Looking out of the viewport, he could see the pieces of his once home, slowly drifting apart. He suspected that if he were someone else, he would feel the grief sure to follow this loss. Yet he only felt the pure hatred he had felt every moment he was awake. His supposed 'weakness'. As all the others like him, he had been branded weak, and unable to control his bloodlust. They needed those like him, but they were hidden away, living in their personal shrines.

He looked out again. A craftworld lost. And not even dead and abandoned, but splintered and destroyed, the Infinity Circuit broken, all of the eldar souls lost to the Great Enemy. He looked back through his memories, the memories once belonging to those who had given themselves so that he might fight again. Walking through the Dome of Midnights Beauty with the girl, he loved. The joy of seeing the Garden of Silent Tears, after returning from the Outcasts path. And a memory from the most recent person to give him life.

Pride surged through his body when he looked at his work. Not-Karanlon had spent months preparing the design, making sure that each and every part would be perfect. And then had spent another couple of months, calling each part into existence separately, to make sure that nothing went wrong. Weeks spent assembling it, and summoning more wraithbone to strengthen it. So much time and energy put into this one shuriken catapult, that it would be bordering on obsession. Of course he knew better. Not-Karanlon had taken up the project. In the start, he hoped the better design would catch on, and would help protect more eldar lives. He had understandably beamed with pride when the Autarch, Yldaleth, the leading Autarch on craftworld Al-Samah, had taken interest in the weapon. And here he was. On his way to present it to the Autarch, as requested. If she liked it, the design could be made a standard on Al-Samah. Though in his daydreaming he didn't notice the transport vehicle heading the other way. And so they collided.

He woke up in the care of the Healers. A healer stood there, a look of sorrow donning her features. He only had to look at the table besides the bed, to see why. There in several broken pieces, lay his shuriken catapult. The healer explained how the Autarch had been on her way to check on his progress, and how they had collided, crushing the catapult. Of course, he was only half-listening, too busy staring at his broken masterpiece. He didn't even bother taking the pieces with him. Cold fury coursed through his veins. He walked through the halls of the craftworld, hearing the hushed tones of the eldar around him. Not that he cared what they thought. He found his mind scanning each part of the halls, looking for something to use to his advantage. Something that could help him regain something inside of him, lost. He only came to himself when he stood before a gateway, the rune of the Dire Avengers, clearly decorating the entrance.

He looked up and silently chuckled. It was a cold thing, somehow holding a promise of pain to those around him, if there were any. He found it funny how easily it was to remember the things, which put his earlier lives into Khaine's hateful embrace, while everything else was closer to a dream. Not-Karanlon would use this memory to fuel his rage. But to Gilfarion, this memory was nothing. It wasn't his loss. Indeed, this experience had put Not-Karanlon onto the path the would reawaken Gilfarion. Where other Exarchs welcomed the Sleep, for some rest from the eternal rage, Gilfarion found the Sleep to be tedious. He was a warrior, and every minute not spend in a fight or preparing, was wasted. Although he didn't blame them. To be eternally fighting, to be eternally gripped by hate, could be seen as a bleak life. But to him, it was exactly the life he wanted. This was just one of the things that made him stand apart from other Exarchs. They would call him unhinged or too aggressive. He would accuse them of holding back. The eldar's position was too weak as it is. They had to become stronger and crush their opponents. That is what he had always sought to teach his students.

He looked on in interest as two of his students, Elsarwen and Bararith, spared. Ever since they met, they've had a never-ending competition to prove themselves the better one. He nodded in acknowledgement at good use of terrain by Elsarwen. The only downside being that she always did this. In a matter of seconds, she laid on her back, with Bararith blade at her throat. He was glad, or at least as close as he could be, that they heeded his advice of using real blades in their fights. Pain was among the best instructors. Bararith helped in his beaten opponent up, and they both gave a light bow in recognition of their Exarch. He felt them go to another part of the sparring area, presumably to give each other advice to better their technique. He himself went to another part of the shrine to…

He turned around as he heard a knock on the door. Inviting the visitor inside, he was met by one of the crewmen of the ship.

"The last ships are being loaded with what can be salvaged. We will soon be ready to depart. Autarch Yldaleth has requested your presence, once we depart."

He noticed the crewman was slightly unnerved, most probable because of the proximity of an Exarch. He gave a quick nod, in acknowledgement, and then turned back to the viewport as the crewman left to bring the message to the other Exarchs who made it out.

Made it out. So much had been lost. He suspected many eldars would be drawn into the embrace of the Bloody-handed, in the near future. Their training would be varied, depending on the Exarch they end up with. He had always despised those Exarchs that took on many students. Not caring for the process, or the finer details. He considered all of his students a work of art. Much work was put into each and everyone. He tought them all that he could. That which he was tought so many millenia ago, what he had learned from countless wars, and what he had learned through studying other Aspects. This pratice had always been frowned upon. Some even saw him as a thief for it.

As he felt the ship begin to move, he turned and made his way towards the space cleared for this occasion. The Autarch owed him an explanation.

He could feel it all. The dome collapsing from the impact of a crashing ship. The thousands of Eldar dying every minute. The screaming of the Infinity Circuit as it's torn apart. Yet it all died out to a sound that revertebrated the hull, haunted every corridor and could be heard with ears as well as mind. The sound of a laughing Daemon as centuries of planning comes to fruition.

Author's Note

Ok, so this story has been in my head for awhile now, slowly taking form and manifesting as of yet, this prologue.

As a disclaimer I don't own Warhammer 40k(GW does), except my own characters.

Now this is basicly a test to see what the feeling is about this story. So comment your thoughts. I will take time to look through them, and answer questions(atleast as many I can).

SD signing off...