'Omesickz
With a final breath, her morning meditation was complete. Piece by piece, she donned her armour, the finest choice an inhabitant of Big Rok could make, since a firefight was usually only a block or so away, give or take. She unlocked the door of her quarters and stepped out. Her kin were there, in the wraithbone hallways of their crashed ship-turned-home, chatting, discussing, training. All in armour, always ready for action. Also, simply saving what little civilian clothing they had for a special occasion.
It was then that she noticed Malakar, almost sprinting towards her, helmet lifted. His azure eyes almost shone:
"Farseer, I bring news."
"What is it?" had someone set fire to the boss pole again? She swore that happened at least once a week.
"Not here, please," he pointed towards the door to her quarters, "it is... delicate."
That only made her worried. As soon as she re-locked her quarters, she asked:
"Well, tell me."
"Of course. As you now, I have been monitoring our makeshift beacon and the simple communications array around it. We have received a reply."
Her heart skipped a beat.
"That's... was it from our own?"
"Unfortunately."
The cogs of her mind started turning:
"What do you mean?"
"The reply we received was a plea for aid," he closed his eyes and breathed in, "craftworld Ylgath is under siege."
She had been part of many war councils, mostly as a seer, though there were the rare times when she had snuck past the guards and listened from the shadows. This particular one, though, was unlike anything else, if only due to sheer variety.
The Big Rok's respective leaders and military commanders, sometimes in one person, sat around an almost round table, with the jagged side belonging to none other than boss Nignub, sporting a hat taller than the gretchin that darted all around the room, bringing drinks and refreshments, or sometimes becoming refreshments themselves. All eyes were on her as she continued:
"This is the situation, as far as we know. Our craftworld, our home among the stars, is beset on all sides by an armada of orks. We do not know how they got into this mess, only that they are stranded, outgunned and fighting for their very survival. Without intervention, I fear they may even lose."
Malakar chimed in:
"If my calculations, and the information they were derived from, are correct, the Big Rok is currently on a trajectory which would take us dangerously close to the craftworld, but far enough to not crash. Our current speed is actually very low. Low enough for deployment and retrieval of ground and air forces, not accounting for sudden warpal activity."
"I realize this is no small favour. We ask for deployment into a warzone, one where both sides may initially prove hostile, with the added risk of being unable to get our troops back, should a sudden jump occur. I fully understand the risks involved and therefore will understand if any of you would be reluctant to commit to an attack. That is our proposal."
Their eyes darted to and fro. Chatter arose in several corners, but eventually died down. To her surprise, it was the metallic Thebes-Ra who rose from his seat first:
"I, for one, see only one option. To deploy in force, wipe out the opposition in a timely manner using our combined might, then fall back to the hulk," he turned to Miriana and bowed his head slightly, "my legion is yours."
"Thank you." she returned the gesture.
"The Peacebringers shall join you in this! Kicking ork arse never gets old," Marek delivered the last part with a smirk at Gorasho, who replied with an extended middle finger.
"Those under the protection of Tau'va need not fear facing adversity alone. The castes stand with you."
The diplomat gaunt, sporting an appropriately-sized hat and tiny bow tie around his neck, growled enthusiastically and jumped in his seat a bit.
Nignub watched all the camaraderie with a toothy grin. Turning to the kaptin, he asked:
"Oy, Pain. Wot ya' think of all diz?"
"I'z thinkin' dat if anyone'z gonna' put up a propa' fight, it'll be otha' orkz, boss."
"You'z speakin' like a smart boy, Pain! Da' orkz be with ya', eldur! Gonna' smash some gitz up!"
Words left her. All she could do at that point was to bow with a smile.
Hours passed as the hulk's forces mobilised with incredible speed. Being used to constantly muck about in armour probably helped. The armies' roles were split. The battle was upon them. And despite all of their efforts, she could not help but feel it wouldn't be quite good enough, though she did not voice her concerns.
Sure, they had a powerful ground force and even an air force of sorts. But both would be tackling the enemy head-on. Further, their more specialised units were not being deployed, in case anything should go wrong. Too precious to lose. Only eldar knew the terrain well and they had too little time for extensive preparations. She feared, that by the time they reached the survivors, it would be too late.
"Farseer," she had felt him long before his hand brushed against her shoulder.
"Yes, Malakar?"
"I, well... I have something for you."
"What?"
"You'll see. Please follow."
They walked past the commotion of the makeshift command centre, then through the streets of the rok, until they reached a rather unassuming building. Only a neon sign above gave away its true identity. 'M an' T, Metul Punchiez Officiunadoz'.
The inside was damp, stank of a mixture of oil, burnt rubber and plain-old filfth. His orkish colleague was nowhere to be seen and Malakar walked over to a rather large, locked container.
"I've been working on it for a while now. Would have been a gift, but I feel the time is right."
"And what is," he pulled them out and she almost lost her voice, "oh my..."
Before her was a pair of the finest wings, of one of the deadliest predators on the battlefield. Sleek, expertly crafted, they were almost a twin of the ones she had worn herself, so many moons ago. She grabbed them as if they were an infant.
"With these, you can strike wherever you are needed."
For a moment, she snapped from her awe:
"I can scarcely turn the tide alone. I cannot ask more of the others, they are already risking so much."
"I feel you forget, you have an eager source of recruits at the ready."
She blinked as realisation struck.
They arrived in small groups, quickly, one after another, chatting, some sporting paraphernalia supporting a specific part of the war effort, as if it was all some sort of sport. They assembled within the chamber, their eyes, tails and assorted tentacles darting from the farseer to the daemonette at her side. The leader spoke:
"Good to see our emergency button works. I knew getting it installed was teef well spent."
"Thank you for coming, indeed." Miriana said.
"Anything for the farseer!" they chanted like a hellish chorus.
"We'll see about that," their gazes became confused, "the farseer has a special request for us."
The leader nooded to her and she picked up:
"I wish to join the battle below, but I cannot go in alone. I need help. Fast, deadly, precise. And, perhaps most crucially, winged or capable of flight via other means."
"Ooooooooh." again in perfect unison.
"And you lot are my only hope. Can you do anything of the sort?"
The leader asked with a horrific, shark-like grin:
"Well, whaddaya' say, gang?"
They screamed over each other:
"For the farseer!"
"Let's break some nails!"
"And uncomfortably fondle!"
"There you have it, Miriana! And don't worry about the wing part, we'll get it sorted out."
"I will probably regret asking this, but how?"
"Tzeentchian dust! We usually snort it, but it can help in a pinch."
"I was right, I regret asking."
Her entourage made heads turn every step of the way. Even the bustle of the command center paused for a few moments as they passed. Some remained dedicated, usually the commanders. Mont'yr was busy talking to the air force:
"All squadrons, report."
She could pick up some of the responses:
"Kor'vre, Red, reporting."
"Kor'vre, Blue Wing, ready to launch."
"Kor'vre, Green, all systems optimal."
Next to her, a gaunt growled into a smaller microphone and earned similar replies, in its own dialect.
Others were giving some final words to their troops:
"And remember, the eldar are not to be harmed. We're hunting green today, Peacebringers."
"I hear you've been hunting blue lately, sir," which earned the trooper a few chuckles.
"And I hear you'll be hunting filfth in the public tiolets for a week from now, guardsman," which made the men almost burst out in laughter.
And then there were Thebes-Ra and Gorasho, just standing in the corridor, rather dumb-founded by her little squad.
"A most impressive strike team."
"Yeh, lotsa' stabby bitz."
The daemonettes giggled, some checked the state of their massive claws again.
"We do try. Where you shall be the hammer, we shall be the spear."
"I am perfectly fine with hammering, myself. Stop giggling, you know what I meant."
"Iz don't, but Iz think dat'z fine. Gud to 'ave a bit of peace on da' Big Rok fer a change. Every bleedin' squigbrain wantz a bit of da' fightin' below. And if deyz get a few grenadez in da' face, well, un-friendly fire, iz wot Iz say."
She chuckled and motioned to her squad to move to the improvised deployment hatch. Good thing they would not jump into the vacuum of space.
He had trained his entire life for war. He had mastered each and every aspect and carried a piece of their equipment, one for each shrine. He was supreme strategist and tactician, able to weave the different parts of the eldar warhost into an unstoppable tide. Even in such dire times, stranded due to critical, untimely failures of their propulsion systems, he had rallied their host for defence well.
And yet, for all his experience, the scene before him made no sense. It had started rather sane, standard orkish horde affair, too many to shoot, too little brain to intimidate. Then, the sky had gone dark, as what appeared to be a ship graveyard, moving at the pace of a necron, slowly made its way among the orkish fleet. Their ships scrambled out of the way, only to then be assailed.
But the assailants... it boggled the mind. Sleek fighter craft flew side-by-side with some sort of beasts, engaging in daring dogfights and bombing runs, crippling a good part of the enemy force due to sheer surprise. Shuttles and pods then rained from the hulk, piercing the craftworld's artificial atmosphere. From within, appeared more orks. And humans. And tau wielding melee weapons. Even eldar, bearing the colours of Ylgath. Nothing made sense. No training had ever prepared him for something so utterly... outlandish.
As he withdrew his blade from another ork and started inspecting their battle line, he noticed a new craft coming from the graveyard. Well, craft... it looked more like a giant, metal crate, with wings hastily attached to the sides. It made a dive for the ork horde... the enemy ork horde, anyway.
The insides of the craft were rather cramped, especially because of all the grots darting to and fro, reloading the guns. Gorasho shot a glance to Snogrot and Tekbrain, nestled in the pilot seats, already pretty psyched up for the spectacle. Ugu had his own tiny seat, complete with a seatbelt, built into the dashboard. He wasn't sure how practical that was, but the squig seemed to be loving it.
"Oy, Tekbrain?"
"Yeh, kaptin?"
"Diz iz gonna' work, right?"
"Oh, yeh! I'z made diz outta' wot waz left of da' deffkopta'," Gorasho could indeed identify a part of a scorched propeller sticking out of one of the walls.
"Dat'z wot Iz waz afraid of."
"Oh, cheer up, kaptin," Snogrot had a slightly mischievous grin, "Tekbrain'z got a surprize fer ya!"
"Wot?"
"Diz!"
With the press of a button, one of the nearby walls slid open, revealing... more buttons. At least a dozen of them, all of them akin to shiny, polished, crimson jewels. Gorasho immediately started salivating.
"Dey'z all yourz, kaptin!"
He did not waste a heartbeat. With the ferocity of a khornate bloodhound, he mashed each and every single one of them, again and again. In his mind, he was crafting the most exquisite symphony, right there, on the spot.
He was not far from the truth. The craft's underbelly was host to a myriad of different weapons and each started delivering its payload. Cannonballs, rockets, bullets, lasers, napalm, gretchin... if it could conceivably be used to hurt someone, it was shot into the enemy's ranks, shredding armour, melting flesh and turning bones to dust. The sheer size of the resulting fireworks almost distracted him for too long.
A rather large one broke through the firing line and made a beeline for him. Size did not matter, for one well-placed slash could end any foe. That particular kill was not his on that day, as some creature passed less than a foot above his head. Talons and teeth bared, the winged daemoness struck like lightning, burying almost her entire arm in the greenskin's face. As the hill of muscle fell down, she shot him a brief look:
"Hi, handsome!"
He was not sure how to reply. Whether to just stare dumbfounded, or warn the Great Enemy's servant about the second, even angrier ork. The other assailant met an untimely end as well, as a spear skewered him like big game. The wings seemed a bit second hand, but even through the armour, he had little trouble identifying her.
"Eeeek!" screamed the saved daemonette.
"Remain vigilant, they are everywhere," she looked over to the rest of her flock, hovering above them for now, shot him a look, then nodded, "Kirin."
He returned the gesture:
"Miriana. You keep questionable company these days."
"A product of necessity, I assure you. Now, we must be going," her wings began to vibrate once more and she rose, shouting to her entourage, "the hunt is on! With me!"
Their battlecry was a mixture of a true shout and an excited squeal. He wasn't sure which part was worse. As he watched them glide off, blasts of emerald energy coursed through the air, vaporising chunks out of their similarly-coloured opposition. The skeletal horde from which it originated was silver in hue, the very sight of them sending chills down into his soul. One of them did not even bother with walking, floating instead on a cloud of what seemed to be mechanoid scarabs. As they passed in front of a now-confused battleline, the lord waved at them, skeletal features hidden behind various adornments:
"Hail!"
Not quite sure how to respond to that, he merely activated his own wings. The gift of the Hawk.
Above, the battle for the artificial skies raged on. The superior pilots of the air caste showed their prowess with dazzling manoeuvres, sometimes taking on three separate foes in a fair fight. Their allies, meanwhile, used their supreme nimbleness to get onto the often-clunky orkish ships and literally tear them apart with acid, talons, teeth or a mixture of all three. The remnants of Ylgath's own fleet retaliated with renewed vigour and courage, carving a bloody path through the disoriented enemy.
Far below, a different winged menace glided swiftly between critical locations, taking out key parts of the ork horde. A nob here, a squad of flash gits armed with absurdly large weapons there, the furies always struck in the nick of time, turning the tides in the defenders' favour, much to their confusion.
The sound of rocket engines signalled the orks' response. Stormboyz rose to the sky in great number, their haphazardly constructed jetpacks aimed right at Miriana's squad. There was almost enough to pose a challenge. Almost. With squeals and roars, the two groups met. Where the orks clumsily tried to strike them, the furies almost danced between them, slashing, tearing and generally being dead killy.
The defeated spiralled out of control, falling down amongst their own, causing further chaos among the green ranks. The farseer was about to speed out of the path of two, when suddenly, they were split in half in the blink of an eye. A blur moved through the air, cutting a path through the core of the enemy group. He came to rest in an almost pristine pose, just as a dozen stormboyz plummeted to the ground, clutching his bloodied power blade. The gift of the Banshee. Their gazes met. Under her helmet, she smiled, just as her entourage took picts of the newcomer:
"You wish to join us, I see."
"Flying with you always was a joy."
"Then let us fly to victory!"
Bolstered by the other eldar, the furies cut through any and all opposition. No tankbusta', dok, or fumbling mek was safe. It was after five or so more interceptions, that a mighty roar filled the air. Its origin was a massive ork, nearly twice as large as the regular boyz around him. More metal than flesh, the boss' arms were both repurposed into mighty klaws, each big enough to shear a tank in half. Pointing at them, rather awkwardly, he continued shouting:
"Youz squigly lil' runtz! Flyin' about like a buncha' snivelly grotz... with rokkit packz. Come down 'ere and fight like a propa' ork!"
To her surprise, Kirin shouted back:
"I shall indulge you, ork!"
Immediately, she half-scolded him:
"Are you mad? Look at the size of him!"
"Size matters not. Besides," he swung his blade, "what better way to break their spirit?"
He dived, before abruptly braking and hovering down to the ground. The horde dispersed, in a mix of confusion, respect and fear, forming a roughly round arena for the two:
"What say you to a duel, greenskin? Just you and me," the giant growled, its teeth audibly scraping against each other, "or are you afraid?"
He stomped on the ground, making a dent in the craftworld's plating:
"Hah! You'z think Iz afraid of a lil' runt dat can't even talk propa' orky?! Iz gonna' take yer bonez, eldur, and give 'em ta' me pet squig, Bigglezworth."
"Well, then, come at me!"
The giant wasted no time and charged, building up speed to become a nigh-unstoppable juggernaut. Kirin almost chuckled as he effortlessly dashed to the side and watched the boss bowl through a good two dozen of his own before coming to a stop.
Furious, he grabbed the nearest ork and flung him like a random piece of scenery. A narrow dodge later, the eldar had to face an onslaught of vicious blows, each powerful enough to slice a space marine into giblets. A space marine couldn't have hoped to match the grace of a dying race.
Kirin crouched, sidestepped, jumped and flew over the attacks, the ork growing more berserk by the second. It was time to end the show. With a final flip, he landed on top of the boss' cybork arm and stared him right in the face. A weapon wrapped around his helmet began charging, its barrels fashioned into the shape of an insect's mandibles. The gift of the Scorpion.
The greenskin managed a yelp before the blaster burned through flesh and bone, reducing almost the entire top of the head into a fine paste. As orks are wont to do, however, the boss refused to die. Blind, stumbling and generally useless, he mucked about, swatting at the air and babbling incomprehensible curse words. The predator went for the final blow.
After rising to the air, he came down, blade first. A single slash was enough to send what was left of his head tumbling away, leaking brains on the way. The corpse fell with a resounding thud, as the horde stared on horrified. He stepped onto the now-dead mountain and looked around at the other hostile greenskins. He screamed:
"Anyone else?!"
Most just took a few pre-emptive steps back. Boyz muttered about running, nobs muttered about returning later for another go. The flying crate of doom flew overhead, vaporizing another few dozen in a multi-coloured lightshow. That was the nail in the coffin of their morale. They ran like frightened children to whatever transport craft they had left, bombarded by a million different projectiles on the way.
Another figure, bearing his own colours, landed on the dead boss. She commented:
"I see you still have a penchant for the dramatic."
"The path of the Actor leaves a mark on you, no matter how you try to resist it. It's good to see you again."
"Likewise, dearest friend."
Celebrations were already underway, though they were unusually tame, on account of everyone having to leave in a timely manner. Tensions, however, were surprisingly high within the craftworld itself. A council was underway. And it was by no means going along smoothly.
"I object such a notion," spoke one of the many gathered seers, an army of ceremonial garbs, "it is folly of the highest order!"
"They are eldar! Our people, flesh and blood!" came a retort.
"They are unbound," yet another naysayer, "they have left their Paths! Their minds are wild, uncontrolled! They would sow the seeds of our doom!"
"Not only that, they side with mon'keigh, the Great Enemy, even the skeletal horrors of our past!"
As the bickering continued, she could only watch on and sigh. Kirin was at her side, showing off his rather chiselled features. Short, black hair, eyes like two nuggets of jade. Just a few scars here and there, from training rather than actual battle. He kept a neutral face throughout the proceedings, and she wished she could do the same. Deep down, though, she had expected such a welcoming. Good thing she had taken preventive steps.
The banter continued, with no end in sight. Someone placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Malakar, who whispered into her ear:
"I asked, as you requested. We are with you, body and soul."
"Thank you, Malakar."
While the argument raged on, she stepped forth before the council.
"My brothers and sisters," she started, the chamber immediately falling into silence, "the time for deciding runs short. We, the stranded, acknowledge that our time spent on the space hulk has unravelled our minds. Rather than endanger the practices that have for so long ensured the survival of our kind, we," she took a deep breath, "we shall remain on the Big Rok, voluntarily. We request only that the craftworld provide us with certain necessities, for our continued existence."
Chatter erupted in a few corners of the chamber, none of it cheerful, not even among the naysayers.
"With that, I shall take my leave. The eldar of Big Rok need me."
All eyes on her, she walked outside. From there, she made a turn deeper into the craftworld, a slight deviation for a final farewell.
She breathed in, her sensitive nostrils immediately recognising a dozen different species of flora and fauna. Each a survivor, a reminder of a life her kind had once enjoyed, turned to species that did all in their power to just keep moving forward. Much like the eldar, the plants and critters didn't have much else left.
The door behind her hissed open. She didn't need to turn to know who it was, his mind radiated in such a familiar way. Stepping to her side, the autarch looked around, before commenting:
"I knew I'd find you here."
"I had hoped you would. You of all people deserve a final goodbye."
A silence ensued, broken only by the occasional creature in their vicinity. Kirin continued:
"Exile, a grave decision."
"I am sure the naysayers felt a fair bit of relief."
"You know how strict many are about the Paths. Most of us do not have the luxury of barbarism, I'm afraid," they both chuckled at the expense of the wild craftworld, "but I do know one thing," they turned towards each other in the same moment, "whatever the future has in store for you and your bemusingly friendly companions, I'm sure you will guide our people well. You always had a knack for such things."
"And you? Last time I saw you, you were still among the banshees."
"Much less enjoyable than flying by your side, I assure you. The instructors always scream at everything."
Miriana suddenly looked down and reached for an item tied carefully around her waist:
"I... want you to have this. A memento."
Into his hand, she placed an exquisitely-crafted dagger, curved and covered with religious imagery. He grabbed it as if it were a babe:
"I shall treasure it as a soulstone."
"Good. You always had a habit of breaking everything else."
"Not my fault the equipment cannot keep up."
They shared another laugh, which died off much too soon. In the blink of an eye, she flung herself around him in a hug, made only slightly uncomfortable thanks to their hug-friendly armour. She sobbed, but fought true tears:
"Farewell, dearest friend."
He did not even attempt to fight and let the droplets flow freely down his cheeks:
"Farewell, dearest friend."
With that, she almost sprinted out of the room, not wanting to prolong the painful moment. The autarch watched her go, the dagger already affixed to his own belt.
She finally reached the outside shell of the craftworld. The exodus was already under way, with all sorts of machinery and supplies being loaded onto ships, only to be sent upwards, home. Her flight just kind of stood there among it all, comparing the size of their talons and cheerfully chatting. As soon as one spotted her, they all gathered:
"Farseer! We almost thought you weren't coming!"
She managed a smile:
"And leave you without an object of adoration? Perish the thought," they giggled like the maniacs they were, "fly back, we'll meet up later. And keep the wings, I have a few things in mind."
After enthusiastic nodding, her improvised jump troops flew off, their chatter still audible for up to a mile. Another voice filled her surroundings, unnatural, unsettling, yet not emotionless:
"Exile. A nasty thing," Thebes-Ra maintained distance at the very edge of her personal space, his glowing eyes sending a brief shiver down her spine, "especially when surrounded by what your kin would call ancient enemies."
"With enemies like you, who needs friends?"
He actually chuckled, though it sounded more like a stuttering engine. With one hand, he motioned towards the Big Rok:
"Need a ride? Mine's rather slow, but always dependable."
"I'll take what I can get."
"Splendid."
With an unnecessary snap of his fingers, a small army of scarabs gathered under their feet and slowly started lifting them. The day was theirs and the future, she could predict.
"Tekbrain."
"Yeh, kaptin?"
"Dat waz da' most fun Iz eva' 'ad in me life."
"Hahaaaah, always a pleasure, kaptin."
"Now, tellz me you'z got landin' bitz on diz thing."
The mek nodded enthusiastically:
"Oh, yeh! Seven of 'em!"
Gorasho emitted a sigh of relief. As they neared the hulk, Tekbrain pointed out a small inconvenience:
"Huh, I'z just realised. I'z got landin' bitz, but no button fer 'em. Ah, well, third time'z da' charm. If wez get a third time."
After sharing a brief look, Pain and Snogrot started screaming a mixture of a prayer to Gork... or maybe Mork, and obscenities. Mostly obscenities.
This couldn't be right. It simply couldn't be. The craftworld was saved, yet, she was yet again in that wraithbone hallway, ready to face her nightmare once more. What did it mean? She had to know, she had to!
With gritted teeth, she waited it out. The face of her father growing grotesque, the large wounds, the small sea of blood. She endured it all. And then, something new appeared. The lifeless body fell over, revealing a set of weapons lodged into its back. Each belonged to a different race of the universe. One of them, her father's own dagger.