~Pantheon of Corpses~
~792. M30~
~South-Eastern Ultima Segmentum~
~Exodite World Charnac~
~Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium and Imperial Regent~
The fashion of the civilian Eldar was not something he was well-studied in. He could label and list the effectiveness of most of their common war material with absolute confidence, he had created strategies to counter all of them, but their everyday wear was not something he ever had to be familiar with. In truth he still didn't see much of a need, he was never the most considerate when it came to non-military garments beyond what was practical and comfortable.
The clothes they had given him had certainly reflected the strangeness of their people. An underlayer of a form of stretchy bodysuit that covered from his ankles to his wrists to his chin, followed by a layer of looser fabrics in the style of a tabard to cover his torso and thighs, then a final layer of leather boots and gloves. The outer layers were familiar to him, but among humans adding the stretchy underlayer was uncommon. Certainly numerous groups had such a fashion, the Officio Assassinorum among them, but such groups were never the majority.
He wasn't quite sure where they had gotten clothes in his size either, but judging from their look, they were brand new. It was entirely possible they had simply assigned a servant to create a new set for him the moment he arrived. That wasn't exactly wasteful, as there wasn't any reasonable way of knowing that he was going to arrive and that they had to prepare garments for his bulk, but it did make him pause in consideration.
The work to make garments like this from raw materials… humans could do that, if they had the correct machinery and the experience in managing those, but Exodites used as little technology as they could from what he could recall. They were unlikely to have such labor-saving devices on hand, which meant this was probably made by hand over the course of… perhaps a day and a half? Using sizes gleaned from second-hand sight alone, not proper measurement.
He tested the fit on his gloves again. They were perfect.
It was a ridiculous amount of time invested into mastering something that didn't need to be as difficult as they imposed upon themselves. He supposed that told him something about the Exodite Eldar, and maybe the Eldar as a whole.
"Guest." The voice of the lead Eldar maid called to him, pulling him from his considerations of the leather on his hand. He turned his gaze to see that he was before a set of chamber doors. Turning to the maid and bowing his head slightly, he spoke.
"You have my gratitude, for all that you've done." Courtesy cost him nothing, and often earned favor, so he leaned upon it.
The Eldar maid's ears twitched as she bowed. "Dragonlord Asarnil awaits you inside."
He nodded, turned to the doorway, and let the guards flanking him in the hallway push the ornate barriers wide open. Into the interior chamber he stepped, examining his surroundings as he did.
He had entered through a side-door it seemed, perpendicular to the main body of the chamber. The chamber itself was massive, Not quite tall or wide enough for a Warhound Titan to walk through, but only just. In general form it was similar to any other massive chamber, with rows of pillars on either side of a main throughway to support the roof above. It was in the details that it differed, filled with all the eccentricities of Eldar architecture that he was familiar with.
The columns were curved and branched off at regular intervals, looking more similar to living bone than any type of traditional construction, and the walkways above his head had similarly organic rails that blended seamlessly with the path they were attached to. The floor of the chamber was a slowly-sloping affair, with a few dozen 'steps' that descended into a perfectly circular basin at the center of the intersecting chamber sections.
It was in these organic walls that thousands of reliefs were carved, showing off hundreds if not thousands of pictographic stories that blended into each other seamlessly as one's eyes trailed along them. The figures shown were constantly recurring, a core cast of individuals that acted out some grand play in the living walls of the chamber.
In front of some of these reliefs, and from the edges of the balconies and walkways above his head, dozens of banners hung down and swayed slightly in a breeze that trailed in from the open face on the farthest wall. Each banner covered in yet more pictographic stories, each one a different cast of characters acting out different tales as the eye trailed from the tops of the banners down to their conclusions at the bottom.
At the end of the chamber, directly below the open wall that led to the outside world, a series of statues were arrayed in a semi-circle surrounding a central podium at lowest and most central point. Ten larger statues, then a second circle closer to the center filled with much smaller statues, of which there were fifty. He recognized one of the larger statues, but the rest were unfamiliar to him.
He had been in enough churches to recognize yet another one.
His steps echoed audibly through the chamber, designed as it was to carry sound, and towards the central podium. A figure stood there, surrounded by rows of more Eldar soldiers. The figure stood before a table that carried cups and bottles of wine, and was looking at a small stack of papers filled with his handwritten notes.
The soldiers surrounding him were different from the ones he had seen before, their armor was heavier and their mostly featureless helmets were decorated with the images of tears, along with collars of fluffy gray furs and slightly shimmering cloaks of a ten-color rainbow. Their armor was polished and cream-white, but covered in various small and mostly cosmetic scratches. The personal guardians of royalty for this world then, and veteran Eldar warriors.
The figure in the center was perhaps the largest Eldar Guilliman had yet seen. Standing perhaps two and a half meters tall and bound in a warrior's serviceable physique. Broad shoulders, thickly muscled arms, and fingers covered in the minor scars and calluses of one who works.
He was clad in the same type of form-fitting underlayer as Guilliman was, covered by a layer of body-hugging silks and leathers that left his arms exposed. Over this was yet another layer, this being similar heavy bone-white plates that fit around him in the style of Eldar armor. His lower arms were clad in gauntlets, but his upper-arms were left exposed save for a leather strap that held his pauldrons in place.
Over these pauldrons, bound by its own bone-white clasp, was the hide of some massive emerald lizard, the head of which rested on his right shoulder and the ends of which hung down to brush against the floor.
The central figure raised his head from the papers, revealing yet another idealized face that Guilliman could scarcely tell apart from any other Eldar's save that this one had dark brown hair and amber-brown eyes. The figure set his notes down on the table before him, and spoke as Guilliman approached.
"Roboute Guilliman. Lord Commander of the Imperium of Mankind. Son of the Emperor of Mankind."
Guilliman nodded in turn, approaching close enough to be at a comfortable speaking distance, but far enough away that he couldn't reach the figure with his sword without lunging. A respectable distance. Moreover, his sword was now secured to his back with a partial-holster they provided for him.
"Dragonlord Asarnil." He greeted in turn.
"Before our discussion, rest soundly, the warning you have provided has earned you escort and transportation to any world of your choosing, no matter the outcome of our talks. That much is certain at least."
Excellent, assuming that statement wasn't a lie, he wouldn't be stuck in an unsalvageable situation. He could rely on backup plan number two. He tilted his head in gratitude. "You have my thanks, Dragonlord."
"The first orders of business are matters of formality. Worldsinger Savan has already shared what he gleaned from your mind with me, I know full well what you know is to come, but tradition is important." The Dragonlord was rather loosely strung compared to the Eldar he had met with in the past, perhaps as a result of being an Exodite, or perhaps due to not having been thousands of years since their people started dying out en masse.
The Dragonlord straightened himself, drawing his sword in a deliberate manner before planting it on the ground and resting his hands upon its hilt. Now in a practiced pose, he spoke in a more imperious tone.
"Godling-Prince of Humanity, Borne of Terra. You stand before the Dragonlord of Charnac, Exodus World of the Aeldari, Masters of the Galaxy. Why have you come onto this place, these halls, this world?"
He didn't know the correct formalities to observe. With no real alternative course of action, he went with his instinct. "I have come by the bidding of a Laughing Mask, by the bidding of my duty, and by the impetus of a dire vision of the future to come. I have to seek allies in the wars to come. Wars of conquest, wars against traitors, wars against chaos, wars against death. I have come to defy destined defeat."
A momentary pause as the room thrummed with momentary power. Sigils across the chamber seem to briefly glow with some hidden power, but they were gone before he could be sure.
The Dragonlord continued, face obscured in shadows by the light cast behind his head. "You have brought news to us, of the downfall of all things, of the laughter of thirsting gods, of the gradual decay of our people. You have brought news of where our enemies are found, what forces they will bring to bear, what mistakes we will make, and of our Mother-Goddess."
"You have brought news that she is not dead. And that you intend to rally a force to rescue her. That you intend to fashion an empire to strike against the dark gods themselves, and cut loose her bindings, to forge from nothing a kingdom in the stars that will safeguard all righteous living things."
"You have brought this news to us. Is what I have said false?" Amber eyes glowed with the barest hints of psychic power.
"Nay. You speak the truth. All these things I have brought and promised." He returned, not flinching from the rather minor displays of warpcraft being used as part of this ritual. He had witnessed much more terrible and much more grand things than this. Most of which he put to the sword.
"Then swear it here, Son of Man. Before the altars of a murdered pantheon. Before the graven bones of the Aeldari gods. Swear on your name, your virtue, your soul that you will do three things."
"Swear that you will never be a friend to Chaos. That you will not willingly betray the still-righteous Aeldari. That you will liberate Goddess Isha from her captor. Swear this with our corpse-gods as witnesses, and you will have what you seek from Charnac."
All of that was more than acceptable terms to him. After all, he intended to do all of them already. He supposed what the Dragonlord said was true, this was just a formality.
He slowly drew his father's sword, and raised it above his head. He focused his will on it, and felt the cold warmth once more. The blade warmed for a moment, before golden-white flames erupted and sheathed it in rolling psychic fires.
The shadows of the room recoiled as the light washed over them. The hateful spirit of his father's blade banishing them in an instant, forcing them to crowd in places beyond its sight. The flame bright enough to drown out the light of the outside world, a second-sun in the midst of the chamber.
"I am Roboute Guilliman. Thirteenth and Final son of my father, Emperor of Mankind. On my name, I do swear. On my virtues and the virtues of my people, I do swear. On my soul, I do swear."
"I will never be a friend to Chaos. I will not betray the righteous Aeldari by word or deed. I will free Goddess Isha from her captivity." His brow furrowed, and his face set itself into a determined frown. He had to add another line, a closer. It felt right.
"I will be the slayer of Evil." He refused to let that future come to pass. Not while he had strength in his sword-arm.
After a moment, he let the sword drop to be shoulder-height, and with it the flames dimmed slightly. The Dragonlord raised his sword to point at him, and he raised his father's in turn. The blades crossed over between the two of them, and the Dragonlord spoke.
"Your oaths have been heard, Slayer of Evil. Then you have what you seek. On behalf of Charnac, Exodus World of the Aeldari, I name you our eternal ally. So long as you persist on this righteous path, the sons and daughters of Charnac will bare their lances alongside you. Honored Friend, I name you. Honored Friend you shall remain. I swear this on my name Asarnil. I swear this on my and my people's virtues. I swear this on my soul."
"Roboute Guilliman. You shall have the swords and ships of Charnac."
The soldiers surrounding the central podium, crashed their boots together and drew their swords, raising them into the air above their heads in yet another circle around the two of them. A formal salute.
The Dragonlord withdrew his sword after a time, an action which Guilliman mimicked, and reached to the bottle of wine and cup on the table before him. A glass was poured into the ornate cup, making Guilliman realize it was some form of clear fluid, champagne perhaps then.
The Dragonlord finished pouring, setting the bottle carefully off to the side, before raising the chalice and taking a long quaff. After a moment, he lowered the chalice, and stepped forwards once, offering it to him.
Guilliman took it in one hand, seeing that it was still half full, and drained the rest in one go.
It was not wine. It was sweet and bitter. It was salty but honeyed. It was like drinking thin, brittle, salted caramel. It went down smoothly but burned in his breast.
He finished the cup, and handed it back to the Dragonlord, who nodded and took it back to its place on the table.
"The pact is sealed, slayer of evil." The Dragonlord raised a hand and gestured at a figure on the sides of the chamber. "Send forth the messengers, tell them to rally the clans of Charnac. We go to war. Go to the masters of Artifice, tell them to raise the Wraiths. We go to war. Go to the Worldsinger and his cabal, tell them to wake the World Spirit. We go to war."
"At once Dragonlord!" A small host of Eldar in more practical clothing answered, swiftly marching from the chamber. The Dragonlord turned his gaze back to Guilliman, before reaching over to tap on the table.
The table of his notes.
"Your Aeldari is truly atrocious. I shall have to assign you a tutor." There was a hint of laughter in the Dragonlord's eyes.
Guilliman snorted in good humor, and asked a question. "What was that liquid?"
"It has several names. Ambrosia is one. Isha's Tears is another, although that name is used for many things among the Aeldari." The Dragonlord waved a dismissive hand. "It's a very popular title, I'm sure you can guess. It's simply a form of spiritually-infused wine, I'd imagine most Exodite worlds produce it."
He gathered up the papers on the desk, stacking them neatly in his hands, before turning to Guilliman. "Come now, to my war-chambers. We have a conquest to plan, do we not?"
Guilliman grinned. "That we do. I've written more detailed notes since those, they're in my chambers."
"Send someone to retrieve all the notes in the guest chambers." The Dragonlord commanded the nearest servant, Guilliman raised a hand and called out before they could reply. "You may need two or three persons. I've written quite a bit, I'm afraid."
The Dragonlord blinked at him and raised a brow. "That much?"
"Four stacks, each roughly the height of my lower arm's length."
The Dragonlord glanced down at his arm and blinked. He turned to the frozen servant and amended his previous order. "Send three to retrieve his notes, we will have need of them in the Chambers of War."
"At once Dragonlord!" The servant bowed before rushing away.
They resumed their walk, the Dragonlord glanced over at Guilliman again, a thought apparently occurring to him. "I shall have to clad you in finer than that as well. You can hardly be a peer ally in mere clothes."
"Armor is my preference, if you can spare the smiths for such."
The Dragonlord scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If I can spare the smiths he says. I'm the Dragonlord. I have thousands of smiths at my disposal. I'm certain I can spare at least one master to properly clad you. What colors do you prefer?"
"Blue, White, and Gold."
"Isha, Lileath, and Asuryan then. Your sword-arm is your right arm, correct?"
Guilliman raised a brow at this onslaught of questions and declarations. "It is."
"Then that shall be red, the color of Khaine. We have many wars to fight, you will need a sword-arm like his."
"If you think it will aid us, I'm more than happy to accept. Tell me, you mentioned ships, what are their capabilities and how many do you have?"
"We have not yet reached the war-chambers, slayer of evil. Have patience."
Guilliman grunted, but relented. He was willing to allow this, after all.
He had time.
The knowledge almost made him giddy.