New chapter. As always, the next two chapters are up on my P-a-t-r-e-o-n, here: h*t*t*p*s :/ w*w*w . p*a*t*r*e*o*n user - ? - u = 52718582 (remove the spaces and stars)
Light years away from Terra, a vast vessel floated through the void, bathing in the light of a crimson star.
To human sensibilities, the ship was oddly designed, nothing like a ship at all. It bore more resemblance to a floating landmass as if someone had lifted an island city from the seas of a world and given it the power to fly among the stars.
But such was the way of the Eldar. The Children of Isha had never seen any reason to separate nature and technology, viewing them as the same, and their Craftworlds were built accordingly.
Nevertheless, anyone familiar with the great trade-ships of the Eldar would have noticed that this particular Craftworld was hardly in peak condition.
The ship looked thoroughly battered and exhausted, with several enormous chunks missing from various parts of it.
The blue light of the Craftworld's domed force field was dim, and the city of crystal below it seemed ravaged and half-abandoned. The great solar sails that absorbed the light of the nearby star were ragged and worn, hardly the magnificent and titanic wings they should have been. The smaller ships around the Craftworld were few and wounded themselves, and arranged in tight military formation.
This was not a humming hub of trade, where thousands of ships departed and arrived each day, but a desolate ship of refugees fleeing a cataclysm.
And its leaders feared for its future indeed.
Deep in the foundations of the Craftworld, surrounded by silvery veins of wraithbone, terse words were exchanged.
"Do you think it will hold up, Invaril?" Mehlendri Silversoul asked, leaning forward. Her silver hair was drawn back in a severe bun, and though she was beautiful, with dark skin and elegant features, her face was currently marred by a deep frown.
The bonesinger looked tired. Invaril Brightshard was short for one of the Aeldari, less than six feet, but he had always been bright and fierce, always eager to discover and create more.
Now, however, his features were gaunt, his once short golden hair grown long, not because he wanted to style it but simply because he had neglected to cut it.
"I can't predict anything, Fleetmaster" Invaril said heavily, his brown eyes bleak. "I've done my best, as have the priests, but this is a shard of a god. I don't know if it can be contained at all."
Mehlendri grimaced. "Wonderful," She muttered, turning her gaze to the sealed gate behind them.
The gate had been fortified with a truly enormous amount of wraithbone, wraithbone into which various runes had been carved by the Priests of Asuryan.
Nevertheless, there was an ominous red glow coming from the gate, the presence of something dark and terrible.
It made one feel like there was blood in their mouth, and it whispered a song of fire and war and glory.
"We should go," Mehlendri said, forcibly tearing her gaze away from the gate. "Staying this close is dangerous."
"Yes," Invaril muttered, but his gaze remained fixed on the gate until Mehlendri seized him by the shoulder and began pulling him away. It was harder than it should have been, given she was near twice his height, but pulling herself away from the presence wasn't easy either.
"Get a hold of yourself," She snapped at him, with more fire than she really meant.
Fortunately, Invaril seemed jolted back to reality. "My apologies, Fleetmaster," He said, no longer dragging his feet and actually walking away from the gate with her. "It's just…being in the presence of that thing is hard."
"I know," She told him, making a conscious effort to be gentler. "How go the other projects, Invaril?" She asked, trying to distract him from the presence behind him as they walked, the soft light of the wraithbone crystal illuminating her path through the lowest levels of Iyanden.
"Not well," He answered gloomily. "I've only been able to get a few psychomaton squadrons up and running again, and they're not perfect."
Mehlendri grimaced, but she could hardly blame Invaril. For all his genius, he was an artist first and foremost, who made things of beauty and wonder above all. Having to handle labour once reserved for psychomatons and spirit-drones, building prisons for the shard of a god…this was all new, unexplored territory. "And the Eternal Matrix?"
"Even worse," Invaril answered heavily. "It was completely devastated by the cataclysm. I have ideas for how we could rebuild a communications network, in time…but reincarnation is out of the question."
Mehlendri had known this already, but to hear it again was a blow all the same.
To be Eldar was to be immortal, undying. No Aeldari had truly died since the Wars of Conquest, more than a million years ago, when the founders of the Dominion had set out to reunify the Aeldari race for the first time since the Sundering.
But they were mortal now.
Perhaps forever.
"Do what you can," She finally settled on saying, as they arrived at the end of the tunnel and reached a flight of spiral stairs. "We'll find a way."
Invaril looked doubtful but didn't disagree as they moved up the stairs.
For a while, they walked in silence, until they finally emerged into the light again, sealing the tunnel behind them.
"Get some rest, Invaril. I'll need you to get this ship moving again soon." Mehlendri told him.
"Going to meet with Dreamspinner again, then?" Her old friend asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think you can convince him? He's right, you know. It's a fool's hope. The old gods abandoned us a long time ago."
"Maybe," Mehlendri gave him a tight smile. "But we don't have any other choice."
She walked away without waiting for a reply, her silver hair billowing out behind her.
The crimson light of the nearby star cast an ominous light on Iyanden, making it seem grim and desolate…but then, it wasn't as if the Craftworld needed help.
Moving to her skiff which she had left nearby earlier, Mehlendri stood upon the vehicle and ran her hands across the controls, the gleaming crystal contrasting against the bronze skin of her fingers as the skiff rose into the sky.
As she flew, Mehlendri's heart couldn't help but ache at the sight of Iyanden.
Just as below, there were hardly any Eldar out on the streets above, or flying their skiffs through the air. Her home, which had once buzzed with activity and people, was now quiet and desolate, most of the people in such a state of depression that they stayed inside their homes and did nothing.
Those of them that were alive, at least.
The Craftworld, her Craftworld, was a shadow of itself.
Iyanden had been fading for centuries now. It had been a difficult few thousand years, with the Chaos that had erupted. The civil war between the humans and their soulless iron servants, the descent of the Dominion into madness, the Orks and a thousand other horrors rampaging across the galaxy unchecked.
The Iyanden she knew, the one she had led across the galaxy for millennia, never asleep, always vibrant and busy and alive.
The Iyanden in front of her was a city of ghosts, with hardly anyone outside except a few stragglers. The dozens of towers and skybridges were quiet and lonely, half-abandoned. Where millions of Eldar had once lived and loved and died, now there were but tens of thousands, their numbers reduced to a fraction by the horrors of these past few millennia.
It was expected at this point, the culmination of centuries, millennia of hardship and despair as the galaxy went mad, but even still, it hurt to see Iyanden like this.
But even this was better than the bloody riots and violence that had raged not so long ago. Where Eldar had turned upon Eldar and savaged each other for no reason.
An orgy of violence that had only been cut short by a miracle.
Damn the Dominion, she thought bitterly. When the war between the humans and their soulless iron servants began, when the turmoil in the Warp began to grow, they should have acted to restore order.
Instead, the damned pleasure cults had plunged themselves into madness, and made everything worse, unleashing a cataclysm which had damned the Eldar, and the galaxy along with them.
Mehlendri could still feel it, the presence that was still there.
The presence was always there, a vast shadow looming over her soul. It was beautiful and monstrous at the same time, repulsive yet tempting and above all other things, hungry.
It had devoured trillions and even now it fed upon the suffering of their people, but its hunger could never be sated.
There was an irony in that, how the Eldar had birthed a monster who had inherited their endless hunger and madness, but Mehlendri Silversoul could not bring herself to appreciate it.
Why couldn't the pleasure cults just stop? Mehlendri understood the ennui of immortality, the temptation to drown yourself in hedonism when living in an empire that was beyond petty things such as scarcity and want.
But the pleasure cults hadn't been the answer to dealing with that. Mehlendri had chosen to reincarnate, keeping only the most faded memories of her previous life when the tedium became too much to bear, and eventually, she had left the Dominion behind entirely to join Iyanden.
There were still new things out there, to see and experience in the galaxy. The Eldar had been the peak of civilization, but that was not to say there was not still beauty and wonder to be found beyond the Dominion.
If only the pleasure cults had understood that.
However, there was still hope. It might be a lie, nothing more than the last whisper of a dead god.
Yet, it was all they had and Mehlendri clung to it as she flew her to her destination.
There, at the centre of the city, were the beginnings of a small temple. It wasn't something Mehlendri had ever thought she would see on Iyanden, for the clergy of the old gods had long been considered eccentrics at best, outdated relics of a bygone age at worst.
Things had changed in the last few millennia, though.
Landing her skiff, Mehlendri dismounted and made for the temple.
It was a small, humble, structure, a white pyramid that could hardly have fit fifty people, raised hastily by Invaril. He had spoken of expanding it but hadn't found the time yet.
The guards clad in gold and crimson armour let her enter the temple without comment, long used to her visits by now.
As she entered the temple's entrance hall, Mehlendri couldn't help but be reminded of how…bland it was. It was well-made, yes. Everything that Invaril made was.
Mehlendri had visited a few temples in her long life. Even many of those most 'respectful' among the Eldar had looked at their kin who continued worship of the old gods with a type of embarrassed bemusement, and no small number had been far more vocal in deeming them as the leftover refuse from an earlier, more barbaric age.
But she had visited a few out of curiosity, and even so, the difference between those temples and this one was striking. There were no decorations, no murals of the Phoenix King and his various aspects. The walls and pillars were plain and white, with no sign of any decoration whatsoever.
Inside the pyramid, in the entrance hall, she was greeted by one of the Priests of Asuryan.
"Fleetmaster," Valanar greeted her. He was taller than Invaril, but still shorter than her, with long white hair tied back in a braid and sharp golden eyes, clad in the red robes of a Priest of Asuryan. "Welcome."
"Valanar," Mehlendri said. "I need to talk to your leader."
Valanar winced, even though he must have known it was coming. It was the only reason she came here, after all. "Lord Dreamspinner is occupied-"
"I know damn well that he's not." Mehlendri snapped. "Where is he?"
"As I said, he is occupied-"
"Don't make excuses for me, boy, I can deal with her myself." A somewhat slurred voice called out from behind him.
Phoenix Dreamspinner, Lord High Priest of Asuryan, was half-slumped against a door leading deeper into the Temple. Unlike Draech, who looked pristine and regal if tired and worn as all of them were, Dreamspinner's robes were in disarray, his dark hair a long, tangled mess and deep shadows under his brown eyes.
More than that, Mehlendri could smell the scent of wine coming from him, and see how he was struggling.
"You're drunk again," She said, disgusted but unsurprised.
"And so what if I am?" Dreamspinner demanded. "We're all doomed anyway, I might as well drink the last of the Caudoelithi fire-wine while I can." He must have intended the words to come out harsh and intimidating, but with his state, it was just pathetic as he stumbled forward.
"Lord Dreamspinner-" Valanar tried, reaching out to steady his master, but the elder priest shoved him away.
"Don't touch me, boy!" Dreamspinner snapped as he straightened himself with some difficulty. "What do you want, Silversoul?"
"You know what I want, Dreamspinner. It's our only chance."
"It's a lie," Dreamspinner hissed, his voice bitter and angry. "You're a fool, Fleetmaster, what you're chasing after won't save us."
"It's our only chance, you old fool," Mehlendri snapped. She usually tried to be more diplomatic with Dreamspinner, given how much she needed his help, but she was completely out of patience with him.
"Don't you understand?" Dreamspinner spat. "I believed the gods would save us too. I believed it much longer than you did. But I was wrong. The old gods abandoned us long ago, and they're not coming back now."
"Maybe," Mehlendri acknowledged. "But you heard the voice. We all did."
"...yes." Dreamspinner acknowledged, bowing his head, some of the drunkness seeming to slip away. "I did."
Bolts of crimson flame sprang from Mehlendri's fingertips, sending her opponent hurtling through the air.
The battle raged around her, and there was a voice screaming in the back of her head that this was wrong, that she needed to stop-
But the voice was dim and distant compared to the pounding of her own heart, of the smell of blood and death filling her nostrils, of the screams and roars around her as Aeldari fought Aeldari, and the slaughter continued.
The enemy had to die. That was the only way Iyanden would survive. It was the only way she would survive. She needed to kill the enemy utterly.
Sprinting forward, Mehlendri raised her blade and swung at the first Eldar in her path. Her enemy avoided the blow, barely and raised his own blade to match hers. But his movements were slow and sloppy, clearly no trained warrior.
A bolt sprang from her free hand and sent her opponent crashing to the ground, his helmet falling off, exposing a young face and fearful eyes.
Show mercy the voice screamed in the back of her mind. Don't do this.
But the voice didn't matter. All that mattered was that the boy was the enemy and that he needed to die. Mehlendri needed him to die.
She swung her blade down, but then-
Do not despair, my children.
I am alive.
I still love you.
I will find you.
It was but a whisper, but it was the most beautiful thing that Mehlendri had ever heard. It was more melodious than the music of the greatest songtree, more glorious than the sight of a star going supernova.
It cut through the haze of bloodlust like a thunderbolt and Mehlendri found herself frozen, her blade mere inches from the boy's throat.
Everyone else was frozen as well, she realized. The sounds of slaughter were gone, replaced by shocked silence.
Everyone had heard the whisper, not just her.
The whispered words of their Mother.
How would that battle have gone if it had not been interrupted, Mehlendri could not say. War with Lugganath had been avoided, and though Mehlendri had been unable to come to any sort of accord with their leaders, at least the two Craftworlds had not torn each other apart as they might have.
Because of the whisper from the Othersea.
The words spoken were simple, nothing countless mothers had not spoken to their children before, but the deep abiding love in that voice…even the memory of it brought tears to Mehlendri's eyes.
It was one of their gods speaking to them, the voice of Isha herself.
It was the voice of something utterly, completely beyond them, as far above the Eldar as they were above the common insects that could be found on a million worlds across the galaxy, and yet it was also the voice of something that loved them more than anything.
And it frightened Mehlendri as much as she was drawn to it.
How had the ancient Eldar endured that, she wondered? A simple whisper was almost more than she could bear, and yet, those born before the Sundering had stood in the presence of a being so much greater than themselves and withstood the full weight of her love.
Was that why the eldest of their people had gone mad? Had they been unable to live without this?
Because for all that it had been almost too much to bear, Mehlendri could not deny she wanted more.
"You know it's the only way," Mehlendri told Dreamspinner grimly. "We can't keep going like this. The shard pushes us closer to violence each day, and I don't know how long it will be before we're at each other's throats again. And more than that, the people are afraid, Dreamspinner. They need something to give them hope."
"And you think the last words of a dead goddess, if it was even her, is what will save us?"
Valanar was watching them with a vaguely panicked expression, the younger Eldar clearly unsure of what to do. Mehlendri felt a little bad for him, but it was Dreamspinner she needed to convince.
"I do," She answered the question bluntly, deciding to go for the killing blow. "Or at least, I think it's the best choice we have. Tell me this, Dreamspinner, why are you still following the ways of Asuryan, if you've given up on the old gods? Why did you beg me to help you evacuate as many people from the Dominion as I could? Why haven't you reclaimed your name, and kept going by this title? Why do you still wear the robes of a priest, and why did you ask Invaril to build a temple for you? Why did you bring the last ember of Asuryan's Flame with you when you ran?"
Dreamspinner looked shaken by her questions, clearly struggling to find a response. "...fine, damn you," He said wearily. "If it will get you to leave me alone, I'll help you."
"Then you'll do it?" Mehlendri smiled, feeling a surge of victory.
"I will," Dreamspinner said, scowling and straightening. "But it'll take some time to prepare. My sight has been clouded since the cataclysm, and I will need the help of all the other priests."
"Go as fast as you can," Mehlendri said, crossing her arms. "Time is one thing we don't have."
"Fine. But I still say this isn't going to do anything."
"We'll see, Dreamspinner, we'll see…"
Several days later, at the heart of the pyramid, Mehlendri stood at the back of the room, watching Dreamspinner and his disciples conduct the ritual.
The Flame of Asuryan, the Fire of Creation, was small and flickering, the gold and crimson flames weak and dull.
Yet, the more she looked at them, the more Mehlendri couldn't help but be entranced by them. The flame was small, and yet the light it cast made her feel stronger, more invigorated. The feeling wasn't as strong as the aura of the Bloody-Handed One's shard, or even the whisper of Isha.
But there was something entrancing about it, something that said this small fire was more than it seemed.
Around the flame, Dreamspinner and the other priests stood in a circle, their eyes closed. Mehlendri could sense them pooling their power, all of them reaching for the Flame at the same time.
And then, suddenly, runes appeared on the walls of the room, appearing as if from nowhere, burning with the same light as the Flame.
And the Flame itself erupted into an enormous pillar of fire, sending Mehlendri stumbling back as she stared at it, eyes wide.
The priests did not step back, however. Dreamspinner even stepped forward, his eyes suddenly alight with a strange glow that seemed to reflect the Flame of Asuryan.
Then he spoke, with a voice that echoed like thunder and seemed to shake the whole temple.
"I beseech you, my King. My Creator. Show us where the Life Mother is. Show us where our salvation lies."
The Flame swirled and crackled, and for a moment, Mehlendri feared that it would burn out entirely, but then, an image appeared in the flames.
It was a grey-blue world, orbiting a golden star. The planet was very clearly scarred, with few oceans and most of the land grey and brown. But seemed to be recovering, the atmosphere slowly clearing even as parts of it were damaged, and there were patches of greenery here and there.
Abruptly, the image faded and the flame burned out, returning to its former state as the Dreamspinner and the other priests sank to their knees, the runes on the walls ceasing to glow.
"I don't know what that was," Dreamspinner said, panting. "This was all for nothing!" He snarled, slamming a fist into the ground.
"No, it wasn't," Mehlendri said, stepping forward. "I know where that was. And I know where we're going next."
Dreamspinner looked up at her, surprise displacing some of the anger on his face. "Where?"
"Terra," She said, her eyes still fixed upon the Flame of Asuryan. "The homeworld of humanity."
Laughter echoed in the deepest depths of the Webway, and all those who heard it fled from the sound. Whether they were warlords struggling for dominion over the countless realms of the Webway, pleasure cultists too lost in their madness to be shaken from it even now or desperate refugees seeking a safe haven, all were chilled to the core by the amusement of the Mad God.
But even as all others ran from the sound of the laughter, the Harlequins danced to it, their laughter joining that of their god's.
And even as the Jester continued to laugh, he spoke to his followers, of a great jest indeed.
Of the Life Mother, of the Everqueen seeking refuge with the Human Guardian who now called himself the Emperor.
Of how they must be driving each other mad. The Guardian was such a bore and the Everqueen such a bleeding heart, and both of them so stubborn. They must be driving each other insane!
The Harlequins cackled along with their lord, imagining the humour of it all.
They would have to make preparations for when the Everqueen returned to them, Cegorach told his followers. A surprise both for her and the human Emperor!
And when he told his Harlequins of what the surprise was, their laughter became even louder, echoing through the Webway and reaching beyond Cegorach's domain, into the cities of the Webway, to the ears of the lowliest slave and the mightiest tyrant, shaking them to their very core.
The dock tower of Craftworld Ulthwe rose high into the inky darkness, seemingly almost a separate structure from the main ship, engulfed into a soft green aura that shielded the tower from the void.
The tower should have been alive with ships, Daensyriath thought as she walked onto it. It felt strange to see it so empty and dead…but then, who was there to come and go from Ulthwe? They did not even know if any other Eldar had survived the doom of the Dominion.
Catching sight of who she was looking for, Daensyriath strode over to him.
"Asurmen," She greeted as she came to a halt near him, just before he could enter his small ship.
The self-proclaimed Hand of Asuryan turned to her. "High Oracle," He said formally, bowing slightly.
Daensyriath waved a hand. "There's no need for formalities. I only wish to speak to you briefly before you go."
"Of course," Asurmen said, crossing his arms. "What is it you need?"
Daensyriath paused to consider her words, letting herself observe Asurmen from a close distance once more.
Physically, he did not seem that impressive by Eldar standards. He was tall and muscular, yes, and not unpleasant to look at, with flowing crimson locks, sharp grey eyes and fair skin.
But Daensyriath had known many men who looked like Asurmen throughout her long life.
There was something else to him, some indefinable presence that imbued him with confidence and strength, and made people listen when he spoke.
Or perhaps it was simply that they were desperate, and Asurmen seemed to have a certainty and assurance that was sorely missing these days.
"You are truly leaving us, then?" She inquired.
"I am," Asurmen nodded. "My work here is done. Jain Zar will finish imparting the correct lessons to you all and from there…it is up to you what you will do. But others need my help."
Daensyriath had been skeptical when Asurmen and his students had first come to Ulthwe. Three Eldar speaking of how they could avoid the dangers that had led to the Fall, with such authority and strength, as if they were ancient heroes from the War in Heaven? And one who used such an arrogant title?
She had thought it was utter nonsense.
But many had found hope and peace in Asurmen's teachings and what he said, and in the end, what mattered was that his ideas worked. His talk of meditation and self-control, his teachings of acknowledging the darker part of themselves but not embracing it, had been embraced by many and helped them resist the call of the shard of the Bloody-Handed One that rested in the heart of the Craftworld.
Asurmen had brought some small hope back to Ulthwe, had stopped it from destroying itself, and for that, Daensyriath could not thank him enough.
But there was one other thing.
"Tell me, Asurmen, what did you think of…the voice?"
The warrior was silent for a long moment, his gaze focused on the distant stars beyond. On the great gash in the fabric of reality, created by the folly of their people, the birthplace of the dark god whose presence all Eldar could feel looming over their souls.
"I do not know," He said finally. "It might be hope. It might be salvation. Or it may just be the last remnant of a dead god, one that came when we needed it but that means nothing more."
"You don't intend to go after it?" Daensyriath inquired. She had heard many furious discussions with others on the topic, on whether or not the old gods had abandoned them, on whether or not it was wise to chase after the voice.
And Asurmen, who had given himself such a lofty title, who spoke of how to deal with the influence of the Bloody-Handed One's shards…surely, he of all people had more reason than most to go after this.
But he surprised her by shaking his head. "No. Our people need me. Not just on Ulthwe, but everywhere. In the Craftworlds, in the Webway…that is where I am needed."
"Some might call that arrogant," Daensyriath remarked. "You sound as if you consider yourself the saviour of our people, the only man who can save us all."
"Perhaps," Asurmen laughed. "I do not know if I will succeed. I may very well die, torn apart by those who think I am wrong. But I must try. This, everything that has happened, the cataclysm…it happened because we gave up. We abandoned our ideals and were content to live a life of indolence. To not care about anyone else, about each other. To not aspire for anything higher. Call it arrogant, if you will. But I must try, for all our sakes. Or we are truly lost."
Daensyriath absorbed that for a long while, mulling over the words. "And what of the Mother?"
Asurmen gave her a half-smile. "If our Mother still lives, she will come to us when she can. She said so, did she not? What need does a god have of me? But if and until she returns, I have other places where I must go."
Daensyriath nodded. "Good luck, Hand of Asuryan. I wish you well in your endeavours."
Asurmen chuckled. "Thank you, Oracle. And good luck to you as well."
Author's Note: This chapter draws on a variety of different sources and books.
From the 6th Edition Iyanden: A Codex Eldar Supplement:
The characters of Mehlendri Silversoul, Invaril Brightshard and Lord Phoenix Dreamspinner. Though they're not really characters, simply legendary heroes of Iyanden who are vaguely mentioned (all we know about Dreamspinner is his name) whom I expanded and tweaked according to my purposes.
The existence of the Flame of Asuryan/Fire of Creation at the heart of Iyanden.
From Asurmen: The Hand of Asuryan, the disdain and lack of faith of the Eldar in their gods, believing them to be dead or having abandoned them long before the Fall.
From Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence:
The Shards of Khaine driving Craftworlds to tear each other apart before the Phoenix Lords laid the foundations of the Path System.
The character Daensyriath and her being a former oracle of Morai-heg.
From Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior and Asurmen: The Darker Road, the idea that Pre-Fall Craftworlds were originally relatively small and grew larger over time by absorbing other Craftworlds.
From Rise of the Ynnari: Wild Rider, the Eternal Matrix, the old galactic psychic network the Pre-Fall Eldar used for reincarnation and communication both.
From Age of Sigmar's Scourge Privateers, the title of Fleetmaster for the leader of a Craftworld.
Thank you to my betas, Fancy Face and Silvan, for helping with this
And here's an invite to my Discord server for anyone interested (remove the stars): h*t*t*p*s*:*/*/*d*i*s*c*o*r*d*.*g*g*/*uefmuFBc