feel the wisdom and guidance of her ancestors move the blade from foe to foe, in arcs and great overhead strikes that were too quick and powerful to deny. She weaved and danced through the cultists attempting to overpower her, answering them with sharp blasts of flames whenever she gained the space. Tainted creatures withered and cried as they became engulfed in a furnace of wrath.

Myriell’s guardians and Dire Avengers bravely kept the Greater Demon at bay, but they could not give her much more time. Yet here was her chance to behead the serpent, the architect of the doom of the Tarmathon Sector. The Raven Prophet had at last shown herself in the bloody slaughter of battle.


Mae leaned away from the radiant heat of an eldritch blade, her own deft hands immediately rushed to parry the next assault from the sorceress. The two swords clashed for sparse moments before coming together again in a deadlock. Mae twitched a smile beneath her helm. “Here we stand together, Mirathir. Two watchers of the skein that have beheld the fate of this planet. And yet even though we are of opposing forces, we have both come to see our parts played.”

The Raven Prophet grinned maniacally. The powerfields crackled and burst against each other. “You grasp only at broken straws, Farseer! I serve the true watcher of the universe. All fates lie open to me. And I have witnessed your death.”

“You mean a demon chortled in your ear.” Mae quickly leapt backward, swept Mirathir’s blade away with an upward swing, and hurled a blast of raw psychic power in her opponent’s direction. Her fingers thrummed with eldritch power and she gleefully unleashed them in the obstacle lying in her path. “Such fickle wisdom matters little to the masters of the stars!”


There was morose laughter as the onslaught of lightning dissipated against liquid ether. The shield faded into nothing, a confident Mirathir sauntered through the storm of shuriken fire, cloaked in a twister of runes. The Sorceress crunched her fingers into a fist and vanished into thin air. An explosion of light, quickly followed by a deafening thunder clap behind her. Sounds of struggle intermingled with the Greater Demon’s slaughter.


Iraa darted through the empty space between Mirathir and her in the blink of an eye. Her staff shimmered with a radiant light as it smashed into the sorceress’ barrier. The strike was deceivingly strong, the serpent staff ripped through liquid energies with a sound reminiscent of torn flesh. The Spirit Seer followed with a string of fluid arcs and strikes that blunted through the shield and connected on Mirathir’s upper body.


Mirathir wilted against the clubbing blows, but narrowly dodged the fourth blow meant to cave her head in, her fingers desperately clutched onto Iraa’s Ghost Helm, forced her backwards. She shrieked with great effort as the runes floating around her person were sucked into the palm of her hand. The energy was expelled in a great wave of light that rushed over her new opponent. No telepathic scream cut through the fabric of reality. Iraa’s head lolled to one side, her mind annihilated. Her staff clattered into the rubble, her body quickly followed.

Choked with rage, Mae’s witchblade screamed in her hands as she made to charge Mirathir down. She was stopped by a subtle hand on her shoulder. The Farseer glanced over shoulder to find Kasilienesh beside her.

The Warlock hummed with built up energies. “Farseer, let us fight together! Two shall fare better than one!”


Mae inclined her head in agreement. “Remain on guard, Kasilienesh, who can know what tricks this traitor has hidden in her sleeves. But I digress, let us rid the galaxy of this infectious disease: this so-called New Word.”

Mirathir braced herself as she caught the two psykers in her crosshairs. She stood triumphant over Iraa’s still body. In the calmest manner, she spread her hands and they combusted into burning sapphire light. “I am ashamed that my own kind has no faith in the Gods that live. You throw yourselves at the feet of idols that whimper in eternal torment and shall never know again what it is to rule the galaxy.” She hawked a wad of saliva onto Iraa’s prone form. “You shall learn what faith in our New Word shall hold for true believers!”


The Raven Prophet snapped her fingers, in a way that sent a psychic resonance rippling through the air. Kasilienesh and Mae charged at her in that same moment. The Warlock and the Farseer darted across the ruined landscape with a speed that belied even their agile frames. Mae began to chant in a low droning whisper that made the air around her visibly darken and crackle with great bolts of lightning. Kasilienesh weaved his runes in such a way that cloaked him in an invisible blanket.

The demons appeared suddenly. Two of them. Each possessed similar aspects to the ancient demon called Nyst. They were four legged and either cloaked in dense fur or scales, commanded by a humanoid figure that served as the upper body. Their hair flowed down in great locks, caught on the winds of their charge as they leapt over the scattered ruins and into the battle. Kasilienesh was nearly crushed into the earth, but was spared because of his invisibility. Mae caught the tell-tale flash of his witch-blade arc through the air and cleave into ethereal flesh. The demon he struck reared upon its hind legs and loosed a keening roar.


Mae’s eldritch storm fell upon the other demon in a great tide of divine wrath. Streaks of lightning roared down in great flashes, connecting against the demon’s flesh with blinding explosions that sent it hurtling backward. The Farseer did not stand idle as Mirathir scurried away from the reeling warp creature before it could collapse on top of her. Remembering Mirathir’s earlier trick, Mae whispered to her runes as she rushed forward. In one moment, she charged in the direction of Mirathir. In the next, she was travelling through the warp, her fortress of a mind pulled her through back into reality within an eyeblink.


Mae burst back into reality and fell upon the Greater Demon her storm had laid low. The creature was badly mauled, her wounds gaped in a myriad of places on her massive frame. Black ichor streamed from the wounds, but even then, the demon was far from slain; only dazed. She quickly darted along the length of the demon’s side, up the animal-like body and over the humanoid parts until she reached the demon’s head. Her witchblade lurched forward without much prompting, easily cleaved through the thickened skull and cooking anything beneath.


Mirathir’s voice resounded from the shadows, somewhere distant. “You’re too late, Farseer! All that I have set in motion shall come to pass! There is nothing that can stop my master! You were a fool to risk the lives of your kin!”

“Coward!” Mae shrieked over the chaos. “Show yourself!” She caught Kasilienesh dancing around the Greater Demon, swaying away from her blows as if they were simply a small draft of wind rushing past him. The Demon was missing an arm. “Let us finish this!”


There was a thunderclap behind her. “As you wish.”


Mae twirled around, her blade slashed away from her face, but only to clash against another ethereal blade. The swords parted. Then they clashed again, once, twice, several times. The pair of eldar psykers weaved a dance around each other. Mae expertly pressed her attacks with clever feints and lightning thrusts. Mirathir parried every blow, her movements unnaturally fluid. Mae did not know who had taught her the eldar style of combat, but it was very defensive and efficient. Their dance began to blur as they picked up speed, but with every strike, every parry, the Farseer could sense the cracks in her opponent’s perfect defense opening..


“This is the end for you, Farseer!” Mirathir instinctively leapt backward and made a pirouette. The defensive attack mattered little, Mae’s blade hammered home and shattered completely on an energy field. The force of the attack threw her across the melee and into a collapsed column of wraithbone. “Now you die!”


A eardrum piercing shriek cried out over the battlefield before Mirathir could summon another burst of energy. The keen wail was so overwhelming that she collapsed onto her knees, clutching softly at her pointed ears. Mae watched her stare up into the sky in time to see a bladed chariot craft soar overhead. Only one figure leapt away from the rear of the grav-craft. A pallid skinned female figure, equipped in bladed kabalite armor the color of the ocean and bright with jade accents. In her hands was a wicked glaive, raised over her head in her shrieking descent.


“Xehia!” Mirathir screamed as she hurtled a gust of flame toward her.


The Dracon chortled mockingly as she fell through the air and landed neatly upon the Greater Demon Nyst’s back. Her blade flicked gently away from her body, the powerfield easily cut through the unnatural flesh of the demon. Nyst had only a sliver of a second to do so much as a twitch a surprised look upon her face, before her head tumbled freely from her shoulders. The tattered remnants of the Guardians and Dire Avengers suddenly halted in their desperate battle. The demon’s body twitched violently before it sagged down onto its knees and rolled onto the corpse littered battlefield.

Mirathir screamed. “Nyst!!!”

If Dracon Xehia had heard Mirathir’s gasping sob, she made no display of it. Instead, as the Craftworld Eldar quickly moved to surround her as she hopped off of the demon corpse, she quickly discarded her weapon and fell to her knees before a certain Striking Scorpion.

“Farseer!” Kasilienesh’s hushed tone suddenly jarred her from her daze. The Warlock was suddenly beside her, knelt in his bloody robes, covered from head to toe in black ichor. The Farseer glanced over to the area that he had fought the other demon and knew it had been slain. He ripped away his helmet. She forgot how aged and wizened he had become. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine, Ulthwe’an.” She breathed. Her hands raced across her body in search of pain, but found only soreness and bruises. Her head suddenly snapped up. She had forgotten about Mirathir. “Where is the Raven Prophet!? Did you not see to her, Kasilienesh?”

Kasilienesh merely shook his head. He was more relieved than fearful. “I do not know where she has fled to, Honorable Seer.”


***
 
#72 · (Edited)
NOTE: Thought I would people know that I shrunk the Lady of the Tower a little bit. Instead of immense titan size, she is now Wraithlord size :).

Dracon Xehia’s message broadcast relayed throughout every channel on the Eldar comms. The True Kin of the Blinded Blades, sworn to the Dread Archon Asdrubael Vect and the dark city of Commorragh officially surrendered to the Craftworld Myriell in the very heat of battle. The battle for aerial supremacy above the Twin Gate Outpost was slow to come to an end. The Dark Kin had halted their counter attack all at once. Several dozen more bladed grav-craft were destroyed before the message became fully received.

Muran was forced to accept the surrender, despite his innate desire to run down the Commorite cowards. Too many precious lives were already lost and many more would follow before this conflict would come to an end. The real shame came when he personally requested Xehia’s aid in destroying the Webway gate and the so-called ‘Lady of the Tower’. So many of his advisors had warned him against such action. They knew their ancestors would be humiliated by accepting such a mortal enemy as allies.

But what choice did he truly have? Despite their losses, the Dark Kin still held a few hundred vehicles, though their infantry was all but annihilated. The demons from beyond had slaughtered them from behind. All Xehia had left under her command that could fight on the ground was an elite core of True Born and an Incubi shrine, probably fifty left between them.

The Web Way Nexus at the Twin Gate Outpost swirled and crackled with unstable energies powerful enough to make the earth beneath Craftworld Myriell’s advancing warhost quake and splinter. It was almost as if the Leviathan Bridge would collapse from under and send everyone into the abyss. Muran had fought on this bridge before. One millennia ago, there was little more than reckless slaughter -- no, genocide. Most of Craftworld Myriell’s population was systematically wiped out and the tattered survivors were forced to undergo cryo-stasis. Now there was open and honest battle between the nemesis of the age. He observed the final battle with unmasked pride as the demonic assault began to falter and wither back toward the portal.

The Guardians, Dire Avengers, Dark Reapers, and Fire Dragons fought on both left and right flanks. They continually charged over the small mounds of demonic corpses, hunkering down to whittle down the next incoming charge before moving up again. The Striking Scorpion, Howling Banshees, Swooping Hawks, and Warp Spiders took up the center. The battle there had devolved into a great and violent melee and progress to route the Greater Demons in open combat was slow.

In the midst of that melee fought the Lady of the Tower. Muran watched the Demoness’ three blades whirl around her so quickly that they blurred in her hands. A Dozen eldar warriors were already dead before he could blink. There was no hope of crushing her in close combat, especially when she was protected by that nightmare horde of Greater Demons. No one except those born to fight legends such as this.

The Autarch whipped back his cloak and descended the half collapsed pillar in the midst of the courtyard. Three lesser Autarchs, Seer Council, the Dracon and her retinue, and his friends from Teyl-Jhen approached him as he came down.

“Commander.” Farseer Mae’s voice came from her lips weakened. Muran glanced over to find her half walking, half leaning on her Warlock from Ulthwe’. “I can sense that your victory is near.”

The Autarch shook his head grimly. “There is yet one more fight worth waging in this decrepit ruin.” He pointed toward the towering Demoness, too occupied with cleaving through the Eldar ranks to notice them. “I do not think that creature will simply vanish back into the warp once we cut it off from the webway. I believe that it needs to be killed on this fateful ground.”

“What is it?” Aryriel gasped as he joined them, his chainsword ready in one hand. “ It has no appearance of a demon I have ever seen.”

Kasilienesh explained. “The Lady of the Tower is not a being of the Dark Gods. There are many realms within the immaterium free from the Great Four. She has been spreading worship of her into the Tarmathon Sector for centuries now. You cannot hope to match her prowess.”

Muran snorted arrogantly, he brushed away Kasilienesh’s words with a flick of his hand. “Oh, I intend to and I will. I shall challenge her to open combat and fight a battle worthy of legend. I’ve seen a dozen aerial craft strike her shield a hundred times, it has not failed once. Oh, what I would do for a Court of the Young King.”

“Muran,” His favorite Autarch, Yennali, uttered softly. “How do you intend to fight that creature yourself? It could easily crush you into the earth.”

“Not if you battle her from the skies.” Dracon Xehia interjected, before one of her Myriell guards kicked the back of her knees and made her fall. Her Incubi immediately grabbed their swords.

Muran raised a hand. “That’s enough! Let her speak.”

Xehia cursed and spat as she recovered herself. “I have commanded what is left of my forces to follow your command. But I have kept a few score of my most elite warriors in case I needed them. Allow me to take you into the air and bring the fight to this demoness.”

“That’s suicide.” One of the Seer Council shot the Dracon a scathing look. “That storm erupting from her blades will inevitably destroy you.”

Kasilienesh spoke up. “Might I suggest waiting for our Imperial reinforcements to arrive?”

Muran quipped with finality. “I cannot afford to waste anymore warriors waiting for them. Isha’s tears, do I really need to send a recon party to find them?”

“Perhaps that is best.” Another Autarch inclined his head in agreement. “Better late than never.”

“Fine.” Muran rushed off one of his attendants. “Where is the status on that webway gate? It already looks damaged.”

Yennali replied. “Squadron Radiant Spear estimates nearly one more hour and the gate will come crashing down.”

Another Seer sucked in a sharp breath. “Another hour against this horde?”

Muran nodded. “That is dire news. My center will crumble against the Lady of the Tower unless we intervene. Yennali and Burieth, gather your finest Exarchs, enough to fill two Falcons. Seer Council, you are now charged with the command of my army in case I fall in battle. Farseer Mae and Warlock Kasilienesh, I would politely ask that you advise my council.” He snapped his head around toward Aryriel. “Chosen of Khaine, will you come? Are you ready to face destiny?”

“I am, Autarch.”

Muran nodded, then addressed his council. “Good. Not even a thousand years could rust our sword arms, woe onto the enemy once we meet face-to-face.”
 
#73 · (Edited)
EDIT: Made some minor edits and corrections for the last few updates :).


Mirathir collapsed from her portal into a pile of human corpses, tucked away in a small corner of the Twin Gate Outpost. The bruised lights of the immaterium called out to her from across dimensions, swirling indistinctly until it evaporated into nothing. The cries of hundreds of warriors resounded across the fortress, but for the first time in what felt similar to an eternity, there was no fighting to avoid or be apart in. There was only the fallen beside her, tangled in the ruins, with only silence to mourn their passing.

Mirathir tucked herself under a crunched Defiler, using it’s massive legs as a shield against the ashen and foul smelling winds. She winced repeatedly as she did so. Agony sprang from her two shattered ribs and bruised chest. The Seer armed with the staff, the one she had slain, had landed her blows well. Mirathir would have died had her fluid reflexes failed to kick in. She coughed up a wad of fresh blood and hawked it.

She was dying, her internals had been smashed.

“Nyst…” Her lips twitched into a smile, her thoughts turned to reminiscing. A loud rumbling noise suddenly came into hearing distance and the earth shook with it. Mirathir paid it no heed. “I shall join you soon.”

“Come to me, oh Raven…”

“I name you a prince among demonkind.”

“Every whim, every desire.”

“This is fate.”​
 
#74 ·
A howling gale blew through the Twin Gate Outpost. The stench of bloody gore and rancid death permeated its winds, stolen from the numberless dead that filled its pits and choke points. Through the tattered gates of the fortress and courtyard, one last bridge arched above the yawning abyss. The forgotten eldar of Myriell advanced once again upon the golden wraithbone bridge, inspired by the unbroken monuments of their ancestors and their silent vigil over the nexus that was broken.

The demonic assault repeatedly crashed against the overwhelming firepower of the eldar, crumbled again and again on the flanks. Yet none of the ancient commanders of Myriell could save the center from fragmenting. Brave Aspect Warriors sold their lives dearly against the demonic horde. Their blades whirled in blurred strokes, powerful ranged weapons unleashed their unchecked ferocity to create any opening, to fell any foe. And many foes did fall before their feet, but even a mere grunt such as Aryriel knew that the cost was too much.

The exile observed the full scale and carnage of the battle from high above. The Falcon Grav-Tank he was embarked upon soared across emerald skies, the rear rampart already collapsed. Behind him, Autarch Muran delivered encouragement to his new retinue. Exarch Keathan of the Crimson Serpent, Illune of the Shrouded Moon, Quyan of the Dancing Flame, and Reihan of the Venomed Fangs remained on their feet in anticipation.

“Exarchs!” Muran slammed the end of his weapon, the Spear of Khaine, onto the hull’s floor. “Gaze upon the enemy and witness the doom of a planet! Should we fail here, entire Craftworlds and solar systems shall surely follow! Fight for the future eldar generations! Fight for our gods that still live! There is nothing in this galaxy that can surpass the kindred of the stars! This Lady of the Tower shall be forever banished from our realm when our blades find her throat! Myriell and Teyl-Jhen!”

The Exarchs intoned as one. “Myriell and Teyl-Jhen.”

“Young exile,” Keathan’s voice cut sharply through his helm. Crimson light pulsed through the visor slits as he made to stand beside Aryriel at the rampart. “Make our leap together. I shall cover your back. Be certain to cover my own, would you?”

“Of course, Exarch.” The Striking Scorpion inclined his head in agreement. “The combat below is chaos, you know that we will inevitably separated at some point?”

“Wrong.” Keathan sighed with gentle snickers. “We are all united by the prey we hunt. Maintain focus and purpose, keep your footing as you fight, and your sense of direction, and we shall never be far apart. Good fortune to you, Chosen of Khaine.” The Exarch of the Crimson Serpent pointed with his two handed chainsword, the Biting Blade, into the heart of the battle as they soared overhead.

A hundred dead eldar warriors surrounded the Lady of the Tower as she fought in the very thick of the combat. Three demon-forged swords flashed across her lithe form in blurred sequences, claiming souls, burning flesh, and turning mortal vessels into piles of ash. Wherever she appeared, the Aspect Warriors became fragmented, scattered enough to fall victim to the soldiers of her horde.

The Demoness’ chest heaved with the effort of her slaying. Her arms were slick with the blood of countless fallen warriors up to her elbows. Her youthful skin was nicked with a myriad of scars, glimmering with thick teardrops of sweat. Aryriel watched as her arms slashed back and forth methodically, parried several assailants here, slew a handful of opponents with a lightning quick counter-attack there. This was the opponent he was called to face.

Muran called over the rancorous chaos of battle. “Khaine be with us!”

Keathan managed a hint of a nod before he rushed off of the rampart and into the raging combat below. Aryriel’s heart hammered in his chest suddenly, adrenaline glands unleashed their payloads into his blood before he could have second thoughts. He forced himself to leap from the gliding grav-tank, just in front of Illune, Quyan, and Reihan.

Keep your purpose as well as focus. The hunters are united by the prey they hunt, and as such are never far apart.

There was a sickening crunch from the nearest Striking Scorpion, his helm split open as if an overripe fruit from a rearing kick. The contents within burst out over the Greater Demon that claimed the kill. The earth was littered with his blood when Aryriel hit and rolled across the bridge of the Twin Gate Outpost. He caught Keathan’s slippery shadow flying over him as the world whirled by, the Biting Blade roared out in bloodlust.

Without stopping, Aryriel reached out with one hand, pushed himself up at an angle, and spun to his feet. He leapt away from a crushing claw, twirled from a razor-edged grip, and flicked his chainsword away from his chest. The blade merely cut across a demon’s beckoning palm, forced it away before it could impale him on sharpened claws.

The Centaur whirled around, it’s lashing tail bisecting several warriors that had strayed too close. Aryriel instinctively leapt over the low sweep and leaned away from the second and third whiplash attacks. An Exarch that he could not recognize leapt through space and time, the warp jump hurried him into the perfect angle to unload his Death Spinners. More Warp Spiders appeared when winged creatures dove into the fray, their claws tore into them and they were stolen away into the skies.

Illune kicked away from the head of a toppled monument to vault herself gracefully through the air toward Aryriel’s opponent. She twirled as she did so, her Mirror Blades crackled as they neatly severed through the flesh and bone of the demon’s right arm. The Exarch of the Shrouded Moon somersaulted forcefully the moment the tips of her feet met the bloody ground. The Greater Demon attempted to crush her into the earth, but Illune had already distanced herself by several feet.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins, Aryriel charged headlong into combat before Illune could throw herself into danger. Reihan appeared before he could take three steps. The power claw on his arm flexed and crackled as he rolled beneath the monster, between the Greater Demon’s stamping feet. Black ichor erupted from beneath the creature’s belly from where the claw rent through its guts. The Demon collapsed so quickly, weakly yawning in agony, that Reihan was instantly crushed under her weight. His psychic scream tore at everyone around him.

“Chosen of Khaine!” Muran called from behind him. The Autarch hefted his power spear and unleashed it like an ancient javelin. The spear tip and shaft embedded itself into one of the winged Greater Demons that continually swept down from the skies, plucked up eldar warriors, and rent them apart in mid-air. The Centaur plummeted into the bridge mere feet away. Muran raced to it to collect his weapon. “On me! Exarchs! On me!”

Illune and Keathan were the only Exarch to arrive on the Autarch’s orders. The rest had already been killed.

“Where is she?” Muran managed an arrogant, snide laugh. The Spear of Khaine came free of the unnatural corpse with a violent tug. “Where is this Lady of the Tower?” He pressed two fingers into his comm. link. “Yennali, Burieth, what is your status? … Very well, proceed with the plan. Execute the signal. Muran out.” He turned to the last survivors of his retinue. “Follow me.”
 
#75 · (Edited)
The Lady of the Tower proved so dominant against the Aspect Warriors that they were forced to merely outmaneuver and avoid her. By the time Muran had linked up with Yenalli, Burieth, and three surviving Exarchs: Durien, Cealyn, and Arennia, the Demoness had backpedaled away from the battle. Her three swords were thrust into the golden wraithbone of the bridge. Her mighty tome hovered in the emerald air over her head. Her four arms were crossed under her chest, her body heaved up and down, veins thick on her skin, and her heart raced as she inhaled for air.

“Good,” Muran mused aloud as he led his retinue through the opening in the enemy lines. “She can tire.”

Winged creatures descended upon the Autarch and his entourage, but they were met by withering fusillades from the Swooping Hawk squadrons. The few that managed to break through the blanket of cover fire were sliced into chunks by the waiting webs of the Warp Spiders. Black blood and strange gore pattered down over Aryriel’s armor as they approached the Lady.

The Demoness had no words for the eldar, not physically, at least. A smirk tugged on the corner of her lips, a minor ***** in her stoic facade. She parted her lips to reveal a slithering, forked tongue between sharp teeth. She sucked in a baited breath and expelled a keening diabolic wail. The voices began to slither into the eldar and their psyches as they approached.

Sons of fallen Asuryan….
Noble Watchers of the Universe…
The time has come for a new force to supplant the Eldar…
Bend your knees and you shall know mercy…
Or spend the rest of eternity on the edge of existence….
Eternal torment is yours…


Muran hoisted his weapon overhead, his pose challenging. “Our destinies can no longer be unraveled through fear, creature! You have played every pawn at your disposal! There can be no more avoidance of confrontation! Draw your swords! Let us put an end to this!”

As you wish.

The Lady of the Tower reacted on a level far from comprehensible to the mortal races. One moment, she stood proud in the eye of the storm, resting herself for the final assault against the craftworld eldar. In the next, all three blades had been drawn and she had already closed the distance between herself and Muran in three bounding leaps. Her three blades twirled elegantly around her as her body spun to gain momentum.

Apparently, the Autarch of Myriell was also beyond the comprehension of mortals. The Spear of Khaine rose up in his hands and neatly parried the first of the Lady’s swords. The second and third blades hurtled towards him incredibly fast, but also clanged against eldar weapons as Yennali and Burieth appeared on either of Muran’s flanks. The three demonic blades were ripped away from their opponents and came biting back as the rest of the retinue threw themselves into the fight.

The Demoness howled, weaved in between Yennali’s Executioner and Burieth’s ancient blade, and stomped mercilessly onto Durien’s knee at an angle that made it crunch. The Dire Avenger Exarch managed a split second scream of agony before the she whirled around him, the third sword cleaved his head from his shoulders. Durien’s corpse ignited instantly into flames, forcing Burieth back several steps away from Yennali.

Muran swept the Spear of Khaine from one side to the next, pushed away each serpentine thrust of the Lady’s swords with incredible reflexes. He easily slid beyond the reach of the Sword that Claimed Souls and dodged the Blade of Flames with a mighty leap forward. He allowed his momentum to carry him, too quick for the Lady outmaneuver, and plunged his crackling weapon into the soft flesh of her ribcage. The Autarch reinforced his blow with a forceful push, something visibly and audibly cracked before his feet hit the wraithbone bridge.

Keathan, Illune, and Aryriel quickly replaced the three Autarchs as Muran withdrew his weapon and retreated several steps. The Lady of the Tower worked her blades similar to clockwork. Each block and attack became so precise and well placed that it was all the Aryriel could do but to work his way around the Sword that Claimed Souls. The sword was demon forged, created in some unimaginable hellscape for a dream where nightmares were nothing more than simple pleasures. His chainsword would break as easily as a child’s toy against such a weapon.

The Striking Scorpion stretched his right leg flat to duck beneath a reversed swipe. The Lady of the Tower spun around Keathan’s thrust of his power claw and lashed out at Aryriel with a savage backward kick. Her black hoof crunched into his chest, his entire body quaked from the force, his sternum felt as if it were about to cave. When he finally came to, Aryriel found himself sprawled along the bridge, chainsword still in hand, and an awful ache in his chest.

The Demoness fought Keathan, Illune, Arennia, Yennali, Cealyn, Bureith, and Muran in a chaotic melee that seemed to be testing even her patience. Her arms cut at each of them as quickly as they could manage now, fast enough that the air sang as it was sliced open. The Sword of Ashes caught Illune as she vaulted through the air with a diagonal cut that split her neatly in half. The Swooping Hawk Cealyn rushed to take her place, relic sword in hand.

Muran managed to strike one of the three swords away from the Demoness and rolled through the screen of blades to deliver another thrust. This time the blow took the Lady through one of her calves and forced her backward several steps as Muran threw his weight into the attack.

The Lady of the Tower counter-attacked before the Autarch’s allies could mount an all out assault. She split her maw open to terrifying proportions to vomit a torrent of liquid fire at her assailants. Muran narrowly rolled aside from the attack as did Yennali. Burieth, however, was caught mid-charge and became consumed by the flames as he skidded to a halt. His screams carried on as the battle continued.

Eldritch lightning forked from the Lady’s three blades at a growled command. Muran charged again, but was halted by a unerring bolt of lightning to the chest. A shout of surprise was torn from his throat. Ornate armor peeled away as if soft layers of skin burned away by tongues of flames. His flowing cape became smoldering and ruined in an instant. A proud eldar general gazed down upon the defeated Autarch with a fierce look of pride as Muran crunched into the statue’s foundation.

The Spear of Khaine clambered away from its master’s possession. It was all Muran could do but to prop himself up against the statue, wheeze sharply, then gaze down upon the smoking, bloody ruin that had been carved into his chest. His head lolled quickly after, his last sputtering breaths amplified by his helm, before he became forever still.

Cealyn suffered a similar fate and was torn from the air by another bolt. An arc of lightning pulverized Keathan before he could charge into battle with the Lady once more. Only Arennia and Yennali were alive to carry on the fight.

Yennali retraced her steps backward to gain distance. “Where the hell is Xehia!?”

“We cannot worry about that now!” Arennia shouted as she made to stand beside her commander. “Yennali, you are Autarch now. We are overcome! You must call a retreat!”

“A retreat?” Yennali hissed scathingly. “ To where? There is no other exit here than death.”

Farseer Mae’s voice came through the channels. "The Darkness spreads, the beacon of light that is Tyrannus shall become consumed, perverted, defiled. Fate is cruel to manipulate us to such an end, but we must persevere and endure. Autarch Yennali, order a retreat of your warriors. There is one remaining Webway gate that will take your forces to friendlier shores: Teyl-Jhen. Though if any of us are to see its shores again, sacrifices must be made. I trust you know what must be done."

The Lady of the Tower remained stationary as the eldar considered their plight mere feet away. They gazed upon her with fear that ran rampant in their hearts. Aryriel finally forced himself to his feet as Arennia slowly began to back away from the demon queen. Yennali was cursing beneath her breath, but finally relented and joined them in their retreat. The Lady of the Tower merely folded her arms triumphantly and gestured toward the Bridge of the Leviathan. Their exit.

Squadrons Bound Serpent, Twin Moons, and Implacable, begin immediate evacuation of the Twin Gate Outpost… Squadron Radiant Spear, continue aerial support for ground forces. I am ordering a retreat, I shall provide coordinates momentarily. All reserve forces, prepare for immediate evacuation, I repeat, immediate evacuation. “
 
#76 · (Edited)
A mournful silence fell upon the Twin Gate Outpost in the waning hours of the final confrontation. There was no sense of passing time in the Ghost Crypts, but something noticeably changed in the decrepit air. The emerald light that pervaded the caverns dissipated as quickly as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. A night shroud descended upon the Bridge of the Leviathan, a darkness that lingered and suffocated all it ensnared. Only the feeble screams of the dying shattered it’s reverie of quiet contemplation.

The surviving cultists of the Forlorn’s Beginning were scattered across the fortress and the Bridge of the Leviathan, lit by the glow of their makeshift pyres. Hundreds of human servants and their demonic overlords worked in tandem to overturn every broken stone and heap of wreckage for wounded foes and friends alike. It proved a gruesome and bleak task, foraging through the battle’s aftermath, but they went along with their work in reverent silence.

The Webway Gate could still be seen from where Mirathir had tucked herself away from the battle. The swirling nexus crackled and vented channeled energies from time to time, but nothing stopped the demonic army from marching orderly through the tattered gateway. Small bands of roving demons simply lost their will to carry on the fight after their victory had become reality. They casually returned through the portal, back into the embrace of immaterium. No one halted them or even spared them a glance.

Mirathir was drowsy and numb all over, but finally dragged herself free from the hidden alley and onto the grim battlefield. The Twin Gate Outpost was a scene captured from a dire nightmare, one that the eldar narrowly escaped. She had kept herself cloaked in shadow as Craftworld Myriell’s warriors were broken and overran. Their aerial support had dared numerous attempts to keep the horde at bay as a fleet of transports arrived to whisk the tattered remains of the eldar Warhost back to safety.

Teyl-Jhen. Such a crown jewel would prove far more impregnable than any ruined webway nexus. They could rest themselves easy, for the time being. The Eldar’s part in Tyrannus’ story was at an end. There was no reason to further worry about their interference.

The earth quaked rhythmically beneath Mirathir’s feet as a long shadow eclipsed her own. The sound of an erratic tongue moving between teeth slithered into her pointed ears. Something released a calm sigh, inhaled quietly.

Mirathir dared not to look upon her master as she turned around, but instead collapsed onto her knees in a groveling bow. Her body writhed from within with agony. She gasped the words far less proudly than she desired. “My Lady, I did not hear you approach.” She dared look up from the courtyard floor.

The Lady of the Tower raised her pointed chin slightly. She glared down the bridge of her nose, amused curiosity glinted in her eyes. Her voice was one that commanded armies beyond reality, not one for enthralling the pitiful with it’s sing-song beauty. “Mirathir, you are wounded.” The Demoness clucked her tongue. Her expression feigned pity. “Death should mean nothing for the Raven. It lives to gorge itself on fields of burned fat and mouldering flesh. It is the omen heralded across the galaxy. For, my dear prophet, there shall always be wars, death, and slaughter across the universe. So long as there are Gods that champion such purposes and mortals races that serve them.”

“My Lady -”

The Demoness chuckled mildly. “Ba’zariah is my desired title. The name you use is nothing but fantasy for pitiful mortals, hoping for a mere glimpse of my glory. I think I spoiled them too much on this day. I should try to be more reclusive. And do lighten your mood, my dear prophet, for you are not among the dying nor the dead.”

“Am I not, Ba’zariah?” Mirathir pushed herself up to her knees, sucked in a weary breath. She felt her eyes flutter for the dozenth time. “Am I not mortal? Your blessings shall not take me until I experience death.”

Ba’zariah’s toothy maw split into a curious smile. “Does that frighten you so? Is that what you truly believe your master would desire, Mirathir? That I would have you face your ultimate fear? See you grovel and prostrate yourself for your reward? I have already given you everything you have asked of me. It all depends on what you believe and your decision of what to ultimately do with what I’ve given you. Tell me what it is that ails you.”

“I…” Mirathir arched her brow as she felt a jolt of increasing pressure in her wounds. The burst of feeling was agonizing at first, such was the explosion of internal activity. The pain subsided moments later, her cheeks flushed as blood suddenly returned to her veins. She searched her limbs and realized that the bloody marks that had once existed there were now completely erased. She searched Ba’zariah’s knowing stare for an answer. “How is this possible? Am I no longer mortal? What am I?”

Ba’zariah chuckled to herself coolly. “You are whatever you desire to be, my prophet, for faith and symbols pertaining to it come in many forms. Learn the powers that I have gifted to you. It will take you some time. In the meantime, we must consolidate our strength before marching on the surface. I am curious to judge the progress of your allies. Organize what is left of your following and let us discover what secret paths shall take us to the desired location.”

“Be-zariah,” Mirathir swallowed as she slowly stood, astonished. “The Imperials that were on route to the Bridge of the Leviathan… why have they not shown? With their own power combined with the Eldar of Myriell, they would have easily outmatched us.”

Ba’zariah’s gaze shifted toward the Bridge of the Leviathan. “The humans will not be arriving here, ever. Does that alleviate your concern?”

“It does.” Mirathir nodded. “Though I wonder how you could have managed such a scheme and won this battle simultaneously. Yet it is not my place to pry. I shall organize what is left of my followers.”

Ba'zariah's smile betrayed an underlying wickedness. "While I was never concerned to begin with, I fear we have not heard the last defying cries of this planet. The time has come for silencing such voices. Let us throw away acts of caution and join the invasion on the surface. We shall be a clamoring horde, brazen in our slaughter and proud in our conquests. Before the first fires of warfare gutter out, Tyrannus shall soon realize that it’s woes are only just beginning.”
 
#77 ·
I want to provide my compliments on this engaging series, you've done a wonderful job! On a macro-basis I did get a little lost with the locations. It took a little bit to catch up that the Raven and the forces from Tyel-Jhen were racing (warp-jumping) for a location under the surface of Tyrannus and not somewhere in Commorragh. There are also a couple places where it's not quite clear that The Raven is a corrupted Craftworld Eldar who's just using humans as cannon fodder, since some of the Dark Eldar appear to refer to The Raven as 'Mon-keigh".

Overall, a tremendous scope of the tale and having a Craftworld Eldar follow a non-Pantheon Chaos God(?) is really something... bends the conventional views all to hell :) Thank you and I look forward to the continuation!
 
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