Shortcomings of Foresight

"How could I have been so foolish?" The same thought reverberates around the delicate skull of Autarch Taenar as his grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. The shaped wraithbone groans under his powerful grip as he takes in the stubbornly strong Imperial garrison that his warhost has failed to take. Again. The presence of the strange Mon'keigh with the strange helmet certainly threw a few of the more zealous of the Aspect Warriors for a loop when he was able to match the Howling Banshees in hand to hand with seemingly no effort. Not even the gene-bred Astartes could have boasted such a thing in their bulky armor.

This one is plated in something more similar to the so called "stormtroopers" that the unaugmented Mon'keigh tote as their "elite", and is as fast as an Eldar with those devastating fists and blade. The original goal may now be well beyond their reach if the Mon'keigh defences can continue to hold against their assault and with the detection of the servants of Chaos arriving there may well be no hope. The only option is, and he can't believe he is even considering this, is to...work with the Imperials.

"Autarch, the corrupted ones ar on the move. What shall we do?" the exarch of one of the Dire Avenger shrines inquires where he leans against the trunk of an old tree. The warrior's cerulean armor stands in stark contrast with the soft white of the snow and the nearly black bark of the surrounding trees marking another disadvantage against them: their armor is simply too colorful! It's kind of hard to sneak through a stark environment when dressed as a rainbow of colors. The Autarch, one who has walked several of the Warrior Paths, sighs and takes in all of the options remaining to him. Option one: withdraw from the battlefield and hope that the Imperials have the strength to fend off the doom rapidly approaching. Stranger things have happened.

Option two: harass the servants of Chaos with skirmishing tactics before retreating. This one would cause more Eldar deaths but be that much more gratifying and placate the Exarchs who would no doubt be screaming for blood. Or option three…

"I can't believe I am about to order this…" the Autarch thinks to himself and turns to regard his warhost assembled beneath the snow-bent boughs. His eyes unintentionally turn towards the newly recovered warrior of the Howling Banshee Aspect still nursing her bruised and broken ribs. Her replaying of her short conversation with the strange Mon'keigh sets him on edge as the Farseer's words come back to haunt him.

"The Mon'keigh bring a demon of their own to this battle. A demon more machine than man in bearing, and more deadly than the greatest of their Astartes to our kind. Make him an ally and our craftworld shall weather the storm, anger him and we shall never have a moment's rest."

"We shall...attempt to help the Imperials. If only to save ourselves."

Hunter grimaces as he counts out his remaining ammunition and for once wishes he had broken down and grabbed one of the Imperial Lasguns if only for the ammunition capacity. Down three magazines and possessing only another four on his person he only has enough for one more engagement, if that. So instead of his Battle Rifle he totes the longer and seemingly more delicate needle rifle finding a spot in the belltower to see from and using the scope to scan for the slightest disturbance while keeping his photo-reactive plates active. While normally he would be sweating his balls off from the heat being given off after keeping them running for so long he had the so-called "tech-priests" on the Iron Heart modify the cooling unit to keep himself cool long after the original unit would have failed.

The delicate scope mounted along the upper rail whirs as he carefully adjusts the magnification to focus in on the slowly dissipating pillar of smoke rising from where the Chaos forces have landed. Memories of battles years past flash in his mind of holding the line while losing all support, the enemy growing stronger by the second before breaking upon them like a tide of fury and plasma. And of good men dying around him. This time...might be different. So while he is effectively invisible to the naked eye he sees everything.

Including a suspiciously familiar alien warrior-woman at the edge of the treeline.

"Ma'am, I have eyes on contact range two-hundred meters. Appears non-hostile."

"Keep an eye on it, I don't trust these xenos. The Inquisitor seems to have had a vision from the Saint herself and wants to talk with them," the cannoness in charge of the defences on the western section of wall replies bitterly. He can hear the scowl in her voice.

"Yes ma'am." His scope scans the trees around the female warrior instinctively knowing that she isn't alone. His caution is rewarded with the sight of a shimmering field in the branches above and to the left, something similar to what a Spec-Ops Elite would have been equipped with.

"Contact has company...permission to dirty his drawers ma'am?" An evil chuckle accompanies his request.

"...granted." She replies with an audible smile. The crosshairs settle on the branch above the alien's shimmering cloak. His breathing is slow and even, his heart a steady drumbeat in his chest as his every fibre focuses on the shot. Everything fades around him until all of existence shrinks to the sight through his scope and the feel of the grooved trigger under the pad of his finger. Ever so slowly he applies pressure to the trigger. For those who have never shot long distance it is a strange concept to grasp that one does not pull the trigger but merely presses down on it slowly with the very tip of his finger. Without warning the trigger gives suddenly beneath his finger and the rifle hisses quietly.

Olavara grumbles to herself as she stands unarmed in the open before the unbroken Mon'keigh citadel. One of the Rangers accompanying the warhost offered to keep watch in the tree above and she accepted the offer as she waits to either be shot or met in the open by whatever representative the primitives decide to reach out with. The painful memory of her encounter with the self-anointed Demon is fresh in her mind as she feels her freshly healed ribs shift against the ointment smeared bandages wrapped around them beneath her armor.

Her eyes take in the red tinted sight of the, admittedly, imposing Imperial monastery with its leering gargoyles and winged Saints. The destroyed field between the trees and the wall are a stark contrast to the as yet unblemished walls...apart from the gate of course. A small smirk tugs at her lips at the memory of the Fire Prism melting their beautiful gate wide open and their mad scramble to plug the hole in their defences. As foolish as the females were they are equally brave and skilled...for Mon'keigh. But then the reinforcements arrived. The stormtroopers alone would be no real challenge compared to Astartes...but that one man that butchered her sisters. He is something else.

So for some strange reason she is not surprised in the least when the Ranger above her releases an undignified squawk, no doubt audible on the walls two-hundred meters distant, and falls falt on his back beside her with a rush of air escaping his lungs. The shimmering cloak that was concealing him deactivates revealing a fair face temporarily frozen in a rictus of pain.

"I think he saw you."

"That...was impressive Spartan," the cannoness chuckles as the rest of the garrison almost breaks down in laughter at the "dignified" Eldar's indignant squawk.

"I live to please ma'am."

Inquisitor Reymose emerges from the monastery proper with a fierce scowl set in place. Hearing of the arrival of the hated foe's forces nearly sent him into a zealous rage much as it did the Battle Sisters around but that cold cloak of logic was once more draped across his shoulders. He knows that their forces no longer have the strength to repel a concentrated assault from a nearly full strength regiment. Not with the gates breached as they are, and with the monstrosities that the Archenemy so loves to send into the fray. The sound of a distant squawk is enough to give him pause and then catch the hints of the sniggering occurring beneath the full faced helms of the assembled Battle Sisters.

"What in the Emperor's name is happening on this world…"

"I think that I'm adjusting. By the way your mic is on sir," an undeniably smug voice that surprisingly belongs to the Spartan whispers in the Inquisitors ear nearly making him jump out of his skin.

"What have you done?"

"...I may have made one of the aliens fall out of a tree."

"I have no sane response to that. I'm going to make contact with the...xenos. I'd like you to be down here as escort."

"Yes sir." The Spartan's rote response brings a small smile to the Inquisitor's face. Interpreting a suggestion as an order, would the rest of the Imperium's forces be such good soldiers. True to his word less than five minutes later the Spartan is standing at his elbow, black rifle cradled in his hands. A stormtrooper from first squad joins him on his other side puffing himself up ever so slightly so as to try and match the slightly taller Spartan in bulk… and failing miserably. The normally menacing crimson eyepieces have lost some of their effect when compared to the featureless mask covering the Spartan's face.

"Let me do all the talking and stay calm. Even if we meet in the open the Eldar are quite adept at laying traps in plain sight."

"Yes sir," the two soldiers respond in unison. Reymose nods and strides past the Rhino blocking the gate feeling the stern-faced Battle Sister on the pintle storm-bolter watching them the whole way. Their boots crunch against the dirty, soot stained snow with every step. Each crunch seems deafening in the oppressive silence and there are many to be made. The Inquisitor's eyes remain locked onto the pale armored figure standing at the tree line. Idly his thoughts turn to the blade resting in its sheath in one of the disabled and abandoned Rhinos in the courtyard for storage, and the Saint's instructions on whom to give it to. Well, he starts thinking on it until Hunter chuckles evilly next to him.

"What's so funny?"

"The alien with the cloak is back in the tree...and this time he's armed."

"...he wasn't before?"

"I don't think he was supposed to be there before."

"Ah...well don't shoot him yet."

"Can I shoot the branch he's standing on?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"...that's not a legitimate reason."

"Always works for a parent."

"You are not my dad!"

"Ahem!" a distorted voice interrupts before them dragging both of their eyes towards the alien before them. The Spartan merely sighs and settles back into his stiff but watchful stance, eyes secretly locked on the gently shimmering position that he knows an alien sniper is glaring at him from.

"What is it you want xenos?" Contempt drips from the Inquisitor's voice

"A truce of sorts. The Archenemy threatens us both...and neither of us can afford them to achieve their objective."

"And what is their objective xenos?" the Inquisitor all but snarls. The Eldar simply seems to glare at the man for a moment before sighing.

"There is a demon within the monastery."

The human soul burns like a bonfire before the small ember attached to it's earthly coil. The pure malice radiating off of the small crimson core throbs as if it were a beating heart and grows ever so slightly. Deep within its comparatively fragile shell the being grins with the slightest tinge of madness.

"Pathetic weaklings… your doom approaches and the bitch isn't here to save you this time." In the distance a tiny golden speck smiles in self satisfaction.

"Oh...I've got something better in mind…"

A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, shit's been happening. The next one will be longer and we'll start getting into the fight with Chaos.