Lord Tyrioc of the Thousand Sons flickered unstably, his holographic reflection depicting him somewhere far away from his display. He was silent for long moments, bent at the knees before an altar of the Great Changer. There was without a doubt, that when he did speak, the quiver in his voice was from silent rage.
Tyrioc’s voice echoed as a soft peal of thunder through his hallow chamber. “Of all the planes of existence that you have travelled, the dream-like worlds that you have seen, you dare unveil your alien nature in my presence? The gall of the eldar must truly know no bounds if you appear before me, unbroken and unbent, with your arms cast wide open in greeting and face smiling with welcome. You should be dead, Mirathir, which would be a small mercy if you had the bravery to visit me personally.”
“Lord Tyrioc.” Mirathir feigned a courteous smile in spite of the open threat. She bowed merely to appease the Thousand Son’s bruised ego. She felt no fear at his cutting words. “It is so good to finally know that you are in good health.”
“Hah!” A sound of quaking vibration emitted from the hologram as Tyrioc found his feet. The Adeptus Astartes was garbed in his sacrificial robes of luminous white, sapphire, and golden bands that decorated his sleeves and leggings and turned a solid almost limestone white at the midriff. He turned on his heel, revealing large eyes the color of the ocean through a mess of short, cascading blonde hair. A genuine smirk played on the edge of his lips. “Your catastrophic defeat has done little to lessen that sharp sense of humor of yours, Mirathir. I had always liked that about you.”
Mirathir quirked a brow, but her expression remained stoic. “Are you not in good health, my lord?”
“This physical vessel is whole,” Tyrioc glided over to a pristine opal table with a gilded trim. He picked up a glass of wine that frothed with a misty chill. “Yet my soul is ravished by the thought of revenge – upon you and the imperials of the world of Tyrannus. Vengeance that I have been wrongly denied. You promised the Thousand Sons a victory to last an eternity, Mirathir! What became of it? Instead, we found humiliation from a renewed, desperate foe and imminent defeat.”
“Apologies, my lord,” Mirathir replied slowly. Her ire was rising. “For saying what must be said. Yet you among all people should have known the risk of your strategy. You blatantly ignored the chance of failure that damned our war effort from the very beginning. And the Thousand Sons were not the only ones to suffer from humiliation and defeat. An alliance is an existence of two factions working in cooperation with one another. Ours failed. Both the Forlorn’s Beginning and your own Astartes share the blame, casualties, and dishonor. Is that not enough for you to call a truce and hear my words?”
The glass in Tyrioc’s fist turned into shards with a simple contraction of the fingers. “You desire to renew your war upon Tyrannus? I shall spare you some paltry advice: your eternal mission has failed Mirathir. In time, the Imperials shall scourge you and your precious little religion as they have with everything that has threatened them before… with the flames of purity and retribution.”
Mirathir’s smirk was an icy glare. “Should that come to pass, then inevitably they shall burn you too. The invasion of Tyrannus is more famed for the Thousand Sons’ part than any lowly cult.”
Tyrioc waved a hand dismissively. “How does your little oath go again, Raven Prophet?
“I am power.
“With your power, I am your servant.
“I am ethereal.
“With your blessings, I am no longer mortal.
“I am favored.
With your attention, I shall bring thy armies forth.
“I am blessed by the Gods.
“With your endless sacrifice, we pay tribute.
“I am immortal.
“With your benevolent wisdom, we make our endless war.
“I am demonic.
“With your words, we honor the Gods.
“Through your Gods, does the galaxy burn.”
Mirathir blinked, surprised. “I did not think Astartes would lower themselves to learning simple cult prayers, but I am pleased that you remember.”
“The meaning behind that is,” Tyrioc said darkly. “That whatever is spewed forth from the Eye of Terror can never truly die. For all of your prayers, Raven Prophet, you have never set foot there. And as such, I cannot name you amongst Those-Who-Walk-Eternity. Perhaps, you should begin concerning yourself about your own wellbeing. Because I believe, that you are not as immortal as you think you are.”
Mirathir became outraged. But only a venomous whisper emitted from her throat. “So you shall not come to my aid, after all.”
“No.” Tyrioc shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Go ahead, explain your predicament. I will consult the Changer of Ways and should you have a merit of worth in his eternal scheme, only then will I come to your aid.”
An invisible snake coiled around Mirathir’s heart and finally relaxed its grip. Mentally, the Raven Prophet was smiling. She had the Thousand Son where she desired him.