AN: Written for writing competition hosted by my FLGS. Prompt was 'Patience is a virtue'. Hopefully I win that sweet $50 store credit! Please leave any criticisms in the comments, I love critical feedback. Do your worst!
Craftworld Hammunaptra was forged by the dead. This was their ancient truth. The wind howled over the dry sea of sand, an angry youngling soon to lose its favorite toy. An oasis stood in the desert as an island, isolated in a hostile ocean of sunlight and dunes. Its shores were battered by the sands, always threatening to overwhelm it. Nevertheless, the island stood the test of time.
Ammon removed his rune-helmet, allowing the petulant cries of the planet to flow through his ebony hair. His sun-darkened skin wrinkled as he smiled wistfully. He walked through the oasis, his hands tracing over stones, their writing faded by the passage of time and sand. In times of old, the craftworlds were the only Aeldari who were isolated enough from society to see the inevitable fall. They took those who were still sane and fled to safer shores. But Hammunaptra was too late. Too near to the Adversary's birth-scream, their ship was crippled.
Ammon came to a stop as he stood before a massive structure. Its sloping sides came to a point so far above him that it seemed to touch the very sky with its arrogance. Painted runes had long since faded but the marble faces of the ancestor's pyramid still gleamed in the sunlight, its platinum capstone shimmering like a star.
When the fires were extinguished and they ventured outside, they had found what remained of their home stranded on this desert planet. As the galaxy descended into chaos, they descended beneath the sand, singing songs of ancient renewal. As the child races bickered among themselves Hammunaptra communed with the spirits of the ancients, deep within their soul-stones. They built monuments to the dead and a home for the living with sacred bone. Ammon closed his eyes, reaching out through the spirit-sea, his sacred runes warding him against the ravenous daemons who swam its currents.
As the universe continued around them, they remembered ancient foes as the farseers looked through the warp to new enemies from the void outside the galaxy. As their home slowly sank beneath the sands they warded their hearts against the passage of time. Now with the awakening of the galaxy, with the awakening of Ynnead, it was finally time to act. It was time to rejoin the galaxy. Ammon crooked his fingers, calling to the souls of ancestors who had slumbered for ages. Within the pyramid the memorials of spirit-bone came to life as they answered the call.
In the distance the shifting dunes up-heaved as a massive organic craft breached the waves of sand like a leviathan of old. After countless millennia, it was time. As patience had been the watchword of the living, so it had been for the dead. Ammon directed the wraiths inside the voidcrafts behind him. They had not the numbers to change the galaxy, but they had enough faith to move stars. Craftworld Hammunaptra was forged by the dead, and now the dead shall keep it.