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Mysteries of the Tuatha Pt 1
🕑 Added 2023-10-23 23:31:28 +0000 UTCElsewhere in the Galaxy, in the decades following the birth of Dhia Albain…
642.M41
Eldrad stepped out of the webway gate onto a battlefield: Par Nabhat. The mountain ranged burned with gunfire, and ash filled the skies. Climbing the sides of the mountains were the armies of the damned: chaos astartes of the Unforgiving Lions, fallen get of the Dark Angels, rising over each and every slope like a raging wildfire.
Against them stood the Clans of Nabhat. The invasion was recent: the world spirit and its people not yet exhausted. Worldsingers turned every inch of grass into blades sharp as singing spears, calling forth the great pachyadons of the world to march against the enemy like living siege engines, and even make the very stone turn against their foe by swallowing them whole, forcing the astartes to waste time digging themselves out. Their lorekeepers brought down great gouts of psychic fire and surges of lightning, or else conjuring shields of energy to protect themselves.
And their warriors rode, atop Pterodrake armed with wraithbone arrow or on the ground, dragon-riders charging forward with spears of wraithbone and, curiously, silver, furious, fearless, meeting the surging tide over and over in clash after class.
It was a battle they were losing, however: each skirmish ended with a brief retreat, more and more of their numbers sacrificed to whittle down the hulking masses of humanity. If the battle ended the way his visions had foretold, the world would fall. Worse yet, it would begin a series of events that would end with a craftworld shattered and several other exodite worlds set ablaze.
Which was why he sought to change that series of events. Mere moments after he stepped onto the field of battle, Eldrad began to move, moving to the location he had seen in his visions, firing off bolt after bolt of psychic energy from the Staff of Ulthwé, each one reducing one such foe to hot vapor, even as throughout the battlefield, more portals opened, allowing the cohort of Black Guardians that Eldrad had taken with him to enter the fray. Alone, the people of the Craftworld would have slowly attrited over the battle: now, with the forward march of the astartes halted as they found themselves flanked, it was likely that casualties, while severe, would be survivable.
Now, he merely had to find his target, and perhaps that branch of fate might be severed entirely. Distantly over a ridge, he spotted his quarry: a monumental marine, their mutations having granted them extreme gigantism, leaving the brute the size of a dreadnought. Roaring with the head of a blood-red maned lion, their fangs dripping corrosive venom, the warlord swung a titanic warhammer, each blow cleaving rock and sundering stone as they attempted to slay the ruler of the world, King Ghallok, the Exoditi barely avoiding each of the titanic sweeping swings of the giant pillar of chaos corrupted adamantium the Marine considered a blade: already, Eldrad could the King beginning to tire, their blows merely bouncing off the warlords sootstained ceramite.
Barely avoiding the crackle of a blade, Eldrad sliced with his staff, cutting through the armor of a marine even as he continued forward, bobbing and weaving his way through the battlefield, leaving no motion wasted, every step, every lean, every flick of his wrist measured in order to maximize efficiency of flow, the Farseer drawing upon their ability to glean the future to guide their body by predicting what must be done, where he must step before he knows it, where he must lean before the enemy has even swung their blade, where he must flick his blade to kill the obstacles in the way: he wouldn’t be able to save the King, but should Leonard the Barbarous succeed in wiping out the royal line of Nabhat, the subsector would fall to ruin as there would no longer be anyone capable of opening a certain lock. If he could kill the marine, he might be able to avert this future by at least saving the kings children.
Reaching the edge of the ridge, the Eldar flung themselves off, feet landing in the soil below, hardened and dry from the heat of the flames, watching as Ghallok found themselves unable to dodge a blow entirely, the Kings eyes going wide as the blade used by the marine passed through their arm, lopping it off and causing a spray of glittering red blood, the King stumbling, opening themselves up to a kick by the giant, causing them to go flying, bouncing against the ground three times before coming to a stop.
Eldrad wasn’t quick enough to intervene, not from his current location. Grimly as he closed the distance, he watched as the marine charged, roaring as it attempted to stomp the kings prone form to death…
Only for the giant to stagger as their advance found itself halted by their ankles being seized by metal thorns emerging from the ground to stop his charge. Stumbling, Leonard would would fall to the ground. “What trickery is this?” The warlord roared, ripping vine after vine off of themselves, the barbs not sharp enough to pierce the armor but strong and fast growing enough to frustrate the leonine astartes.
Yes, that was a question that Eldrad wondered about as well. Still, they didn’t have time to dwell: this presented a unique opportunity. Finally getting within range, Eldrad swung his staff, Leonard barely managing to deflect the weapon, the runes on the beasts blade glowing with eldritch power. “You!” The Astartes howled, body glowing with a fierce heat as their mane came alight, the monster snarling as they ripped their way free of the net. “You dare interrupt my glorious victory? I will have your head Aeldari, and feast on your bones!” Eldrad bent backwards, barely avoiding a swipe of the weapon, simultaneously twisting his lower body to avoid a vicious kick from the space marine even as their arm contorted, firing a bolt of psychic energy, causing it to hit Leonard hard enough to send the beast skidding backwards, feet bracing and thus creating trenches from the displaced dirt as they came to a halt.
“Many had said they will have my head before you,” Eldrad drawled, giving a lazy spin of his staff. “And yet so far, none have succeeded. I do not think you will successfully break this trend, Mon’keigh, though I invite you to try if you think yourself fortunate enough.”
Out of the corner of his eye while this exchange occured, he saw Ghallok begin to rise, slowly, the Eldar clearly in pain and clutching at the stump where their arm once had been. Beyond him, he could see the battle shifting: a line had broken and Leonard had reinforcements approaching quickly. If the battle continued as it was, it was likely that they would intercept the king and kill him before the battles end.
Leonard gave a bullish roar of frustration, attempting to charge down Eldrad, who merely sidestepped the attack, flicking his staff cutting through the ceramite of the giant like soft putty, a gout of hot blood spraying, not that the injury stopped the astartes, who spun, attempting to slam his weapon down where Eldad had been a moment ago, their eyes going wide when Eldrads fist impacted their face, causing their head to swerve and their teeth to crack. When the giant responded instinctively by trying to grab where Eldad had been standing when they struck him, his hands instead wrapped around empty space and a bomb. Not one enough to hurt the Marine- not yet, at least- but more than enough to make them angry. When the head of the astartes emerged from the smoke, they saw, just out of their reach, Eldrad, giving a jaunty wave.
“Good effort, but sadly no lho-stick, as some Mon’Keigh say. Would you like to try again?” Eldrad drawled, causing Leonard to give a howl of frustration, the giant hefting and throwing their blade at Eldrad, causing it to sail through the air…right above Eldrad, who merely leaned backward, smirking as the sword impacted the Astartes approaching the king well before Eldrad had predicted them to arrive, sliding into their bodies and sending them flying with the weapon, the three objects eventually collapsing onto the ground, the pair of marines dead as the proverbial door nail.
Just. As. Planned. “Goodness me, you killed your own men! How clumsy of you,” Eldrad said with false, mocking surprise, barely avoiding the fist that had been aimed at his head, the appendage moving with enough force to create a small gust of wind.
“Stand still and face your death, Eldar!” The Marine howled, forcing Eldrad to contort again to avoid another kick, then stepping backward, leaving another bomb where they had once stood, detonating it, causing Leonard to slam against the stone of the mountain, their chestplate blasted open to reveal the biomesh that served as the astartes ribcage. “You-” A spurt of blood emerged from their mouth as Eldrad buried the spear in their chest, bringing it down and slicing through their torso to their ground, before cleanly stepping back to avoid the clumsy, confused sweep by the Astartes, the motion causing their guts to begin to spill loose, plopping one by one onto the ground.
One step. Two step. Fall. Just. As. Planned. Turning, Eldrad moved to the King, who had been attempting to limp away. “Here, your majesty, let me help you,” Eldrad said, grasping the king by the shoulder and allowing the ruler to lean on him.
“Thank you…” The king gasped, their stump still bleeding. “Need to get to…to Ambata…” He said, pointing away, to a direction Eldrad recognized as being the general vicinity of a fortress built upon the world: no doubt where the defense was being led from.
Eldrad sent outa psychic command to his Black Guard, giving them covering fire as the Farseer began to escort the king to safety. There was a webway gate in Ambata, he knew: he merely had to get the king away from the battlefield, and he would have won.
And then, he could begin gathering answers. The King had not been meant to survive: all of Eldrads attempt to dredge the well of possibility had revealed no version of events where the King survived.
He had been deceived by prophecy before, but typically that was through misdirection, technicalities, or missing context. Rarely had it shown him outright falsehood: it could deceive, but it was never almost wrong.
The last time it had been…
The Farseer shivered.
((((()))))
“It will not be long before they return,” Ghallok said grimly, passing Eldrad the bowl, filled with some sort of ritual drug used by the planet before important negotiations, the Eldar taking a sip before handing it back to the Monarch. Eldrad would immediately feel the mind altering chemicals seep into his brain. Already, his perception shifted, wavering: not enough to make him unlucid, but enough to help relax him. “My interrogators say they have another ship following in their wake.”
The pair sat naked except for mere modesty skirts in the hot-room of the fortress, Ghalloks stump having affixed to it a prosthesis made of shining silver. Something about the material made Eldrads senses twitch: it was living, yet not. Taking a sip of his own from the bowl, the King set it onto the stone pedestal between them, which slowly retracted into the ground: thus concluded an important part of this worlds chief peace ritual.
“Yes, but at least we drove them off and bought time,” Eldrad responded, giving a slight bow of his head, enjoying the sensation of the hot steam on his bare skin, giving a roll of his neck and stretching his long, slender arms upward, the heat pleasant on his muscles. “And now you know of the upcoming attack.” And would, of course, be looking for allies.
“Mmm,” Ghallok said, nodding. “I have already sent word out. Already, the forces of two other Exoditi worlds have promised aid,” He said stretching and bending his metal arm, curling it as if he was attempting to flex his bicep, bare pectoral tensing as a look of intense concentration overtook the Eldar, before relaxing, at attempt to tighten muscles that no longer existed.
“Might I inquire about the arm?” Eldrad asked, fishing for information. It seemed to be made of the same material as the thorns: so far, he had been unable to learn anything. Every time he attempt to divine the truth, his sight found itself not working. It was as if there existed something clouding the tapestry of fate: the only time he had encountered a similar phenomena, it was when dealing with the works of the Cold Ones. “It does not appear to be wraithbone,” They commented.
“Hrrm. No. Biometal,” Ghallok commented, lowering the arm. “You want to know where it came from and why your visions failed, don’t you?” The king asked, causing Eldrad to blink in surprise. Quickly, he attempted to figure out what to say, eventually landing on the truth.
“Yes,” Eldrad answered honestly. “I know my name has little cachet with the Children of Kurnuous,” They admitted. “But if you the full extent of my capabilities, you would understand perhaps why I’m so concerned.” To say nothing of the other examples they could draw forth from for when similar events occurred.
The king let out a hum. “They were a gift by Dhia Albain,” They said. “It’s called Biometal: a gift of the elementals of the Tuatha.” Eldrad raised an eyebrow. Dhia Albain…he had heard the name before, whispered here and there. A goddess, supposedly: details had been scarce, but apparently a sect of Exoditi had begun to worship the figure as a goddess of magic, claiming she granted great power. Eldrad had assumed that she was merely a particularly powerful Worldsinger who had managed to amass her own cult of personality, but if she was related to the phenomena…
“The Tuatha?” He inquired, noting the last word.
“Old childrens tales,” Ghallok muttered. “Magical small folk who live in a hidden fairie world: I thought it once a myth, and yet whenever I inquired myself, the answer never wavered, nor did they explain further. Yet they must be at least some kernel of truth, elsewise how does one explain how they so thoroughly confound the seers?”
“You act like you knew the phenomena beforehand,” Eldrad accused, fishing for awnsers, causing Ghallok to shrug.
“You are not the first farseer who has come looking for answers,” Ghallok responded, snapping his fingers, causing the door to the hot room to open, a member of the clan bringing in a box, carved from some strange crystalline azure-wood. “Five times before have other craftworlders came to my court. Five times have I shown them the items I was given.” The box opened, and Eldrads eyes widened.
Inside were four objects. The first was a gem, one not quite like any Eldrad had ever seen before: one that hummed with a strange energy, movements in its glowing green core that almost resembled the organic pulse of a heart. One that, according to his arcane senses, was possessed of a soul, and a strong one, not wholly unlike an occupied spirit stone. “Lumium.”
The second item at first resembled some sort of nut: large as the gem, it was only after a moment of study that Eldrad noticed the strange calligraphy on it, faintly glowing sigils that glimmered and danced. “A Techtalikismaon.”
The third item almost a blacked cup, one crafted out of what Eldrad immediately and alarmingly recognized as necrodermis: a deep basin, embossed with purple glowing script on its outside, atop a circuitry lined stalk sitting on a flat base. The inside glowed with a strange light, and an uncanny pink mist swirled from its brim. “Demiurges Chalice.”
The fourth was a sphere of sorts, one that resembled a miniature planet: on its surface he could see tiny continents rise and fall into thin oceans. On these microcontinents he could see grow, live, and die in seconds what appeared to be miniature woods with trees no larger than a few centimeters here and there, continent stretching grasslands no bigger than Eldrads palms, and if he looked closer he was fairly certain he could see mite sized creatures crawling through these biomes. Despite its oddness, the thing emitted a soothing aura, and Eldrad felt the pressure around his soul lightening ever so slightly. “The Planet D’Aeon.”
“These…” Eldrad whispered looking them over, furrowing his eye brows. “Truely, they wouldn’t tell you where they came from?” He asked, fascinated, his eyes lingering over the orb: gently he raised and brought his hand to its surface, noting that it seemed to be surrounded by some sort of invisible field, as his fingers would encounter some sort of resistance as they neared.
“No, never,” Ghallok said, shrugging. “The only thing I can tell you: last the priest who gave it to me was seen, he was traveling. He was hunting a daemon prince of considerable terror: Kraul Goldskull.”
((((()))))
The Daemon Prince was aptly named: golden skinned, it almost looked like a parody of the religious icons of the Mon’Keigh, held aloft by feathers white as snow, attached to a human-ish figure, skin porcelain pale and without blemish, each abdominal muscle lovingly carved, leading to a head stripped of flesh by the molten gold that bubbled and dripped from the top of the daemons skull, adorned with a shining, barbed halo formed of glowing thorns.
Both of its hands ended in stigmatas, bleeding claws, each having a raw, oozing hole stabbed through the middle, the gnarled and blackened talons at the end of its hand the only obvious sign of the creatures false holy-ness.
Created from an Imperial Saint who had been lauded for founding some of the greatest shrine worlds of the sector who had found themselves decanonized after death by political rivals, the creature was surrounded by its worshippers, human cultists who fought with supernatural grace and sensuality belying their empty, vacant, happy gaze, mouths stitched shut and ears seared off.
The battlefield was a human world: the Shrine World of Sangri Sanctica. The Daemon currently fought on a field of hundreds of thousands: rebellion against the Imperium, formented by the Daemon, a favored tactic of it from what he could divine: ever since his daemonization, Kraul had begun corrupting worlds by posing as the spirit of a saint, using what little remnants of holy power he still held to create great cults in his honor by posing as an icon of worship, a holy servant of their emperor who offered paradise in exchange for subjugation. Many times had they turned these cult armies against the Eldar, butchering them both to feast on their souls, and in the name of their professed god: while his metaphysical allegiance had changed, his politics had not. That alone made slaying him of interest to Eldrad.
“Yessss my children, retake this worlds from the heretics in the name of your Emperor!” The Daemon hissed as his servants marched against the faithful of the world, the dark spirit reaching into a bowl held aloft by a servant girl whose back had been reduced to flayed, bleeding meat, the daemon pulling out a single chestnut and consuming it. “Those who have sinned against me must be purified in holy flame, each and all, and all false saints must be cast down! Embrace the ecstasy of zealotry and martyr thyselves, and your Lord of Pyres shall give you sublime pleasures in the hereafter!”
The daemons laugh echoed as carnage echoed…only to scream as a plasma grenade detonated in their face blinding them, their guard being cut down by the Black Guardians emerging from the portals. “Wicked xenos! You dare interfere in my apotheosis?” Kraul roared, reaching into his bowl and pulling out a handful of chestnuts, throwing them blindly.
Those who were struck by the caryopsid fruits would die in moments, their bellies swelling and eventually bursting in an explosion of gore as Daemonettes emerged from their corpses, ones whose skin was anointed with silvered oils and bodies adorned with defiled articles of imperial faith pinned to pristine togas made from what would otherwise look like luxury silk were it not for the faces that stretched from beneath the fabrics, visages locked into expression of divine rapturous pleasure. Each of these impressions resembled the faces upon the corpses the daemonettes had once emerged from.
The chestnuts that hit the ground meanwhile would cause it to blacken and bubble, becoming soft and hot and tarlike, the occasional limb, long, slender and human-like to reach up and attempt to grab at whoever passed, whether to immobilize them or pull them into the spreading ooze. “Go, my children! Go and reap a wicked feast in the name of your father! Fetch me their souls so that I might punish these vermin for their trespasses against the human order!”
Crying out, the Daemonettes stormed across the battlefield…
Quickly finding themselves cut down by the mines that Eldrad had buried ten hours before the battle began that had only mere moments ago been primed: the remainer found themselves decapitated moments after they manifested by the hidden snipers with shuriken rifles Eldrad had hidden across the battlefield underneath holo-field equipped hunting stands.
“Hello there,” Eldrad said, finally disabling his own holo-cloak, giving a lazy grin as, in the background, the sound of nuclear detonations taking out the fortifications of Krauls cult could be heard, along with distant mushroom clouds. “I’ve been waiting for you to leave your temple. Now, before I kill you, I have a few q-”
Kraul threw a chestnut at him with enough force to cause a thundercrack, Eldrad leaning back even as they reached out with a special implement to catch the chestnut safely, the long handled utensil crafted out of a single material, stainless steel, the implement ending in a wide, somewhat shallow basined head, the tool otherwise generally straight.
A short silence reigned as the Daemon stared, gobstruck at the fact its projectile had been caught by a spoon, jaw dropping. The moment only lasted a few seconds however before Eldrad flicked his wrist, sending the chestnut flying back into the now open mouth of the daemon, lodging itself in its throat, causing it to begin choking.
Pounding on its chest, it took exactly one minute ten seconds for it to eventually dislodge the chestnut, giving gasping coughs. “You foul, disgusting- I will have your soul- destroy your craftworld- You will PAY for this!”
“You are not a fighter. Your apotheosis was for stewardship and diplomacy, or at least what passes for it: even now that you serve the Dark Prince, that hasn’t changed. You rely on servants to fight for you, servants that are now dying en mass across the planet. You are, literally, no threat to me, Daemon-”
“I AM NOT A DAEMON!” The Daemon screamed bilefully startling Eldrad as it grabbed their serving girl by the neck, the cultists dazed and happy look not fading even as her flesh began to boil and twist, bones breaking and knitting and growing and shrinking as muscles bended to force each piece into a new frame, creating from her body a scythe made of blood, bone, and flesh, her face still having the same expression on it even as a wicked blade emerged from their mouth formed from their gigantic, quickly ossifying tongue, the stitching on their mouth bursting apart as a result, allowing the cultist to sound out muffled, indecipherable hymns of joy through their tongue wrenched-open mouth. “I AM CHOSEN BY HIS MAJESTY! A SAVIOR FOR HUMANITY!” They roared as they charged Eldrad, who, surprised, barely avoided the frenzied swing of the edged weapon as he realized that the denial about his corruption the Daemon espoused might possibly be genuine delusion. “CANONIZED FOR MY GREAT WORKS AND CENTURIES OF SERVICE! RECOGNIZED BY THE EMPEROR HIMSELF! YOU CANNOT TAKE THAT AWAY! CLAUDUS CANNOT TAKE THAT AWAY!”
It was all Eldrad could do to avoid or block with his staff the frenzied, angered swings, each attack putting him further and further on the back foot. Some uncanny effect possessed the daemons weapon with eldritch durability, meaning that unlike lesser material the Staff of Ulthwe could not simply cut through it. Calling upon his vast psychic power, he attempted to fling the Daemon back, only for the creature to be surrounded by a brilliant golden aura, the remains of what holy might the creature had once been given by the god emperor flaring to life to abjure the wave of psychic force. “Foolish xeno, the God Emperor protects me from your witchcraft! Even now, he sees that I am still holy! Still worthy!” The Daemon said rapturously. Reacting quickly, Eldrad took the opposite tack, using psychic kinesis to instead fling HIMSELF backward at a speed and velocity that was fast enough to allow him to -barely- avoid the swing that would have severed his head from his shoulders, putting a great deal of space between himself and his foe.
Well. That hadn’t been as planned. The foe was fast: fast enough that even with his divinatory strength- something that was fading in the face of the daemons anti-psychic field, which Eldrad hadn’t realized it possessed- not being entirely enough to earn an edge.
This was not as planned. He had to figure out a way to change the tide of the battle and kill the daemon quickly- answers be damned- or he was going to wind up with his soul in a daemons stomach.
Thankfully, he was not alone, nor was he completely bereft of preparations for the potentiality of his plan failing. Eldrad would out a telepathic message, and the daemon immediately found himself surrounded by a storm squadron, the black carapaced soldiers stepping out from webway gates surrounding the daemon, each armed with a shuriken pistol and wraithbone blade, even as the many snipers around the battlefield switched target. As a result, Kraul found themselves subjected to a hail of monomolecular plasticrystal as well as an assault by a dozen close range combat experts.
Kraul moaned, swinging their weapon, daemonically tough flesh being very shallowly pierced by the shuriken weapons, lacerations bleeding rich, thick wine. “Foolish foolish foolish: your cuts and scrapes are nothing to one who has already subjected themselves to the ecstasy of true penance. What pain are your stabs to one whose devotion was so thorough, they flagellated away all the flesh of their face?” His scythe passed through an unfortunate guardian who hadn’t been able to dodge in time, and Eldrad watched in horror as the soldiers body staggered backward, revealing a hole where their chest had once been, filled with splinters of bone and broken spirit stone, before slowly collapsing, withering away into mere shadow as the poor wretches soul found itself devoured by the cackling, goldskulled daemon even as their scythes jaw was wrenched open just enough for it to begin consuming the unfortunate eldars internal organs, which hung from the scythes mouth dangling and bouncing like a psychotic string pasta slowly being slurped up.
“So ARROGANT: just because I was canonized for my works of peace, you assumed that I am weak,” The daemon jeered, abjuring another psychic blast from the Farseer even as a guardian lept upon their back, stabbing their blade through the daemons neck, only for it to casually grab the unfortunate warrior and rip her away from her now stuck weapon kicking and screaming to the daemons maw, the creature biting down on the aeldari’s skull and pulling away to reveal a stump, before the guardians carcass was discarded like rubbish by the ever grinning daemon. “The Imperium does not tolerate weakness: like all sons of the Emperor, I am strong and faithful, and like all soldiers of his army I have made sure to hone my body into a weapon to slay his enemies with, for it is through our strength and faith that we are made righteous in his eyes, and through murder are we made holy.”
This was going worse and worse. Eldrad was about to order a retreat: at this point the Daemons army had been damaged to the point its loss was essentially assured regardless, which in turn meant its banishment was liable to occur as well.
It was at that moment that the battle found itself interrupted by the daemon crying out as a fissure opened beneath them mid-step, causing them to stumble forward even as SOMETHING impacted their back and exploded, sending the daemon slamming into the ground. “What-” Was all the Daemon could get out before the battlefield found itself covered in a thick, obscuring fog, one Eldrad could see through only because of their arcane abilities. In it, marching across the battlefield, reaping a grim tide were Eldar Warriors, though not ones Eldrads recognized, carrying weapons and armor of gleaming biometal. For a brief second, he saw one of these warriors slay a corrupted Mon’Keigh with a dagger, and his eyes widened as he sensed the weapon ripping out part of its victims souls.
“No! My children! What witchcraft is this? What are you doing to their spirits?” The daemon screamed, sensing it as well, calling upon their arcane strength to force them to a standing position, bellowing as it rushed down one of these warriors…
Only to find its weapon bouncing off what appeared to be a web of light, one that appeared only partially and only for a fraction of a second, a complex maze of arcane energy that deflected the blow long enough for a chunk of stone to hit the daemon, sending them flying back. “The same thing we intend to do to you: killing them and taking their spirit for Dhia Albain, or at least denying them from your masters,” Said a voice, and some of the fog found itself dispelled, revealing an eldar youth, clad in the robes of an Exoditi Lorekeeper, fashioned from a brilliant crimson cloth that radiated heat, with the chest and limbs covered in plates of biometal studded with lumium gems and plates of what appeared to be stone. In their right hand they held a staff formed of twisting bark and branch, ending in what at first Eldrad mistook for red lumium, except that the energy this gem emanated felt…wrong, somehow. Angry. Dark. Malevolent. It was as if someone had taken the essence of curses and somehow condensed it into a physical material, the wood around it growing dark and thorny.
In their other hand, they had a dagger. Like the others, this one was made of biometal. However, it was bigger, and appeared shinier: at times Eldrad was sure it almost glowed with strange knotted runes, and as the Lorekeeper gave it a lazy twirl, he heard a ringing noise emanate from it. “More filthy xenos? If you think your petty magics will aid you, you are sorely mistaken,” The daemon growled. “As your friend has already learned, the God Emperor protects me from all witchcraft born of the wa-”
A searing blast of energy emerged from the Lorekeepers staff, and the Daemon screamed as it punctured his gut, the creature only barely able to raise their scythe in time to avoid being struck by the Eldars dagger.
“What?” Kraul said, dumbfounded, stomach leaking more wine mixed with water, their puzzlement mirroring Eldrads confusion. Still, best to not question why the proverbial Drukhari were fighting alongside you upon the gates and focus more on dealing with the orks below.
And if Kraul was focused elsewhere…
Another mental command, and the guardians immediately began to refocus their efforts to Krauls army once more, as well as eliminating witnesses and performing sabotage on the loyalists: best to avoid inviting a reprisal crusade when the Imperium finally came knocking. Meanwhile, Eldrad opted to watch, preparing to step in should his help be needed.
Meanwhile, Kraul raised a claw, swinging it at the youth, only to hiss as the gems of lumium caused more of those strange phantom webs to appear, this time colored a strange green color, apparently hurting the daemon to touch. It responded with a swing of their scythe, which the Lorekeeper side stepped before, with a flick of their wrist, slamming the biometal of their weapon into the scythes eye, the material bypassing whatever eldritch durability the thing had been constructed with. A moment later, Eldrad watched fascinated as the youth called upon strange, unknown powers, their blade surrounded by a strange aura even as its soul began to ring so loud it almost hurt Eldrads ears. Strange coils of spiritual energy began to coalesce in the mystic, arcane power that wasn’t quite of the warp or soul but a little of both, causing strange metal thorns to begin growing all across the weapon, who began ceasing their muffled hymns in favor of screaming in agony.
“What is this? What is this?” Kraul cried, alarmed. “What-what magic is this? This- No, the Eldar have never had this power before, this is impossible, this is impossible!” They screamed as the thorns reached their hands, forcing them to drop their weapon, the barbs raking over their skin and causing genuine pain and agony. “You- You xeno,” The daemon hissed. “You think this changes anything? Even if you slay me, you cannot save the souls I have devoured! Even if I am banished, I will eventually return!”
“Let’s test that out,” The Lorekeeper said cheerfully, finally piercing the Daemons chest, causing the creature to let out a scream as the blade began tearing things loose from the dark spirits soul. Before Eldrads eyes, he watched as the Daemon began to wither, muscle losing definition, feathers falling from their wings. By the time the Daemon had managed to wrench itself free, its skull had begun to tarnish and corrode, gold flaking away to reveal petty bronze, and their skin hung loosely, flaps gently moving in the wind.
“You…you have TAKEN from his glorious host…” The daemon said, with horror. “You have lessened me. What powers have you sworn yourselves to gain the means to steal from the dark gods themselves?” They cried, voice trembling even as their delusion finally cracked for a brief moment.
“Tell your god Dhia Albain sends her regards.” The youth snapped their fingers, causing on either side of the daemon two mighty stones to rise.
“Y-” SMASH: the boulders slammed into each other, reducing the daemon to jelly, each stone then separating, strings of gore stretching between them and pulped daemonflesh and bone dripping down the side of each structure.
“...Well done indeed,” Eldrad said, making his presence known. “And by what name might I know my savior?”
The youth glanced around, noting the battle was still ongoing. “You may call me Ogmazzon,” They stated. “Now it is customary when someone offers you a name that a name is given in turn.”
Eldrad gave a raise of his eyebrow, keeping his expression composed. “Eldrad of Craftworld Ulthwe, Farseer.”
“Mmm. A Ynneaist, I presume,” They said with…a surprising amount of distaste. “What, here to tell me my people need to stop worshiping the Witch of the Wyld and go back to accepting that our place is to focus on dying slowly so your god can be born like the last four Farseers who’ve sought me out?”
…And thus explained the distaste. It appeared that some of Eldrads ‘peers’ had made an unforced diplomatic error. “I don’t intend to say that at all,” They said, raising an eyebrow, already piecing together what likely happened: most likely the Farseers had made the (unfortunately common among the Craftworlders) mistake of presuming that the interests and political ideologies of the Exoditi were the same as their more mobile kin and that they were just as invested in the birth of Ynead as the craftworlders.
The problem, as Eldrad saw it, was that the Farseers had most likely been correct: unfortunately, the birth of the Prince of Death was at present their best route for surviving as a species, and a significant portion of the Exoditi abandoning that path would be disastrous, especially if they fled to the banner of one insufficient to protect them from the inevitable retaliation. For their own good, the Exodities would indeed need to abandon their new god…or be snuffed out when the Worldsinger posing as their god finally angered She Who Thirsts sufficiently to provoke them.
The latter would, unfortunately, be the most likely result, at least for those who had joined the gods cult: no doubt the primordial annihilators would respond to such an attack in force. Of course, if the Exoditi who had joined under the new gods banner had truely disavowed Ynnead regardless, their death would be no greater loss to the birth of the death god, even if it would still be a tragedy.
“Hmm,” Ozmazzon grunted, clearly not believing the Farseer. “If that is the case, what do you want?”
“...Primarily, I want to know where you’ve been getting your technology,” Eldrad said, moving to the more salient point. “These gems and metals and knives, I have never seen anything like them, and yet they seem to block my visions.”
Ozmazzon frowned, expression shifting ever so slightly, a slight discomfort betrayed in the eyes: ah. So they were aware of the phenomena: likely it also affected them as well. “Tis an effect of the Tuatha,” They commented. “I will not tell you anything except that it is in your best interest to stop looking: if you are hunting for a threat, you will find none. If you are looking for answers, you will also find none.” They turned, and began walking, a webway gate opening. “We’re done here.”
(((())))
This took forever. Big thanks to @Woltaire for this one.
Comments
Robert S
Oh those are some cool ass lines
