Manric hesitated before he entered the containment field.

This containment unit contained a Necron Warrior. Unlike all the other Necron Warriors and the two Immortals, Zelda had reported no response at all with this one. Panaa had been the only one to truly respond, but with most of them she'd felt like they had heard her, but not this one. Zelda had confided to him that she thought this Warrior was gone.

Manric had to try though and after a moment, he entered the containment field. The Warrior was in what resembled a straightjacket, held upright on a metal board. That was because unlike the others, who all had the mental capacity not to damage themselves, this one would charge the field over and over. He would do it until his own body was shorting out, actual limbs beginning to fall off, and then do it again. He would only stop when he could no longer move.

Manric was deeply apprehensive about linking his mind to the Warrior, but braced himself before doing it despite his fears. He gently placed a hand on the Necron Warrior's chest, leaning close and pressing their foreheads together.

What Manric experienced was what Zelda had described, pure chaos. There was nothing rational here, not a glimmer of true thought, just a jumble of memories and formless screaming. It was nearly overwhelming but Manric fortified his own mind, refusing to fall into the morass of mute suffering. There was truly nothing here, but why? What had this Warrior experienced? Manric rooted through what was left of his mind, trying to find the answer.

"Ah, no," he murmured as he found it. There were memories, after a fashion, in this swirling chaos and they provided the answer. "You poor soul." This Necron Warrior had been left conscious after the biotransference, but locked into his body. Unable to take a single action, a passenger in his own body for thousands of years. It had shredded his sanity, reduced his mind to rubble, long before the transfer of a soul.

Feeling a soul deep regret, Manric let go and stepped back, reaching for his authority as a commander. He disabled the Necron Warriors' recall functions and then, with a single clean blow of his spear, removed his head. An eternity of agony came to an end.

Deeply shaken by the experience, Manric exited the containment unit. Zivok was there watching, completely unphased by his violent action.

"He was beyond recovery?" Zivok asked and Manric nodded. "What happened?" Manric did his best to described what he'd sensed, feeling sick. "Ah, locked in syndrome, I wondered if we would find that." Zivok frowned, tapping his pen against his lips. "I wonder how many Necron Warriors are afflicted with it?"

"You don't think this is a one-off mistake?" Manric asked, utterly horrified by the thought. Zivok shook his head.

"Oh no, I honestly suspect this is a rather common thing." Dear gods. "The C'Tan did not care about the necontyr at all, after all, and this does not impede performance in the slightest." If Manric still had a stomach, he'd want to throw up. As it was, his mind still generated the feeling of sickness. "I do suspect absolutely no Immortals have it. They need to be higher functioning, which would preclude this." Well that was something? "Shall we move on to the Immortal?"

"Yes, I think so." This Immortal was the most curious of the non-sentients they had re-souled, next to that Warrior. He had started as nearly an aberrant, with much higher functioning than most Immortals, but had fallen into insanity just the same.

When Manric entered the room containing the Immortal, he was pacing the confines of his unit, shaking his head and muttering. Since he was not particularly dangerous to himself and Zelda did not require physical contact to use her telepathy, he was unrestrained. Manric though, found that touch always enhanced his abilities. This time, with an unrestrained subject, Manric opted to leave his spear sitting outside the containment field. He had no intention of using it.

When Manric entered the containment field, though, the Immortal immediately lunged at him. Manric balanced himself easily and let the Immortal tackle him, locking his arms around the Immortal before leveraging him with superior strength and weight. As he held the Immortal in place, Manric had all the contact he could possibly need and he reached out, gently experiencing the Immortal's view of the world.

It was extremely chaotic, but more rational than the Necron Warrior. Like Panaa had described, he was flashing between visions of the far off past and his experiences as a necron. But compounding his chaos was a recurrent, painful grief that seared his mind so badly that the Immortal kept retreating from it. That grief was forcing him back into chaos and if Manric wanted to help him, he would have to attempt to make sense of that pain.

Manric reached and experienced a flash of the far-off past.

He should have come to the Furnaces, should have obeyed the Phaeron but he felt that something was wrong. And while he had great faith in Phaeron Rahkaak, he thought she was no longer in control.

He bundled up his wife and young children and they fled to the countryside to try to live off the land. But the Silent King had brought all his forces intending to bring all the necrontyr to the fold. No one was allowed to escape. No one.

They broke his arms and legs when he tried to fight and dragged him and his wife to the Furnace. They seized the little ones from his wife and presented them to the C'Tan and he could only watch in horror as they withered and died. The last thing he heard as he was dragged through the fires was his wife screaming.

"I know it hurts. I know it hurts so much," Manric murmured, experiencing that pain. "But you have to stop running from it. Please, come back to us. Please." Manric sympathized, deeply, but avoided soaking in the emotions too deeply. He knew, instinctively, that if he allowed himself to get caught up in the suffering he would mirror it back and amplify it, causing a negative feedback loop. That would be potentially dangerous to them both, and not help in the slightest. He had to maintain his balance and show the nameless Immortal the way out.

It was hard and painful, as the Immortal kept trying to slip away, but Manric wouldn't let him go. He gently soothed him, murmured nonsense words in his ears, like he was a child. And after a while the struggling ceased and sense came back.

"Who are you?" The Immortal asked, his voice mechanical but still ragged, drifting off tone.

"Manric," he responded, still holding the Immortal in place. "Who are you?" Please give me your name. Manric used his empathic telepathy, gently encouraging the Immortal to stay, to reach out.

"Ahabi," he responded after a moment, then raised his head, his eyes flaring. "Let me die."

"No, please," Manric responded instantly, without a thought. "There is so much to live for." Despite everything he had been through, there was still a future for this necron. The Immortal laughed and the buzz had that strange, jagged edge.

"What is there to live for?" Manric hated to answer that question. He hated it, more than anything, but he knew the answer a man like this needed, that would keep him alive long enough to possibly recover.

"Revenge," Manric said and the Immortal suddenly looked at him intently, going still in his grip. "The C'Tan still exist, and the Silent King lives. The future can hold revenge for everything that was taken from you." There was a pause as the Immortal digested that.

"You can let me go. I will live, for now," he said and Manric nodded, letting go and sitting back. The Immortal sat up and paused, staring at his body. He held his hands out in front of him and looked at them, back and front. "This is what I am now…" He sounded so hopeless. Manric evaluated him and came to an utterly dismaying conclusion. He will probably have to go to the Death Seekers. Manric had always had a good feel for who belonged there, and he thought this Immortal was too far gone for anything else.

"I will take you to see Phaeron Rahkaak." His head snapped up and Manric felt wild hope from him, the deep trust he still had for his Phaeron. "She wants to see anyone who manages to recover."

"The Phaeron is well? She is herself?" The way he said that… "The ones that caught me, I knew who they were, but they didn't recognize me. They weren't themselves anymore." What a horrible nightmare all of these people had been through.

"Phaeron Rahkaak is herself, she is fine," Manric reassured him, reflecting on it. Rahkaak didn't have a soul yet but he would be giving her one soon, and Simokh, and all the other Uhnashret nobility and Crypteks. The lower ranks would have to wait until the Sautekh dynasty was taken care of.

(if they would do them at all. Manric already had a bad feeling that the Necron Warriors would be untenable)

Before he did that, though, Manric needed to try to awaken all the others. He took the Immortal – Ahabi – with him as he went to wake the others. Two more Necron Warriors and an Immortal, Manric was able to recover them in quick succession. They all needed just the psychic equivalent of a grab by the scruff of the neck, and their stories were less tragic. The Necron Warriors were an actual warrior, a single man with no family who had simply gone through the Furnace on orders, and a young commoner in training to be a bricklayer. He had been barely old enough to even qualify for biotransference and Manric was a bit dismayed to feel that he was almost a child. The other Immortal was also a single man who had walked through the Furnace without thought, although he came awake wondering where his mother was.

Manric had the unenviable task of giving them a quick explanation of what had happened, before taking them to see Rahkaak. Ahabi had no problem believing him but none of the others wanted to. They wanted to believe that the Star Gods could not betray them… but Ahabi told him his story, what he had experienced and they started to believe.

Then they went to see the Phaeron. All of them were a bit agog at the underground Tomb World, and the child in particular was exclaiming over everything. Manric felt painfully old, listening to him, and wondered how Rahkaak would take this. None of them had imagined that some of the Necron Warriors might be very young.

"Remember to show respect to the Phaeron," Ahabi rumbled and the youngster nodded earnestly. What was his name again? Ah yes, Pawushet.

Phaeron Rahkaak and Simokh were waiting for them and the commoners prostrated themselves before them. The two Immortals fell to their knees, in a more restrained but still significant sign of obeisance. Manric was the only one who simply bowed, feeling almost out of place as he did.

"Phaeron Rahkaak, great Queen of the Uhnashret, we adore you," they all murmured, not quite in unison, catching Manric off guard. He was particularly struck by the true adoration he sensed from them.

"All of you, please stand. Manric?" Rahkaak said and Manric bowed, understanding his command.

"Phaeron, let me present to you Immortal Ptahotep and Immortal Ahabi. These are apprentice bricklayer Pawushet and warrior Inaskaf." They all rose to their feet and to his amusement, Manric noticed that Pawushet managed to seem very eager and young. Or was that just him?

"Apprentice… forgive me, how old are you?" Ah, Rahkaak had caught it as well. Pawushet puffed his chest out.

"I just completed the blooding ritual, most illustrious Phaeron!" Manric had no idea what that meant but from the amused glance the two Immortals exchanged, it wasn't that much of an achievement. "I have seen thirteen solar cycles, Phaeron. The Star Gods said I was just old enough to enter the Furnace… is it really true that the Gods betrayed us…?" Pawushet wilted now and for a moment, Manric was reminded of Yantek. Ah, it was remarkable when a necron managed to be that expressive with just body language. Rahkaak nodded.

"I am afraid it is true. I know I could not stop them, but I am sorry I did not protect you all," she said and Manric could detect her quiet grief, her deep sorrow for the suffering of her people.

"There is no fault on you, Phaeron. The Silent King came with all his forces. Imotekh himself could not have saved us," Ahabi said and Manric noticed his voice was very deep. Probably just a little bit of individuality that had slipped into his design.

"Imotekh couldn't save himself," Manric murmured to himself, remembering Ahmakeph's story. Ahabi shot him a sharp look and Manric just met his gaze. "They claimed everyone, in the end."

"Indeed… I am told we were the last." Phaeron Rahkaak said, her hands clasped together. "But yes, it is all true, the Star Gods have betrayed us. It is possible they also betrayed the Silent King, but it was his responsibility to not be deceived." Yes… that was very true. Even if he had also been betrayed, even if he had made a terrible mistake, who else was to take the blame for it? "I am very pleased to have the four of you returned to me. Ptahotep, Ahabi and Inaskaf, will you be content to rejoin my guard?" Ptahotep and Inaskaf immediately assented but Ahabi shook his head, glancing at Manric.

"Immortal Ahabi will come with me, to join Imotekh's forces," Manric said, reflecting on it. Diarmuid and the Death Seekers would quickly get him sorted out. Rahkaak nodded, not asking why, but she could easily guess.

"Very well, you have my blessing. Pawushet… assume, for a moment, that your caste no longer matters. What would you choose to do with your life?" Ah, that was a very interesting question.

"If I could do anything… could I become a real warrior?" Pawushet looked down with an air of embarrassment. "I – I know it was foolish to think, but when I became eighteen, I planned to try… they all said you could offer a challenge to an Immortal and if you impressed, they might allow you to join? I was trying to get ready for it, lifting heavy things and sparring with my brothers. It was what I wanted more than anything in the world." What an adorable child he was. Manric remembered, sadly, the young men of Hope who had earnestly prepared themselves for war. Although they had never had any issue of being allowed to join, quite the reverse.

"If that is what you want, I would be pleased to take you on," Ptahotep said and Manric felt they would be a good match. Rahkaak flashed glyphs for amusement, which the newly awakened necrons would not understand.

"Excellent. Simokh, can you please arrange to have them taught the glyphs?" That really was important. Panaa was starting to become proficient in them, from what Manric had heard, but it took a while. "Also, bring them to Hotesnet for assignment." Except Ahabi, of course. Manric would let the Crypteks teach him the glyphs though. After a great deal of time and practice, Manric was proficient enough but nothing more than that. And he would be busy, as they used the last of their test subjects to teach the weaker psykers how to complete the re-souling process.

When that was done, the true work would begin.

Eldrad gently moved through the currents of the warp, seeking out one thing in particular.

For anyone lesser than him, it would have been very difficult to pick out the Spear of the Ancients and commune with the spirits hidden therein. The spear acted like a very advanced and powerful Soulstone, holding the spirits of all who had owned and used the spear. Inevitably, despite recall functions, someday Manric would add his soul to the spear and it would move to someone else's hands. That was the way of things. Eldrad knew perfectly well that there was a necron who apparently wanted the spear for his museum, but he had no intention of allowing that to happen. In more peaceful times, the Eldar themselves had kept the Spear so, but these were not peaceful times.

Eldrad found the spear and reached out. Awareness of the Immaterium dissolved, replaced with a beautiful peace and reverie, similar to existing within an Infinity Circuit. He perceived it as golden light, that a human would surely term heaven.

"Who are you…" the voice was like a chorus and Eldrad knew he was in danger of being summarily removed. He gave the spirits a feeling of deep apology and supplication.

"I am Eldrad Ulthran of Craftworld Ulthwe. Please, great spirits, I come to you in search of knowledge. Might I speak to Laaror?" He was the one person who might have the answer to his questions who he could also trust. While Manric no doubt COULD answer his questions, his loyalty lay with Imotekh. And many other necrons might be able to answer, they were even less reliable. There was an infinitesimal pause, as the spirits mulled it over and Eldrad just basked in the sensation of the Spear. There was no real time here, the spirits could take as long as they liked.

Then the light in front of him coalesced into the form of an aeldari warrior. Laaror was much how Eldrad had imagined him, a fit and powerful warrior with his hair in a top knot. The only thing that struck him was how handsome Laaror had been, even by eldar standards. The perfection of his features was truly remarkable, as well as the aura of fierceness he carried. His whole body was golden, just like the light around them, and in one hand he carried a spiritual copy of the Spear of Ancients.

"What do you want of me and why should I give it?" Laaror came to the point very abruptly, to Eldrad's surprise and slight discomfort. Then, to his further surprise, a second warrior took shape. This one was female and had a brutal scar on her face. It could have been fixed but likely she had chosen to keep it as a mark of pride.

"Laaror… please attempt to behave less like an unmannerly Mon'Keigh." Oh. This was just his personality, then? "Forgive him. He fought against Imotekh for so long, we believe the Stormlord rubbed off on him." Eldrad immediately seized on that.

"That is why I am here… I wish to know about Imotekh the Stormlord. Are you aware of the prophecies, of what is coming?" Eldrad asked, uncertain they would. They were trapped here in an endless dream, but being this deeply connected to the Immaterium might also give them insight. Laaror cocked his head to one side.

"That Imotekh's awakening is a sign of the end times, as humans would say? And also that Cegorach's prophecy in the Black Librarian has finally been revealed, and he has teased us with mentions of metal with a soul? Yes, I know. The time when we will either end as a race, or conquer our greatest mistake, is coming rapidly." Laaror leaned against his spear. "I suppose you would say that is why I should speak, but I do not recall giving my life so it could be squandered on debauchery." Eldrad winced a little internally. It was not surprising they would see it that way. "Perhaps you should ask your question, and I will decide if I wish to answer." Fair enough.

"My visions indicate that we need the aide of Manric Duleth, or our efforts to retrieve the final sword will fail." It seemed absurd, but Eldrad had tried to create the ghost wood and failed. He always made something closer to wraithbone and suspected there was something innately human about the material. "Yes, we do have empathic telepaths of our own, but only five," Eldrad said, heading off a possible objection. "And three of them are not suitable." In various ways, they would all fall to Slaanesh's garden. That was not something to judge them for, many were unsuited to braving those gardens. "The other two will go with Manric and assist him, but he is needed and to get him, we must bargain with Imotekh."

"THAT is an unenviable task. What will he demand, Craftworld Ulthwe? Oh wait, he wouldn't want it, you would be too much effort to protect from the Night Lords." Well that was entirely too accurate. "Does he want Iyanden, so he can rehabilitate it?" That… was the motivation?

"I have found many offers he would accept, but they all involved surrendering some of our people to him. I wanted to know why the Stormlord seems to crave the subjugation of our race," Eldrad said carefully. He needed to be able to explain this to the other Craftworlders if there was to be even the slightest hope of success.

"Subjugation is a harsh word for what he does. I have been watching, we have all been watching, as Manric goes on Imotekh's commands and takes chaos and leaves order in his wake." The female beside Laaror nodded, supporting his description. "His human subjects would deny it, but many are already coming to support the Stormlord. He is a creature of order and under his hand, disruptions are handled with rare speed. There is no losing an entire sector and not even noticing for a hundred years," Laaror sounded mildly exasperated and Eldrad wondered what he was referring to.

"Get over that already," the woman mumbled and Eldrad realized he was referring to something that had happened during the War in Heaven. That did sound less than organized. Laaror waved her words away.

"I was in charge of… nevermind. That is off topic." Yes, it was, although quite interesting. "Imotekh's mind operates on a rare level. He can take all the information given to him from a vast empire, reports that would take any of us days to read and comprehend, and speed through it in mere hours. He can collate all the information, make connections we would miss, and take quick action. He can audit entire sectors in hours, with his vast mental powers. Did you know the Old Ones made the Krork specifically to counter the Stormlord? Their WAAAUGH interferes with his mind, causing him to misfire in a very specific way. It drives him nearly insane." Really? Eldrad had heard that the Orks frustrated the Stormlord, but he'd had no idea it was by design.

"But why would he want aeldari for this empire?" That was what truly did not make sense to Eldrad. He could have easily understood if the Stormlord wanted to exterminate them, but he seemed to have no interest at all in that. And what Laaror was saying, while interesting, did not address his question.

"I am just explaining what I know of his mind, so you can understand my conclusions. This is only my speculation, I do not know this for certain and even if I could ask him, I think Imotekh might deny it." Laaror tapped his spear with his fingers. "I believe the Stormlord wants to prove that he can be a better ruler than any of us."

"I believe that in the War in Heaven, Imotekh was frustrated by the stupidity and disorganization of his leaders. I believe he chafed beneath the Silent King and while he honored the Phaeron of the Sautekh, he often wished he could seize control and do things his way. As for us… while Imotekh recognizes the achievement of our great empire, he considers the way it ended to be beneath contempt." Eldrad could certainly understand that. "He has some respect for the humans, because he acknowledges that they received a good, hard boot in the testicles from our foolishness." That was uh… an interesting way to put it.

"Please forgive him, the krorks have rubbed off on him," the female said and Laaror huffed a sigh.

"I could have been far cruder than that! Imotekh respects the humans for their tenacity, but despises their disorganization. He knows he can do better, and that is what he craves, to build an Empire that will stand the test of time. And that is why he wants us in it… to help prove that he is better. So he can show that he will rule us better than we ever did ourselves." Laaror paused for a moment. "Personally, I think he is arrogant to think that he can. Yes, the end of our empire was pathetic and disgusting, but does he truly imagine he can make an empire that will span sixty million years? Well, perhaps he can, and I do know this: His efforts will only bring good to those under his rule." Laaror tapped his spear again, thoughtfully. "I think perhaps that part of his vision is to bring multiple races under his control, and prove that many xenos can work together and learn to trust. That could be why he particularly desires some eldar subjects. But, that is truly pure speculation." Eldrad nodded thoughtfully.

"I see. Thank you very much for this insight, it will help me speaking to the other Craftworlders." And also the representatives from the Exodites and possibly even the Harlequins. They were highly active and all of his visions indicated they had a role to play. Laaror nodded.

"His demands will definitely be hard for them to accept. Humans would have an easier time but even for them, trading entire human occupied planets to a xenos would be a trial, and he is not even their great enemy. I cannot imagine how they will feel." Yes, Eldrad was definitely not looking forward to this. "But it is the only way." Yes. It really was.

As he departed, Eldrad reflected on it. It might take them a thousand years to agree on everything but ultimately, he thought they would steel themselves and manage to make the sacrifices needed.

Bringing an end to She-Who-Thirsts was more important than anything.