...And Even All Our Dreams...
His limbs felt heavy and graceless; bone-aching cold pulled at his fingers and twisted his insides. His eyes would not focus as he commanded them to; the world was lit in tones of grey and bright splashes of firelight. This was his end; he both knew and accepted that fact. Here, on this Exodite world, his part in the skein would finally come to a close, just like so many he had known, those he had served with and called friends.
They were all dead. Sirillien was gone, his Dire Avengers torn apart by daemonettes... Barathaen and his Reapers had fallen, their bodies pulped inside their armour by the sonic weaponry of the mon-keigh... Morthaniel and his Dragons had met an untimely end as their Wave Serpent had been reduced to a screaming fireball, torn apart by laser fire... Gone. They were all gone.
He was surrounded by ghosts, now. Long-dead, restless spirits, clothed in wraithbone, stood around him and the last few living warriors, an unliving bulwark against the foe. The enemy had come, in far greater numbers than any scrying had predicted. The forces of She Who Thirsts had descended upon Tyr-Adrasael intent upon sullying its beauty, corrupting its World Spirit, and drinking deep of the Exodite souls found within. The mon-keigh warlord, a hulking brute in baroque, brightly coloured armour, was truly favoured by his patron, showing no weakness at all, or so he believed.
But that wasn't true. Quilindras could see that now. There was a hope there, a chink in the proverbial armour of this Child of the Emperor that could have been exploited...
And still could...
O
His limbs felt heavy and graceless; bone-aching cold pulled at his fingers and twisted his insides. The scrying had taken far longer than Quilindras had hoped. His mind rebelled at the crystallisation of his body, and with a combination of long practice and pure force of will he began the change back to flesh and blood.
His eyes would not focus as he commanded them to; the world was lit in tones of grey and bright splashes of firelight. He blinked once, twice, and his vision began to leave the ethereal and focus on the real world around him. The lights, the echoes of the souls around him both living and dead, along with the strands of the World Spirit that ran just below the surface of the soil beneath the warhost's feet, faded into the background, consumed by the colours of autumn and the bright panoply of the warriors that had gathered.
Slowly, gently, Quilindras drifted to the floor, the etheric winds that had held him aloft during his scrying dissipating at his command. The runes that had protected and guided him slowed in their orbits, and with a simple mental command he returned them to the pouch at his belt. He allowed himself a few moments, regaining his composure, whilst breathing in the sweet, subtle scents of the world. It was beautiful here, in that wild, untamed way that so many on the craftworlds had forgotten to appreciate. A pang of regret shuddered through him then... with all the best will on this world or any other, the beauty of this place could not remain untouched.
The fleet of Chaos warships that approached was vast, so great that the combined fleets of Iyanden and Biel-Tan would be needed in dangerous numbers to fight it off. Favours had been called in, old oaths of fealty called into action, and a small host of corsair ships had also joined the fray. Most of those belonged to the Void Dragons... Quilindras himself had traded a particular favour with Ariyanna, one of their void-dreamers, who had been more than a little reluctant to actually repay the life debt she owed the ageing farseer. The fleet would decimate the approaching warships, but they would not be able to stop them all.
The seers of the two craftworlds had seen the danger, and foretold the three most likely sites for the enemy to land. They had rallied the exodites, hosts of lizard-mounted knights, dragon riders, and hundreds of warriors joining the forces of the two warhosts. The forces had been split evenly into three hosts, each one at a potential drop-site, and each within easy reach of a webway portal that would allow rapid reinforcement of whichever point the enemy landed at. The eldar were prepared. Now, they could only wait.
Looking out at the gathered warriors, Quilindras' eyes met with those of his opposite number from Iyanden. Ghostseer Thirianna was a distant cousin of his, by a marriage some five generations ago on his mother's side. The young seer had her auburn hair tied back, her violet eyes alight with barely checked anticipation. In her left hand, she held her witchstaff in a loose grip, her right held her mirrored helm. From her posture, he could see that she clearly wanted to ask the question that was running through everyone's mind, but was too polite to do so without invitation. The farseer shifted his stance slightly, gently acknowledging Thirianna's presence, and giving her the opening she wanted.
"Have you seen what we must do, mor'fessa?" Thirianna asked, her voice a study in polite respect. "Have you found a path to victory, as you hoped?"
"I have," he replied carefully. "The path is now clear to me. When the time is right, all shall happen as it is meant to." He paused a moment, lifting his head to regard the gathered army as a whole. Hundreds of warriors were there, mingled with the larger forms of ghost warriors, dozens of tanks, and overshadowed by the massive forms of two wraithknights. Each eye, whether mortal or wraith, regarded him with total concentration.
"Dark times are upon us," he continued, his voice carrying easily. "Both Avatars of Khaine have awoken, so dire is our need. But now, the skein has been unwoven before my sight. Victory is within our reach."
The cheers of the eldar filled the valley, lifting up the hearts of almost all present... as the warhost began final preparations, only Quilindras remained quiet in thought.
O
Thirianna found Quilindras alone that evening, standing on a hill near the webway portal the warhost was camped around. There was a small shrine dedicated to Isha there, and at first Thirianna worried that she may be intruding on some private prayer. The farseer's ghosthelm and singing spear had been laid reverentially before the shrine, but Quilindras himself was watching the stars. Seeing the distant expression on his features, Thirianna wondered if he was viewing the skein; a brief glance with her own witchsight showed that he was not. He was so still that, were it not for the faint breeze teasing at his robe and his long, intricately-braided hair, he might be mistaken for a statue. Deciding to leave Quilindras to his thoughts, Thirianna turned to leave.
"Do not go, cousin. I would be glad of the company." His voice was so quiet, that the ghostseer barely heard him. She could not easily miss the sorrow in his tone, and if there was any doubt, it was quickly dispelled by the look in his silver eyes when he turned to face her. As Thirianna approached, Quilindras once more turned his gaze skyward. "The stars seem to shine more brightly here, don't you think?"
Thirianna looked upward, following the older seer's lead. The view was indeed stunning, countless points of light spanning the entire sky. As she looked closer, she could see that some of the nearer lights appeared to be moving. Closer still, and far smaller lights could just be made out, weaving amongst those nearby stars. As she watched, awed by the vista overhead, she sensed that the farseer's attentions had shifted back to her. She turned, and found him watching her.
"The enemy fleet has arrived," he said, his voice soft, confirming what Thirianna had already guessed. "Now, we wait to see how much of the enemy we can stop before they make planet-fall."
"The fates show that their warlord always survives; are we certain?" Thirianna asked. She had harboured the thought and the hope for some time; farsight was not her gift, and so she did not want to question the farseers openly. Quilindras almost smiled, and Thirianna almost felt foolish for questioning the futures he and his kind had seen.
"He does," Quilindras confirmed. "However, there is more at stake than we have told the bulk of our forces. The warlord is blessed by the Great Enemy, and has earned the favour of She Who Thirsts. If he makes planet-fall and lives to plunder the World Spirit, he will be elevated to daemonhood, and he will be able to make a new world in his Master's image. If he dies in orbit, he will be reborn, and we simply delay the inevitable at great cost. If he dies here, he still becomes a daemon, and we still lose."
"What hope is there, then?" Thirianna asked, half to Quilindras, half to herself. Images of a new Eye of Terror were wheeling in her mind now, and the thought of the terrors a daemon of Slaanesh would unleash upon this world made her feel sick to her stomach.
"There is hope, cousin. There must always be hope."
That sadness was there again, lacing his voice and visible in his posture. But there was hope there, conviction and strength. Quilindras had seen a way to win this battle, to stop that terrible fate. Seeing him now, seeing the resolution in his eyes, Thirianna decided that she most likely did not want to know what that solution was. She looked up again, looked at the beautiful ballet of light and death being enacted above them, and found herself hoping against hope that whatever plan her cousin had forged, that it would work.
"And even all our dreams..." The words were whispered, barely more audible than a sigh. Quilindras was looking back at the night sky, and Thirianna was sure that the spoken thought was not meant for her, and so did not ask openly. Evidently sensing her questioning posture, Quilindras continued, louder this time.
"A line from the Lay of Berethil," he explained, closing his eyes in recollection. "My mother would recite it to me when I was a small child. ...When all the world has slipp'd to ash, when all is dark as ere it seems, what would we give to save our hopes, and even all our dreams?... It is a reminder, to fight for what we must, with all that we have. An important lesson, I'm sure you'll agree."
Quilindras turned then, and walked toward the shrine, carefully retrieving his wargear. Before leaving, he stopped, and spoke without looking back.
"Get some rest, Thirianna. The enemy will soon be upon us."
O
War raged across Tyr-Adrasael, brutal and bloody. The once verdant valley, still wreathed in early morning mists, rang with battle-cries, the screams of the dying, and the sharp reports of weapons fire. The grass underfoot was now stained red with the blood of the fallen, the valley floor littered with corpses. The beauty of this place had all but been destroyed, and the battle had only been raging for a few hours.
Thirianna strode through the centre of the maelstrom, her witchstaff alight with eldritch corposant, surrounded by the surviving members of the order known as the Silent Blades. She and the wraithblades, long-dead nobles of her house, cut down the enemy wherever they could, but for every cultist, Chaos Marine or daemonette they dispatched, a dozen more seemed to take their place. The tide was never-ending. The horror of what they represented was almost palpable from the forces of the eldar, and all but screamed from the World Spirit.
Thirianna reached out through the Warp, marking the biggest threats for the wraith-constructs in the warhost, making the enemy souls appear that much brighter, and so much easier to see. She had found that even the ghost warriors from Biel-Tan had gravitated toward her and the talents she brought to bear, from the tall, elegant forms of wraithguard and wraithblades, to the huge, four-legged form of M'yrandyr, a rare 'bright stallion' variant of wraithknight from Biel-Tan. Thirianna felt almost comforted, feeling their otherworldly presence brushing against her psyche. In a way, it was almost like being at home.
The sky was streaked by laser fire, as Nightwings, Hemlock wraithfighters and Crimson Hunters fought for control of the skies against monstrous, dragon-winged daemon constructs. Fire Prism grav-tanks and flights of Falcons lanced through the enemy armoured formations, bright bursts of light and blossoming fireballs left in their wake. Graceful Howling Banshees and lithe Striking Scorpions wove through the enemy infantry, delivering more death with every measured movement. And in the distance, surrounded by a nimbus of fire and roaring their fury to the Heavens, stood the Avatars of Khaine. Their weapons swung out in wide, deadly arcs, killing all they touched. But still, it was not enough. The eldar were losing.
Through the mists, Thirianna saw the reason for all of this destruction, and felt a surge of revulsion and fear. The mon-keigh warlord was huge, a giant in arcane armour, decorated in seemingly haphazard patterns and colours that seared her eyes and made her feel sick. His taloned gauntlets crackled with warp-spawned energies, which he occasionally allowed to whip out, reducing those he hit to screaming, withered husks in mere instants. His eyes were alight with the same energy, and his every movement seemed to make the air around him distort; the eldar weapons seemed to almost move out of his way of their own accord. This was Eldrick Frayne, sorcerer-lord of the Emperor's Children, chosen of Slaanesh. None could stand before him.
One, though, dared to fight. Thirianna spotted Quilindras, and time seemed to slow to a crawl, as though the universe were waiting for some momentous event. The farseer strode forward with slow, almost predatory steps, making his chosen target obvious, inviting the mon-keigh to respond. Witchfire poured from the eye sockets of the seer's ghosthelm, and rippled around his armour. More than a dozen runes of warding, foresight and retribution orbited Quilindras in tight circuits, each glowing with their own fiery light. In his right hand he held the ancient singing spear Rimeshard, its crystal blade glinting in the wan morning sunlight. The mon-keigh sorcerer regarded the approaching farseer, and his features split into an ugly expression that sat somewhere between a sneer and a smile. The challenge, it seemed, had been accepted.
O
Whispering a steadying mantra, focussing his mind, Quilindras gathered himself for the coming fight. His enemy ushered back his bodyguard, clearly relishing a fight against an opponent who might actually test his skills, on both a psychic level as well as a martial one. Quilindras wryly hoped that he did not disappoint. As the armoured giant began to walk toward him, the farseer marshalled as much power as he could muster, and began his attack.
Raising his spear, Quilindras drove downward with the haft, striking the ground with a burst of energy. The force of the blow caused the ground to crack, small fissures tearing toward the enemy. The Chaos sorcerer neatly sidestepped the blow, but before he could do much more than react, Quilindras attacked again. With a complex gesture, he summoned a quartet of shimmering images, copies of himself, who rushed at the sorcerer as one. The ghostly executioners struck the monster's armour repeatedly, each strike releasing a burst of light and a clash of sound.
With a deafening roar, the sorcerer threw a wall of raw, warp-spawned force outward, shattering the eldar's shades and forcing the seer to raise a bubble of protective energy against the storm. Using the moment of reprieve to his advantage, Frayne surged forward, his augmented body driving him toward his quarry with terrifying speed. As he did so, he lashed out with tendrils of ravening energy, which the farseer in turn deflected, a half-dozen runes burning out and falling out of their orbits.
The two warriors clashed moments later. Within seconds, dozens of blows had been struck, parried and countered. The once-human was blindingly fast and immensely strong, his blows aided by his own nature, his armour, and the power of his dread patron. The eldar, in turn, was as lithe and preternaturally quick as any of his kind, further fuelled by the strength of his mind, his movements adjusted to subtle shifts in the skein that let him react to the future, not just the present.
Frayne swept his lightning claws about him in wild patterns, attempting to add an edge of random chance to the duel, taking away the seer's edge. Quilindras dropped swiftly below one strike that got too close, spinning his spear in a clearing pattern and forcing his opponent back a pace. Using the brief respite, he unleashed a bolt of psychic lightning into the gap; the energies scoured Frayne's garish armour, burning through sections of it like paper, and lashed at the right side of his face, destroying his eye and illiciting a roar of pain-fuelled rage.
The sorcerer began to stride forward again, fighting through the eldritch storm Quilindras had summoned. He took one step, two, then surged forward one last time with one last inhuman screech of effort. His left claw closed around Quilindras' right arm, stopping his swing with Rimeshard; with bone-shattering force, his right claw drove through the breastplate of the eldar's armour. The lightning stopped as suddenly as it had started. Quilindras slumped forward, each laboured breath clearly audible through his tall helm. With a savage grin, Frayne lifted the farseer with no more effort than he might lift a child.
"Did you see this fate, I wonder?" he hissed, derision dripping from his voice. "Did you know how utterly you had failed, xenos? That your life was over before you ever challenged me?" Quilindras slowly lifted his head, the red lenses of his ghosthelm reflecting the ugly sneer of his opponent; soft laughter escaped his lips, and nothing more.
"I amuse you, do I?" Frayne roared, all pretence at humour gone. He pulled the farseer closer, so that their faces were almost touching. "Slaanesh will toy with your soul for all eternity! You will know suffering beyond your darkest dreams!"
"You know nothing of my dreams." The words were whispered, barely loud enough for Frayne to hear them. A violent retort to the dying farseer was beginning to form, when Quilindras acted. He was so close now, that the Chaos Marine couldn't see that his free hand held a spirit stone, drawn from a small pouch at the seer's belt; could not see the movement toward his face until it was far too late.
Quilindras slapped the spirit stone against Frayne's forehead, forcing a scream of pain from him as the stone began searing its way into his skin. That scream intensified as, with a rising cry of his own, Quilindras poured the last of his reserves of psychic power through the stone, through the sorcerer's psychic defences and down into his soul. With all of his strength, Quilindras tore at the bonds between spirit and flesh, separating his psyche from his body and dragging the Chaos Marine's essence into the spirit stone. Frayne fought back, psychically lashing at Quilindras with his mind, and crushing the life from his slender body with both hands. But it was far too late.
The last thing Quilindras Shadeweave, farseer of Biel-Tan, would ever see was the light fading from Eldrick Frayne's eyes.
O
The dome was quiet, save for gentle birdsong in the distance and the occasional subtle movement of her two companions. There was a serenity to this place, a gentleness to the psychic echoes of the Dome of Crystal Seers, that set Thirianna completely at ease. It was beautiful, in the saddest kind of way, and it almost made her wish that this could be her fate. Sadly, that was unlikely to be, but such was the way of things.
Thirianna and her two companions had walked through the dome in reverential silence, heads bowed, toward a hill at its centre. She had wanted to come alone, but Kor-Aranael, the head of House Delgari himself, had asked if he might do both her and Quilindras the honour of acting as her escort. At the same time, M'yrandyr of Biel-Tan had offered the same thing, and Thirianna was loathe to offend either of the wraithknights by turning them down. If anything, she was glad of their company, and so she and her two colossal companions had come to this place, to pay their final respects.
Thirianna looked out over the vista below them and smiled. She could see why her cousin had chosen this place; there was a beautiful view of a shallow valley, with a river meandering through the centre of it. In a way, it was very like the valley they had fought to defend, just days before. That battle had been won, in large part due to Quilindras' sacrifice. For that alone, he deserved the peace this place afforded, though there were many more reasons besides.
Kneeling, Thirianna placed the gnarlwood box she had been carrying upon the ground, then lifted the lid. Reaching inside, she slowly lifted Quilindras' spirit stone, gazing into its blue depths. It was warm to the touch, and she could sense the life that was held within. It still echoed with the pain of his passing; that would end, in time, but for now she hoped that finally being merged with the Infinity Circuit would go some way to helping him find rest.
A small plinth had been arranged for Quilindras; ordinarily, the dome was reserved for those seers who had walked to the end of their path, and who were ready for the final transformation into one of the many crystal statues that resided here, under the stars. Quilindras had not shared that fate, and so the seer council had arranged for this monument to be erected, built straight into the wraithbone that ran beneath the soil. It was a simple thing, barely decorated, but that was appropriate in its own way.
Thirianna placed the stone upon the plinth, then stepped back, head bowed. With a slow, graceful movement, she removed her helm, letting her hair spill around her shoulders. She looked upward at her two companions, standing silent far overhead, offering quiet thanks for their service on this day. Facing forward once more, Thirianna closed her eyes and began to sing. As the haunting melody of the Lay of Berethil began to fill the air, a single, bitter tear escaped her as his spirit stone began to pulse gently, in time to the rhythm of her song.
After more than a thousand years of war, Quilindras was finally home...