From my seat inside an elevated lounge, I gazed at the filling concert hall. Many guests were greeting me personally, expressing their expectations about the upcoming performance, or discussing my past works. Chief amongst them were my parents, with whom I spoke at length and who were currently taking their seats in lounges of their own, a few levels below mine.
I invited them here, to sit in the lounge with my closest friends and associates, but they rejected.
I quashed seeds of anger and disappointment building inside me. Their decision was to be expected.
When I was focusing on my own growth as an artist, they too have embarked on new Paths themselves. Maybe in time, when the calling of the new Path diminishes, they would reconcile again. After all, it wasn't their first separation. But for now Talanne became a healer and Eraethel a tailor first and foremost.
Suddenly, I felt a tug from the lounge's infinity terminal. Touching it, I traced the sensation of curiosity, interest and a veiled-offer back to its source and internally grimaced. A young girl from one of the highest balconies, reserved for the Noble Houses of the craftworld.
A hand gently touched my arm. A gesture of support, a claim of possession. Searlieth was sitting next to me, her slender frame covered by a gorgeous green dress. On many eldar holo-bands of constantly shifting colors entwining their hair would be distracting, but on her they only served to enhance the natural beauty.
My displeasure must have been obvious to her. Few things can remain hidden from a dream-partner, even if a Path was changed passes ago.
"You've truly gathered a grand audience. Many famous artists, and look there! Even a group of seers deigned it worth their time to show up. It's only natural that nobles are also showing their interest in you."
"They are a relic of the past, something that should no longer be," I argued. "As a historian you know much better than me what letting the nobility be has led us to."
"Spoken like a true Alaitocii puritan! It's just a Path, like many others, where one needs to acknowledge inner desires, confront them and attain peace…"
"Only this one seems to be leaving an awful stain on the life of eldar following it, as well as their descendants."
Searlieth assumed a pose of a weary disagreement; we acted on similar arguments numerous times.
"The depraved nobles of old are gone; they were the firsts claimed by the Prince of Pleasure, and those that were not, met their ends by Vect's schemes. The ancestors of those that remain on craftworlds were actually the ones with a foresight to flee the corruption. Strike a deal with them, write something showcasing their history, further your understanding before judging," she said and then whispered theatrically: "Just think about the lore they'd have collected, unavailable to anyone else. Maybe try the House Il'sari? it would be fitting to offer the founders of the craftworld the first go. And you'd find out if the rumors about their private Aspect Shrines are true…"
For a while we amused ourselves recounting the most warp-touched theories about various Noble Houses or farseers. By the time the lounge filled, we were discussing House Karesh's rumored deals with Commorites and Naerian researches bordering on breaking several taboos.
What can I say; Asuryani artists are known for their imagination, especially those who walked the Path of the Dreamer before.
As our group grew larger, discussions shifted towards the recent news.
"It is said that Malan'tai pledged itself to Iyanden's cause," one of the newcomers stated. "And unlike Biel-Tan they aren't just chasing lost glories, no, they choose to oppose She Who Thirsts. And what are we doing? Nothing at all."
"Rhios, you are being too humble. You say that you did nothing, yet your newest cycle of poems is being constantly discussed in the Sapphire Dome. You talk as if you planned to become a warrior yourself."
Few of my friends laughed, their nostrils subtly flared in curious disbelief for the notion, but Rhios just stared at them, the posture of unwavering conviction.
"I've been a Poet far longer than most of you lived. Too long. This Path is spent for me. Maybe it's time for me to accept Khaine's call."
The announcement was met with gestures of sympathy and support, but also with pleas to reconsider.
"Hopefully even after changing the Path, you'll retain some of your talent with runes," I said. "Otherwise, who would help me enliven the titles of my works?"
Rhios smiled. "Poor Iriath, I can only imagine that from now on your pieces would be only called Opus no. ad infinitem."
"Wait, are you saying that this title is Rhios' idea?" Yvrelle asked in bewilderment. "I spent cycles trying to divine the meaning! The runes are too nuanced. Twinned tragedy, the eternal wail of shattered dreams. The connection would be obvious, if not for the innocence rune, the one used without mockery. And the rest of the connotation… Iriath must have let you hear the piece cycles ago, for you to incorporate all those veiled allusions!" she exclaimed with accusation. Seeing the poet's mischievous grin the eldar sent an angry glare at me. "I begged you to let me hear it earlier, why didn't you?"
"It is always a compromise. Having waited, you had an opportunity to savor the title's riddle. Rhios made a sacrifice and diminished his experience of the spectacle, so that yours would be enriched. As did many others."
I placed my palms outwards, angling them towards the poet and a few others, crediting their participation.
"The greatest work of art is always a child of many. Some have researched the history, prepared the costumes, holo-decoration, or learned to perform on the stage. Each of them lost a part of suspense, the possibility to experience the spectacle fully. All to make your experience more fulfilling. I dare to say that you are one of the luckiest, being kept in the dark."
Searlieth laughed.
"Given your penchant for twisting histories we've researched, I can hardly pretend to know what to expect."
"The art should thrill the listener, not only reiterate the past or present," I repeated our well rehearsed argument. "Try to fit too many facts, and the story becomes dry, overloaded with trivia."
A soft chime reverberated across the hall, crystal-lights dimmed as musicians took their places on the stage.
"But don't repeat our discussion again, let the art speak for itself," I said.
"Surely, let it."
I looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of foreign, strangely melodic voice that belonged to none of my friends. Failing to locate the source, I sank comfortably on my chair. The stress of having my newest creation out, ready to be judged by everyone must have been getting to me.
The orchestra began, countless instruments playing in unison, bringing forth the images of the World As It Was, the times when the Aeldari lived in harmony and peace. The mellow music continued, holo-stars swirling above the stage in soothing patterns. This was brought to an end when melodic sounds of althamares became more whimsical and discordant, the wraithbone horns producing painful psychic echoes with each note.
In such accompaniment, actors entered the stage, the doomed Aeldari who first reacted to the seeds of corruption, long before either craftworlders or exodites did.
I briefly looked at Yhiel and nodded towards him in approval. I didn't expect him to surprise me, by changing the costumes we used for the last rehearsal. Their craftsmanship and characterisation of the performers was truly exquisite now, to the point that I was unable to recognize the eldar to whom they were offstage.
I savored the opportunity he gave me, the sweet taste of the unexpected. Me-botanist briefly noticed another sensation; a floral fragrance, of mixture of herbs used as a hallucinogenic. The experiences from the Path of Awakening screamed to me about the importance of the fact.
Truely, given my background, how could have it never occurred to me, such an easy way to further enhance the audience's perception? Something to rectify in future spectacles.
The discordant tones waned as the Doomed traveled towards the distant, once-beautiful lands, the planets where the gods used to walk amongst Aeldari. The worlds that have been ravaged in the fight against Yngir and their slaves, the paradise they wished to restore.
The music changed again and I gasped, squeezing my armchair in horror. The overlying theme was the one I have written, of a dedication and a common goal, of an effort to rebuild, start anew and thrive. However, there was also another, not written by me, more primitive and visceral, an invitation to study, to learn from each other.
Its source became apparent when even more actors entered the stage, some of them playing on their own instruments, their holo-costumes a far cry of what most Aeldari would find agreeable to wear.
To my dismay, watching the next scenes unfolding, I couldn't deny that the addition filled the void in the piece that I never felt was there in the first place.
"I'm impressed," Searlieth whispered. "Your works always stayed true to convention, never attributing main roles to xenos. And here you are, boldly displaying an effort to coexist with Egarian and Stryxis."
Such blatant glorification of aliens was met with mixed reception from the audience; from palpable curiosity to outraged shouts. The latter were most notable on the lounge belonging to the House Karesh, who proceeded to ostentatiously leave the concert hall.
Pompous pricks, even worse than the rest of the so called nobility. Maybe I should really write a play about them; a satire perhaps?
Before they managed to leave - and before I decided how to respond to Searlieth - the story progressed to the next act.
Psychic notes of althamares reverberated again, distant ripples of the Fall. Destruction of the Crone Worlds resonated through the void, affecting the Paradise That Was Never Meant To Be. They thought themselves safe, distant from the heart of Dominion. Innocence and naivety, swept by the heartless reality.
Yet what was meant to be only a short motif when I wrote the music, extended, an expression of disbelief and unease creeping on the faces of the musicians as they continued to play the parts they never learned under the direction of an impassive conductor.
The lights between the musicians dimmed to the darkness, and from it a lone figure emerged. The sheer feeling of wrongness she emanated was something that no instrumental arrangement could recreate. His suit was projecting promises of pleasure intertwined with those of horror. Even the figure itself was inconsistent, male one moment, female the next.
As it descended, heading with the measured steps to the center of the stage, time seemed to stop. Not only the performers froze still, but also the audience, transfixed and gripped by fear as they witnessed the representation of the Great Enemy.
Only the musicians continued, unable to stop playing. The image of the conductor shattered, revealing a staff wielding figure, clad in a diamond patterned leggings and hooded jacket. For a moment she turned and I could swear looked straight at me.
I recoiled in shock, seeing my own face under the hood, lips twisted in a mocking smile, as if daring me to object against the changes made to my performance.
A dozen more eldar entered the scene, each of them noble, radiating might and wisdom. They all wore masks, marking them as the gods - Asuryan, Khaine, Vaul, Isha and others. They headed against the enemy.
They charged the solitaire, and as they batted, echoes of the combat spread to the Doomed and their xeno allies alike.
Yet the Prince-Usurper, gorged by the vices of the Dominion, brimming with might borne of millenia of depravity, was a foe they could not match.
The first to fall was Lileath, and with her death the Doomed soon became lethargic, plagued by the nightmares.
When the Asuryan fell, a third of them collapsed, their psychic powers beyond control anymore.
With Koronus' and Vaul's deaths, they started to lose mastery over their new worlds, more vulnerable to the whims of the universe; their technology failing, tamed beasts no longer docile.
Whenever a deity perished, the Doomed followed. Near such eldar, the Great Harlequin always appeared. The sole one unmasked, for the clothes alone represented him as Cegorach, further masks unneeded.
With his retinue, they mocked and distracted black-dressed actors whenever they tried to steal the dead. Each of them was wearing a disgusting mask of a different fashion, each more foul than another. The servants of Chaos.
Sometimes he managed to hide the body before their arrival. Sometimes it was them who snatched it.
It was only when She Who Thirsts was about to slay Isha that he intervened in the fight between gods, elbowing the Prince so that her blow went astray. Yet even this victory was short lived, as a swarm of daemons assaulted the goddess immediately after, and soon the Doomed were seen growing atrocious mutations and succumbing to illnesses.
The violence and madness spread, the echoes of Aeldari Fall leaving their mark also on the xenos who bound their fates with the Doomed. I felt the shadowseer's gaze on me again, as if she wanted me to reflect on the misery of those my original spectacle ignored.
Soon, of the Aeldari Pantheon, only Khaine remained, his battle reflected in the last stand of mortals.
Yet, as the Doomed dwindled, killed by each other and the daemons, Khaine's power also diminished. The Great Enemy turned to gloat at her weakened opponent, but taunts soon turned to fury. Denied of her prize, the last attempt of defiance saw the God of War shattered into thousands of pieces just before the final strike reached him.
The solitaire screamed in anger, and this unearthly shriek reverberated amongst all the actors on the stage. The scream continued as each of them fell, dying.
Then, the blinding light engulfed the whole stage for a moment. When it was gone, there was no trace of the actors on the stage, leaving behind only the pale, haunted musicians.
No applause came from the audience. The only noise in the amphitheater was a barely audible echo of the birth of the Screaming Vortex.
I felt something wet on my face, and only after a moment I understood that I was crying.
The spectacle, as I envisioned it, was meant to continue, praising the forethought and resourcefulness of the craftworlders, as opposed to the futile efforts of the Doomed. Yet the harlequins changed the focus of the performance.
Their inclusion of xenos was deliberate. Was it a message to us to be less dismissive of the lesser species? A warning? Voice of support in the craftworld's political discurs? It would surely further polarize some of the groups.
Ha, the seers may dwell on the hidden meanings and prophetic importances of their alterations!
For me, as the Playwright, the most important thing was a growing conviction that through the harlequins' meddling, the resulting experience was far deeper than my original work would have delivered.
Yet.. why was I feeling a void as a result? Is it jealousy, of having my grand performance stolen and twisted? Maybe a doubt; could I create something similar? Is writing scripts that are meant to thrill and stir emotions not the best path to achieve that? Would just telling the truth, no matter how horrifying and beautiful it was, yield better effects?
No, those weren't the correct questions.
I dissected my feelings through the lenses of me-dreamer and me-awakened. What I found out was surprising.
The void and urge born from witnessing the spectacle was not a yearning of a creator, but of a witness. Desire to experience the events firsthand, participate in histories unfolding, not see them interpreted, twisted and retold through the lenses of some artist - whether he be a poet, sculptor or historian.
With that realization came another. The Path of the Playwright held no more lure for me. I needed to experience the universe, to enrich myself in the ways that were impossible without leaving the Craftworld.
I turned towards Rhios, wanting to tell him that he won't be the only one changing his Path soon. However, his seat was empty.
Where he was seated before, only a spirit stone remained.
Have you expected the performance to turn out differently? Maybe waited for it to end with a massive daemonic incursion? Leave the craftworld on the brink of destruction? I'm unsure whether I should praise your knowledge of the obscure lore, or condemn your bloodthirstiness. But let me sate your curiosity; it was still many arcs before I participated in the most notorious spectacle in the history of Il'sariadh…
