From a ledge, high up on Mount Dreth, as the Mon-keigh below called it, a single pair of dark green eyes watched the comings and goings of a Guard outpost in a high valley.

The pair of eyes belonged to Leranar, a ranger, formerly of Craftworld Alaitoc. He had sat for nearly three standard days, rifle trained on the camp, waiting.

Farseer Byrvsar had seen a crucial thread which spelt doom for an entire world, it had to be cut, and Leranar had been given this task. The Farseer, though gifted, had only been able to gain a moment's glimpse at the thread, before the pressures of whatever future she had seen overwhelmed her. She had only been able to name a Mon-keigh frontier world in Segmentum Tempestus. Though unheard of outside of legend, Byrvsar had been so struck by her vision, she had been unable to give any information outside of what she had seen, as if the very force of the future she had seen had given the memory of it a will of it's own, a will not to be related to anything else and therefore not to be acted on, forcing itself into existence. But the Farseer had managed to utter the location, though only in the Mon-keigh tongue.

Leranar had heard the call, a psychic whisper, calling him home, back to all the order of the path, but he had to answer, he was still loyal, despite the things he had seen, had been offered.

He had found the thread easily enough. Even one of his few years and ability couldn't miss the ripples this thread left behind it, the potential it must carry had to be immense.

Far below, Leranar had seen the thread, only for an instant. Not long enough to cut it.

But now, as he was reaching his limits of concentration, he saw an opportunity.

Drifting up to him, with remarkable clarity for Mon-keigh "technology," came a drill siren. It was what Leranar had been waiting for.

Through his scope, he saw the guardsmen filling out of barracks below, lining up, waiting silently. Even Leranar was impressed by their discipline. For Mon-keigh, their ability to stay still was remarkable. Not to mention useful. A commissar strode up and down in front of the massed Guard.

It was time.

Leranar saw his target, a creature that carried the fate of so many on his shoulders. The human stood, near the centre of the massed soldiers. He, unlike those around him, was not still. He twitched, shuddered, as if in pain, holding in a great below of pain.

Leranar, though untrained, saw the mark on him. Suddenly saw the danger this filthy Mon-keigh posed, knew the reason the Farseer had been unable to speak of it. There was no question now. It had to be done. One shot was all he was permitted to take.

He took it.

Instantly, the parade square in which the massed Guard stood was filled with curling warp energy. The corpse of the filthy Mon-keigh lay dead, a hole forced through it's cranium.

Yet, the below he had been holding in continued. And, without warning, it took shape.

Some foul creature of the warp stood, heaving gulps of the air it now found itself in.

Leranar, high above the ensuing madness, felt that the thread had been cut. The results were not his to alter.

His work done, he melted into the shadows, leaving a now burned out valley behind.