~Songs of Fanfare~
~792. M30~
~South-Eastern Ultima Segmentum~
~Exodite World Charnac~
~The Aeldari of Charnac~
The Giant had worked throughout the night, not once stopping to rest save to quickly consume the meal of dewbread and water provided for him. Each time she entered the room to bring more writing utensils, the stack of papers grew more and more, and before her eyes she could see line after line recorded in small but steady script.
It was not particularly elegant script, but his work was rapid and readable enough. The scant details she could read from his writing detailed a wall of numbers and proper names, many of which she had no context for. Many of the notes seemed to be precise timetables and schedules, compositions of potential forces and surveys of suspected locations of interest.
A vast wealth of information that might fill a dozen ledgers, being recorded as fast as the giant could move his stylus across the sheets of parchment. Occasionally the stylus had to be refilled with ink, which she was also instructed to bring in regular quantities. Each time she did making sure to remove the now empty inkwells as she left.
The giant worked at an acceptable pace.
When she had been asked to ensure he was ready for the gathering of lords, he briefly paused, before turning to smile and nod. With all the correct promptness, he had been brought to the hotsprings at the base of the World-Tree and washed by a small cohort of maids. She had to scold them for their giggles already, and she would likely have to again. It was improper to speak of a guest in such a manner.
The giant was massive in all proportions. Taller than the tallest of the Aeldari, bound in muscles enough to match common dragons, and covered over in scars of such grievous injury she could scarcely imagine. She was quite confident that he had been cleaved from shoulder to heart at one point. His jaw was broad, his brow straight, his eyes deeply-set. He looked as an Aeldari pigment, mixed with a mere drop of Krork, a strangely accentuating combination.
The giant's features were acceptable enough.
Now she stood behind him as he spoke with the gathered clan-lords of Charnac over topics of conquest and coming dangers. Over topics of accumulation of power, over safeguarding centers of civilization and manufacturing, over potential allies and enemies that dwelled in the stars above. Frequently he asked questions of common strategies and manpower, and listened intently to the explanations given.
The giant spoke competently, although not poetically or cleverly. His words were blunt and direct, and he made frequent mistakes in pronunciation or context. This was an immense improvement from the day before, in which his language was crude and basic. They were always functional in a straightforward manner, much as a child's were. The only exceptions were some of his few proper names, often for dreadful or horrible entities, and almost always contained a masterful number of layered insults in their exact wordings.
The giant almost never made the same mistake twice in speaking, and his constant practice demonstrated improvement each and every conversation. It was slow enough to not notice until one looked back at the previous hour, but once she had realized it it was impossible to ignore.
The giant would speak at an acceptable level within a cycle.
She made the mistake of letting her gaze drift across the giant's sword and shield again.
A warm echo of pain drifted through her bones.
Quickly she looked away, carefully concealing her shudder behind a professional mask. She did not know how he could bear to look upon them, let alone touch. No matter how powerful the artifacts were, surely one would wield weapons less tortured than those?
She was not a master of the immaterial arts. Her role was as a servant to royalty, and a servant she would remain until ordered otherwise. She was not educated in the sorcerous arts enough to know the precise nature of those golden relics. All she knew was that she could not bear to look upon them any longer than a moment.
The giant moved, starting to walk over to speak with another clan-lord. She followed in his wake, dutifully carrying the papers he had requested her to bring. She glanced over as she did, catching the eye of the Stormcloak stationed on the right side of the grand hall. He was handsome, and his gaze was strong. His eyes were bright looking upon her form.
The Dragonlord had called the banners of Charnac. Soon the men, widows, and infertile would be marching to war. She would have to find one to sire a child with in the coming year. To preemptively replace those that would fall in battle and thus keep their population stable. Hopefully her chosen mate would return from the wars to come, and her child would have a father.
…That warrior was acceptable, she would ask about him later on, when not performing her duties.
Her gaze turned back to the giant, who did not pause in his steady but long steps. She was forced to speed her own pace to keep within an acceptable distance. It was slightly more straining that she was used to. Her feet were starting to cramp.
The giant was much too tall, it was quite unacceptable.
—
One warrior was not enough to defeat the man-prince. Stormcloak Arshall had tried his blade against him, using all the standard tactics of greenskin battle, and was soundly defeated before he could realize his error. The man-prince was as large as a greenskin warboss, yes, but he had a higher degree of cunning. Arshall had been lured into overextending himself on the sixth blow, and at once was sent to the ground with the training-blade at his throat.
Three warriors had not been enough to defeat the man-prince. They had realized his degree of higher-cunning after the first bout, and had attempted to be more cautious with their movements and blows. Those three had been soundly defeated after the twentieth blow. The man-prince was as large as a greenskin warboss, far more intelligent and deliberate, and with this bout they realized he was swifter than one as well. Not quite as swift as the greatest champions among the Aeldari, but far swifter than they had been expecting. Those three had been baited into a simultaneous moment of recovery and had been punished accordingly. All three were thrown to the ground.
Five warriors had not been enough to defeat the man-prince. Their tactics had changed, treating him as if he were an over-tall Aeldari veteran. They attempted to harry and harass the man-prince into overextending himself, and then punish accordingly in the barest moments. They acted exactly as they should, moving in trained unison and ready to exploit the openings created by their allies.
The five had been defeated. Not as great of an extent as the previous bouts, but defeated all the same. The man-prince was not as strong as a greenskin warboss, as it turned out.
He was much stronger.
Where cunning and swiftness failed to provide the openings the man-prince required, he relied on explosive strength. Strength enough to clash with the stable defenses of the Stormcloak's training swords and still toss them through the air many feet away. It was like dueling a Wraithlord, packed into the frame of a Wraithguard. He had tried blocking the man-prince once.
His back was still sore from where he smashed against the wall of the interior training halls.
The man-prince required a new training-blade afterwards, having shattered his against the weapons of the second-to-last Stormcloak in that bout. Now they were attempting to overcome the man-prince with ten warriors. Ten Stormcloaks, guardians of their Dragonlord, a full two talons of some of the best warriors of Charnac.
Granted, they were not using their psychic-might as they normally might. That's not what the point of this particular set of exercises was, but the outcome was still quite absurd.
The man-prince had claimed that his people would conquer the wheel within two-hundred of his people's cycles. With warriors such as he, that was not quite as laughable as what one might first think.
The ten Stormcloaks wove around the warrior as a pack of Raptors around a Carnosaur. He was too well defended to rush in, too fast to safely engage against except for the safest of strikes, and too mighty to allow even a glancing blow. Their remaining conventional stratagem was exhaustion. Wearing down with safe blows, gently sapping the strength of the defender until it was easier to attack.
He swallowed and ignored the first bead of sweat on his brow. Weaving with a fellow Stormcloak in an attempt to distract the man-prince long enough for a safe blow from an opposite soldier to get through his defenses.
This bout had started an hour ago.
A Stormcloak attempted a distracting blow from behind. The man-prince retaliated with an immediate and decisive clash, throwing the warrior away.
Taking advantage of the crack in his defenses, three more Stormcloaks attempted a stab at the man-prince's midsection. The man-prince seemed to anticipate this, throwing himself forwards along with his first blow to avoid their blades.
Two more Stromcloaks had already moved into place where he had tossed himself forwards. They were forced to abort their attacks to dodge out of the way of yet another swing mighty enough to create gusts of wind.
The man-prince seemed to anticipate even that, because his swing continued in its arc. They realized their mistake. A Stormcloak that had been moving into place on the side hastily raised his blade to block.
The swing sent the Stormcloak tumbling through the air, flipping around like a brick tossed down a mountainside. A resonant crack filled the air.
The man-prince was forced to move yet again, dodging out of the way of another set of synchronous blows. Then another set of synchronized blows. Then another.
On the next set of blows, a Stormcloak's footing slipped. He barely had time to righten his guard before the man-prince's practice blade slammed into his shoulder. He was forced to kneel, the rock beneath his right knee cracking audibly.
They were lucky that they were wearing armor for this practice, otherwise that might've required surgery to heal. He fell all the same, barely able to stand afterwards. The first proper 'casualty' of this bout.
It would be impossible to defeat the man-prince without casualties then, something of a shame on their part. They had hundreds of campaigns under their belts at this point.
All remaining Stormcloaks rushed the man-prince. The man-prince moved to make space for himself even as they leapt after.
The blade of the man-prince flashed. Three Stormcloaks were sent tumbling through the air.
His open palm raced forwards, snatching one Stormcloak by the arm and using him as a shield against the blades of two more Stormcloaks.
The last three Stormcloak's had their blades tap against his vital areas. Neck, armpit, and behind the knee.
At once all combat ceased.
The man-prince dropped the Stormcloak he had been holding up gently, allowing him to right himself. He sighed mightily as he did so, shaking his head in minor defeat. "You are truly exceptional warriors. I suppose this is my loss then." The blaggard didn't even sound tired.
The Stormcloaks picked up their battered bodies and stared at the man-prince for a moment. Their gazes turned to one another, then back to the man-prince. He seemed to pick up on that, reaching up to grab at his shoulder and roll it with a loosening crack. His face was carefully blank.
He himself tried his best to not show his exhaustion through his armor. His blade had only barely tapped the man-prince's neck, the training blade a mere hand's-length away from his face.
The Dragonlord called out from the side. "You more than proved yourself, son of man. I can't imagine any single warrior of Charnac overcoming you when properly armed. Perhaps a Wraithlord, but certainly nothing less." Their king was an expert at hiding his astonishment behind a porcelain mask, showing as little as possible to the outside world.
The man-prince shook his head. "That will not be enough. I can only be in one place at a time. We'll be restricted to a single front until the first army is raised."
The Dragonlord waved a hand. "We have managed before now, we can manage long enough for you to get a force familiar to you. Come, follow me if you would, the smith I have in mind needs to get a look at you and your arms."
Their king turned his gaze to them, and nodded. "Stormcloaks, get your injuries treated and rest for the remainder of the day."
They snapped into a salute as their king walked away, the man-prince following in his wake. They walked over to retrieve the man-prince's golden sword and shield (those fearsome things burning with pain), and then out of the training hall entirely.
The Stormcloaks fell out of their salutes, shoulders and bodies slumping with exhaustion.
"...Khaine's wretched arm right there." Arshall muttered out a curse next to him, something that was met with grunts of agreement from the rest of them.
He raised his sword and looked at it, having been used to defend against the blows of the man-prince on at least one occasion.
It was cracked all the way through, about to shatter, which explained why his arms were so sore.
—
He dipped the hammer into the channel of water, wetting and cooling the metal once more.
The hammer was withdrawn, two half-twists were made, then brought down on the glowing metal before him. Sparks flew, a beautiful sight. He hammered the metal into a twisting coil as his lips muttered out the next stanza of the forge-song.
A weapon of the greenskins was simply taken from whatever they had on hand, and brandished as it was. There was no story woven into the blade, only layered upon it.
A weapon of a lesser race was forged from raw metal, and brandished once complete. Its song started the same as any other of their weapons, and its story would be developed as it was wielded. But the initial song was a weak thing, easy to memorize, easy to break.
A weapon of the Aeldari was forged from raw metal, with its story deliberated upon and settled deeply into the core of its spirit. They were forged with purpose and story. Their songs echoed in his ears, a resonant harmony.
This blade was to be a guardsman's blade. The metal had been taken from a mining town in the southern continent known for its frequent earthquakes. This blade would rumble with an echo of those titanic quakes, and it would shake the blades out of the grip of its wielder's foes.
The first lesson an apprentice learned was that this was not some ability bestowed upon the blade. It was the story of the blade, started long before it was forged and carried into the future. It would occasionally strike just true enough to rumble the weapons out of the hands of its foes, and out of the hands of its wielder, because it was going to. It was in its nature, and its fate was quietly settled into the blade.
Or perhaps it wasn't a fate? Perhaps it was simply it's part in the song. That was a question he had not quite figured out yet.
There was a call behind him. He ignored it for now. The blade was not quite done.
He continued his work, muttering out the song of the blade as he did so.
Once the metal had cooled, it was put back into the forge to heat again, and finally he turned his attention to who called out for him.
Ah. It was Ursurnil's boy. He sniffed mightily, and stood up on old bones to bow properly.
"Dragonlord Arsarnil. What can old Gamil do for you?" His voice was scratchy from disuse, ah, it was fine. He had no one he needed to impress in these halls. He had long gotten much too old for it.
"I have a task for you, Forgesinger. A new ally needs appropriate armor, you are best for this task." The boy declared as imposingly as he could manage. He felt a small smile tug at his lips at the sight.
"Aye, I can do that, Dragonlord." He answered. "You have him here? I'll need a measure of him."
The boy nodded and leaned out the doorway into his chamber to call out. "Roboute Guilliman. If you would enter?"
Ho-hum. Roboute Guilliman was not an Aeldari name. It was a strong name though. He could taste the song of a monarch on that name.
A large figure ducked his head under the doorway into his forge, and began to follow the boy down the stairs. Taller than any kine he had seen before, and carrying…
He breathed in when he saw the Relics the crowned monarch carried. He tasted the song of those things. He saw the visions of its story. A vessel of blood in his nose cracked open, and trailed thinly down his face and onto his lip.
He set an arm on his anvil, forcing his gaze away from them and giving himself a moment to steady himself. He breathed in deeply, carefully not tasting their song again.
You don't forget the taste of divinity, however.
"...Forgesinger?" The voice of Ursurnil's boy called out to him, and he forced himself to focus on the muted world, shunting the immaterial from his senses for a moment and blinding himself.
He blinked and rolled his eyes around, finding the two standing before him with slight concern. He pushed himself up and dusted off his apron. "So this is the other boy you need armor for, Dragonlord? I suppo…" He trailed off as he stared at the not-Aeldari's clothes, seeing familiar but sloppy work.
He frowned and stepped forwards, taking hold of the fabric and getting closer to it. "This isn't my daughter's work is it? She hadn't gotten lazy while not visiting me, has she? I'll whip her legs if she has."
The boy's face smoothed out its concern as he gave a small smile. "Your granddaughter's actually."
He paused to consider that. He looked closer at the fabric, then asked a question. "Granddaughter…? Hold old is she?"
"Nearing her second century, Gamil."
Second century eh? He supposed it was about right for someone that young then. He would have to go give her a talking too regardless, this stitching was uneven around the edges. He grunted and let go of the clothing, looking up at the crowned monarch.
After a moment, he raised a wrinkled brow. "Gia's tits, what did they feed you, boy? You're a big one."
The crowned monarch blinked, before giving a small smile. "Tubers, grains, and meat, for the most part."
Gamil nodded, that would certainly do it. "Make sure you keep eatin' good then. No need to go all thin like those Commorraghs. Got it? Now what kind of armor will you need then?"
"I suppose the best you can forge, don't worry about weight, I can handle it well enough." The crowned monarch answered. He shook his head.
"Not that part boy. I already knew that." He gave a wave of his hand. The crowned monarch wears heavy plates, it was obvious. Geh. It wasn't worth explaining all the little details. Striding over to a large table and gently moving finished weapons off of it, he spoke again. "Here, those arms of yours, place them on the table here. Let me get a proper look at them."
The crowned monarch was confused, but relented, moving over to the table and placing the Relics on the table. Gamil mounted his hands on the table, careful to not touch their golden bones, and slowly opened his senses once more.
Forged in righteous hate. The wheel is not right. It needs correction.
O̵̢̗̣̘̹̫͈̜̬͓͚͚͔̺̭̦̲͈̠̊̃̏̄̋͗̑͋͗̈́͜͠͝Ư̸̡̧̢̢̰͕̭̞̳̺͖̮̼̹̲͖͉̬̞͎̦̤͉̼̹̪͉͈̳̬̥̠͍̯̙͍̗̭̥̟̳̟̗̒͌̈̈́̃̔͒̑͂̍̆͆͛̉̓̓̐̉͋̑̌͌̏̓̄̽̈́͆̆̀͛͛̀̄͛͛̐͊̀́̄̏̓̿͊̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅͅŖ̴̡̢̨̡̛͓̤̺̬͈̰̟̙̜̳͍̻̣̪̳̫̗̬͔̥͔͔͎̥̜͙̞̹̖̙̳͇̀̊̇̔̒̎͆̔̕͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸̨̧̢̢͙̪̹̩̤͖̣̱̩̫̤̩̹̫̞̣͈̖̺͉͙͎̙̺̪͈̖̺̹̄̈́͊̃̑̔͗̍̈́̓̂̈̐͊̓̒͛̓͒̒̔̒̌̆̊̈́̔̎̄͒̆̒̄̕̚͜͝ͅD̶̢̢̢̨̟̘̦͖͍͉̪̘̲̝͇̯͎̪͍͓̩̣̮̪͉͔͊̓̈́̌̏̈̍͜͜͜͝R̶̡̨̛̛̛̼̘̼̣̳͎̙͓̲̎̿̊͑̏̓̽̀̅̎̀͊̌́̌̐̃́̈̏̈́͌͂̄͋̒̀͘͝͠Ę̷̛̤̗̊̀̈́̾̆̿̽̈́͌́͐̿͑̊̎̌́͌͛̇͛̐͋͊̇̐͊̿́͑̕͝͝͝Ȃ̷̧̛̯̼̱̥͕̙̣̯̠̯̈̓̃̌̓̆̀̅̈̋̀̑̇̇͒̂̋̈́͊͐͋͗́́̋̏̓͌̏̈́͝M̸̡̨̛͈̺̟̱̮̱͇͎̹͉͉͚͓̪̙̦̺̘̱̞̼̩̼̮̞͈̤͉̫̲̲̬̦͇̣̙̦͔̝̩̋̋͊̉̉͛̈́́̈́͛̈́͛̀͛̀͋̎͊̒̀̂̑̋́́̆͗̀́̍̓̌́͘͘̚͘͜͜͜͠͝͝ͅͅ ̸͙̜̻̥͉͈͉̆̀͒̇̑͂̉̈́͘͝W̸̢̨̡̨̢̛̬̬̯̫͕̦͔̯̟̖̱̞͈̗̝͆̅̀̔͗̅͗͆̄̒̋̌̏̐̇̂̈́͛͑̋̋͌̎̈́̀̒̃̈́̈̑̽̅͂̐̋͊̕̕̕͘͜͝͠͠͝I̴̛̛̛̞̘̙̭̙̗̤̭͚͉̔͌̍̃̇̑̉̍̾̑̈́̑̌̀̂͌̽̋͆͘͘͠ͅL̶̨̢̻̼͉̳̪̖͉̤͙̥̤̣̠̗͖̟̬̺̤͔̩̻̙̣̰̳͎͖̲̱̥̜̰̪̩̝̤͖͆͊͒̐̈́̍͆́̅̃͊̿͊̇̔̿͂̓͗͋̀̒̚͜͠͝͠ͅL̵̡̢̛̺̫͕̹̰̹̗̯͍͚̣̘̣͕̒̄͊͛͗̊͐̇̚ ̵̧̡̧̨̨̪̳̜͉͎̰̤͉̫̝͎͙̫̱͇̯̗̜̦̘̦͍̦̱̫͍͈̰̼͇̘̲̙͙͇̖̠̯̭̩̟̟͈̍̾̎̎̊̉̆̓̏̀̑͋̈͆̅͆̾͆͂̌̀͌͆̇͆̕͠ͅN̷͇̥̞͊͊̌̑̊̉̏̑̏̑̀̍̏̑̅̈̈́͐͒̐͆͊͋̈̿̉̈́̋̄̐̋̔̊̂̕̚̕̚̕̕͠͝͝͝Ợ̷̧̨̧̠̙̟̺̤͎̊̾̅̋̀̑̾̅̏͆͑̆̀͐͂̂̄͛͛̔͌̿͛̀̈́͛̑͆̎̌́͂͒̏̐̂͘̕͠͝ͅͅT̵̙͕̂ ̸̡̡̨̜͓͔̪͖̭̲̻͔̜̺̥͎̪̩̖͔̝̮̭̗̩̜̖̳͎̰͖̲͔͎̣͎̣͔̯̠̰̓̾͌̍̀̽͝Ḑ̵̧̢̛͚̠̯̹̣̃̋̓̅͛͆̽́̾̽̉̈́̅̀͊͐̽̀̂̎̈́̄̿̊̅̀̐͝͝͝͝Į̶̢̡̮̳̣͕̠̲̝͕̺͔̞̭̰͔̬̟̮̅̄̇̿̈͐̋͛̇̿̏̎̔̑̐͂̇̓́͗͗̇͜͜͜͝Ȩ̴̡̨̛̛̛͕͔̮͖͕̝̩̥̱͙̱̫̹̜͔̣̝͚̝̮͚̤̖̺̯͕̭̜̩̲͈̖̥̖̫̙̱̗̝͙͓̘̞̝̃́̓͋̿͆̾͑̊̈̓̆͜͝ͅͅ
Offering everything to its people and demanding everything in return. Uncompromising compromises.
Ơ̴̡̧̜͍̖̹̫͙̩͓̯̬̤͓̩̯̘̰̰͓͇͕͖͚̗̼̗̱̱̙̩͇̯̱̜̻̻͍͉͖͇̝̭̫̪̆̈́͊͆͌̒́̈́̿͗̈́͐̄̒̆̏̃̃̀̓͐̈́̈́̀̅͜͜͝͠͝ͅF̷̢̮̼̖̬̳̭͚̠̩̱͓̣̝̘̞͉̥̣͍̱͍̼̰̜͈͙͔͕̔͆̏͂͛̂̐̋̀̽̓̏̑̏͐̚ͅͅͅF̶̢̢̧̢̗̱̪̱̝̖̘͕̜̦̙̬̞̳̖̦̜̲͙̫̗̤̭͚̤̘̪͍̻͇̠͇̪̹͓̲͇̳̗̞̪̌́̉̂͒͘͜͜͝ͅͅȨ̶̧̧̢̭͉͎̮̜̣̠̞͓̗̻̠͔͍̹̗̗̜̭͓̪̹̜̯̞͎̙͈̦̱̗͇͉̙̱͓̹̞͍̈́̓̾̓͊̔́͗̍̊͋́͜͜͜͝͝R̴̨͉̠̭̤̻̺̯̎ ̸̛̛̛̖͉̗̦̠̠̬̦̱͍̻̬̗̪̣̼͉͙̦̬̱͇̭͖͔͈̃̈́͒̔͊̐̐͗́͒̐͛̓͊́͒̋̌̇̍̂͆̋͘̕͝Y̵̨̨̢̡̢̛̛̛̰͚͇̟̭̗̞̼̪̬̳̜͔͓͖̣̲͆͗̉̌̿̄̽̕͠͠ͅͅO̸̢̢̻͇̭̲̩̞͇̲͎̝͇̿̏̈́̈́͌̄̽͗̽͒̍̂̃̐͛̎͒̓̃̑̾͌̈́̅̈́̂̾͗́͘͘͘̕͠͝͠ͅƯ̷̝̯̌͊̓͗͛̐̽̀̇̂͌͆̏̍̋͒̊̌̄͐̑̓̎̏̉͂̅͊̊̔̈́̔̀͌̈͘͝͝R̵̹͖͕͉̥̳̩͆̉̀̋͗̋͊͘͘̕͝ ̵̨̛̰̩͍̍̈͊̂̎̂͂͆͂̄͌̐̐̈̀͐̌̍͗͐̀̇͐̚͘̕͘͠H̵͈̖̥̜̞͕̭̘͈́̆̿̑͋͂͒̍̈́̎̌̋͒͒̀̐̏͂̋͌̏̀̋̏̈́̑̿̃̄̚͠͠Ḙ̵̡̡͓̟̝͖͈͓͎̫͖̫̝̘̞͖̺̝̲̙̭̹͈̯̲̰̘̬̠̪̺̪̻̲̝̞̩̰̰̯̞̟̺͕̺͕͊̀́̄̆͆́̉̇̾̀̈́͒͌͜͜͝͝ͅA̷̧̨̢̢̛̛̩̩̦̫̼͖͎̪͍̲͇̫̳̙̳̼̦͍̪̯̤̲̗̲͎̦͓̝͉̱̬̖͇̝̘̟͈̯̖̯͚̰͛̌͆̈̈́̿̈́̾̎͑͛́̍͐̽̇̉̒̇̔̈́̒̊͂̎̎̀͌̕͘̕̕̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅD̵̢̩̗̤̆̊́̈̏̐̔̈́̐̋͂̐̈́̅̑̈́̍͌͌͋́̏͒́̒̉̊͋͑̈́̏̐͋͌̏͐͘̕͠͝ͅ.̵̨̢̛̛̮̬̖̥͉̘̥͈̺̻̮͓͕̬̦̂̑͌̔̉̍̓̈́͂̒̃̍̈̉͒̊̄̏͋̿̈́͌̃͆̈́̌̍̕͘͘͝ͅ ̵̨̛̰̪̞͓̲͎̠̻̔̈́́̋͊̽́͂̃̏͐́̎̾̃͗̏̈̀̊͒̽͛̈́̓͛̏̌̀̎͆͗̆̿͒͊̾̊̓̑̚̕̚͘͝͝I̴̡̨̧̢̨̧̛͇̬̖͎̜̪͚͕̻͈̳͍̦̤̰̮̹̲̣̼̜̤̹̤̝̰̙̪͈͍̳̤̤̍̎͑̌̿̅̃̈́̇͐͗͒̈́̉̐͊̒̽͂̋̈̈́̏̔̋̂̕͘̕̕̕͝͠͝ ̸̡̧̧̢̨̛̛̯̟͓̪̞͎̥̙̼̣̯͕̻̩͓̲̰̰̭͎̣̹̠̯̙͍̜̊͋͋̎̾͐̏͋͗͑̾̒̈͌͒̃͊̈̎̏̀̈́̑̏̌͐̋͊̈́̍̀͛̋̌͒͊̕̚͝͠͝Ḥ̸̻̜͍̳̻̻̰̮̺̟̪̖̮͓̬̙̳̝͎̉͌͆͒͗̀͛̿̊͆͐̍̈̑͊̑̿̌̎̂̅̆́̓̎͘͘͘̕͠͠͝Ă̷̛̛̯̱̂̔̋͒̊̄̈́̅̇̓̿́͋̾̌͒͐͆̾̍͒͊̔͂͆̾͆͛̎V̷̢̲͉̖̰̫͖̋̌͠Ȩ̷̢͔̝͇̙̹͍͍͕͎̣͙̗̺̲̠̯̬̦͉̙̗͖̞̘̠͙̫̯̼̩̦̩͇̙̀̓̔ͅ ̶͔̜͔̞̱͎̀N̸̨̨̨̡̨̢̛̬̮̣̮̱͍̭͇͔̪͙͉͚̳͕̯͉͈͔̺̹̹̺̩͙͖̠̹̟̣̼̫̦͇̬̦̥͉͇̮̺͍͒́͛̔̓̃̃̋͆̕̕͝Ĕ̴̡̧̨̛̛̜̘͍͓̦͓̬̤̠͓̟̥̳͉̲͍͔͔͔̭̱̻͚̩̳̱̭̙̫̣͍͕̲̋̄͑͊́̊̿̕͜͜͠͠ͅȨ̴̧̧̛̘̲̼̲̖̬̟͔̜͉̺̰́͊͂̅̀̓̎͐̇͐̈͆́̽̔̆̎̄̔̒̄̔̈͒͒͘̕͠͝ͅḐ̷͔̰͚̭̗̱̓̀̎͑̓̄͊̍͐̾̅͗͊̽̑̍̌̉́̓̎̎͆̈́̈́͗͐́̇̾͘̚͠͠͝ ̷̧̛̘̘̼̰͍̫͎̺̝̤̬̱̪̤̤͎̠̲̮̬̙̬̺͎͕͉̦̯̬͍͐͆͛̽̏͂̀͐͌̈́͐̈́̽̓̊̈́̈́́̋̊̓̊̏̿̆̎̀̎́̓̊̐̂̈́̾͛̀̒̕͜͜͜Ỡ̷̥̟͖̜̠̰̩̮͗̅̈́̔̒̾̓̎͋͌̂̏̊̄́͊͛̋͂̎̓͆̿́̍́́̀͐̋̇̽͛̀͒̌͛́̚̚̕͝ͅF̵̧͖̙͇̠̭̫͈̻̙̘̠̞̦̞̹̳̺̭̳̬̺͈̞̬̫̙͔̖͚̻͖̞̆́̽̄͗̎̅̓̈́͛́̀͑̉̚ͅͅͅ ̵̨̡̛̛̹̘͍̩̥̻͓͙͇͉̬͙̱̱̯̦̣͈̦͓̖͕͔̝̥̫͙̩̤͇̗̗̱̘̝̭̲̜͖̦̦͓̐͐̆̎͂̏͐̂̍̆͐͗̿̉̓̑̇̓̐͒̈́̉̈́̿͆̀̎̉̅͑͋́͛͊̍͋̈́̈́̍̈́͗͘͘̚͝ͅĮ̵̢̢̧̛̮̠̙͎̟͉̥̹̗̠̺̪̘͚̰̪̝̼͚̓͒̏́̀͌͛͂̒̒̑͐̆̏͐̀̅̾̿̀̈́̉̎̾͊́͛̃̒́͐̈́̈̑̿̌̔̈́̂̆̕͘̚͝͝͠͝͠ͅṮ̵͎̣͖͈̫̺̙̜̤̤̗̖̠̖̼̘̔̐̉̍̐̄̊̌̋͝ͅͅ
An eternity of torment for oneself. An eternity of sacrifice. An eternity of dying, but never death.
Ą̴̧̨͉̣͓̠̺̟̻͈̮̘͉̬̤͈̩̠̤͕̙̝̝̣̗͉̘̟̘̮̘̹̹̤͚̩̋͂̏́̋͋͜ͅͅͅN̶̡̛̗̦͕̖̫̱̟̫̻͙̖͎̻̉͂͂͐ ̸̢̧̗̤͎͖̼͉̦̪͈̘̱̝̭̖̤̗͍̳͕͇̮̱̫̞̀̾̀̈́́̿̽̔̽͐͐̇̓͛̏͋͐͒̄̀̃́̀̒̆̌̿̌͛̓̓̈̌̓͌̊̃͋̾͋̓͑͆̓̕̕͘͠A̸̢̡̛̮̮̤̬̭͎͙̳̹̭̭̙̳̺͎͇̟͐͊̈́̊̈͊͒̇͆̓͛̂̒̉̀̈́͌̀̀̕͜͠͝ͅC̶̡̢̨̢̨̗̹̤͔͇̳͙̥̟͓̻̻̦̣̖̩̭̦̩̟̙̹̉̈́͐͗̈͛̔̾̏̎̅͋̔͑̀̽͒̓͌͋̎̏̋̎̾̈́̂̋̇̀̈́̓͒̈̒̽̊̕͘̚͜C̷̡̨̨̧̧̨̛̼̥̪̺̫̩̹̟̥͈͖̤̭̲̘̯̹͉̪͖͎̝̪̀̓̉̿̎́̓͑̄́͛̃̌̋E̷̱͔̼͍̭̹͎̦̝̥̲͑͐͜P̵̧͕͓̦͎̦̺̤̥̳͑͛͛̄̅̽̏̿͐͒̎̓̓̒̿̔͐̆͛͋̎͑̇̽̈́̈́̓̑̒̊͠͠͝͝͝ͅT̷̢̧͔̹̲̞͙͍̺͉͕̬̞̱̫̝̘̩̪̦̦̎̀̾̐̎̓͐̿̀̈́̃̊̔̎̿̓̓̀̉̌̈́͠͝͠ͅA̵̡̡̧̦̝̣̼̮͙̫͖̠̱̝̩̫̳̞̞̘͕̞̝͎̱͕̗̹̬͙͍͙̯̮̣̭͇̟̓̈́̈́̈́̃̀͊͌̀̾͌͑̽̉̌̄̉́͆́̇͌̅̄̾̀̐̈́͛́̕̕͝͝ͅB̶̢̧̡̛̗͉̜̳͔̰̗̣̜͓̬̦̜̬̲̫̙̹̟͎̙͎̞̤̅̈́̿̋͂́̔̾͗̇͊͊̿̇͋̒͘͘͝͝͝͠ͅL̶̛̛̛̛͍͍͕̠͇̙̯̬͎̥̖̳̜͔͎̰̭̫̯̱̤̱͑̐̀̓̽͂̓̆́͊̌̂͗̀̈́͋͂̏͆͑̾͆͗̿͒̓́̕̕͘̕̕͜͜͝͠Ę̸̨̨̢̢̡̖͔̯͎͓̝̯̫͖͙̟͔͍̝̼̻̟̱͖͙̹̮͉̤̣̳̪̺͖͙̩̩̳͔̻̺̱̦̣̫͆̿͑͋̌͊̾̿̀͒̾̎̐͊͊̔̒̾̑̒͛͌̈́̎̒̋̌̈́͛̆̿̀͗̇͗̆͌͐̆̕̕̕͘͝͠͠ͅ ̷̢̡̡̨̨̢̠̻͔̪̩̞̼̜̳͈͚̟͉̲̭̘̭̩̟͎͉͇̳̟͎̳̰̝̤̝̳̞͕̣̏̃͊͂͒̾͂̀̀̓̿͌̅̇͒̏͐̿̒͊̋̍̏͘P̴̡̢̭̼̘̥͉̮̣̮͇̼̼̫̮̬̘͖̫̠̯͓̪̦͇̝̥͎̪̯̉̄̇̄͜Ṟ̵͉̙̥͚̫̮̯̪̲͍̹̥̖͔̜̲̞̫̬̥̣͈̯̖͆̓̃̍͑̈͑͗͐͂̊͑̔̕͠͠Í̷̢̛͍̝͖̻̼̪͇̳͆̈́͑̀̇͋̓̚͘͝͝C̴̢̻͚̗̪̬̤̳͓̤̫̙̙̻͍̘̣̟͉͔͈̳̥̙̱̒̆͒͜E̴̢̡̨̧̢̛̮̖̮̹̩̜͔̹̺̤̬̮̣͈͕̫̘̮̺̻͖̿̂̋̐̈́̆̒͒́͒̈͛͊̈́̓̎̽̂́͋͌̾̚̚͘͝
Its song is the twilight of gods. Burning the heavens. Letting new life grow from the ash.
K̷̨̧͎̺̰̦͇̙̞̮͚̣̿̽̂͆̕H̷̢̛̻̰̰̠͚̼͚̤̙̲͇͚̼̥̩̺̪͉̹̝̝̪̐̌͐̿̉͗͆̈́͛̊̈́̕̕͜͝Ȧ̵̧̨̧̛̲̹͇̜͇̯̞̩͙̝̩̮͓̘̼̪͈̲̲̺͙͙͙̣̼̰̘̭͇̣̺̬̗̓̄̑̿̎̊̉́̄͜ͅͅD̵̡̢̡̡͉̰̮̭̥͉͍͇̥̬̯̟͎̰͚̱̟̠͇͖̝̠̟̫̦̥̙̝̫̝̼͓̬͉̰̞̓̿͗͐͛̒́̀̈́̆̋̔̈́̓͋̎́̈́͆̽̃̿̍̋͌̀̂͒͑̕̕G̷̛̗̖̮̤̯͇̝̬̈́́͌͌̍͒͊̍̓́̈̅͗̋͋̉͠͝Ą̷̛̣̲͙͔̙̖̺͕͖͋̑̇̂̎̅͌̒̌̾̿̆̂̊̌̇͂̔̉̈̌̉͂̎̄̅͂̎͗̒̈̅͗͆̌̈́͘͘̚͠͝͠
̵̢̧̢̛̙̗̫̻̠̩̗͔̪̮̫͍̟̫͍͙̯̻͊̿̓͐͌̆̾͐̽̈̒̀́̉͌͛̉̀̐͗̍̽̈͊͌̑̈́̐̒̓̈́̀́̕͜͝Ơ̴̰͗̒̓̓͘͜Ḿ̶̢̨̛̳̤̲͚̳̯̺̬̤̗̗̼̣̺͚̙̝̮̈́̿̑́̾̒̀̉͗͗̒̽̋́̊͒͗̏͆̈́̑̎͆̒̎͆͐͑́͐̈́͗̈̕͘͘̕̕̚͜͝͠͝͝E̷̡̨̢̢̨̨̱͖̦̺̖̯̞̹̱̖̱̱̠͕̘̠̥̗͓̝̳̮̜̳̞̘͇̩̳̤̖̼̗̦̹̱̪͂͌͋̂̋̈̒̀̀̕͜͜͜͜͜͜L̷͉͓̫̩͈̮͇͔͈̼͍͔͈̫͓̮̬̹̍͂̓͂͆̎͂̅̑̄͝A̶̧̛͔̲̹̺̲̝͕̻͎̣̤̯̲̐̂͑̏̾̃̓̉̀́͌́̊͑͗̈́̉̃̈́̂̑͒͆̚̕͝͠ͅS̵̡̛̛̫̺̻͖̹͍̤̦̗̯̘͚̠̫̟̙̰̭̣̼̜͓̝̯͎̥̱̫̩͚͓̮̼̈́̍̾̀͂̉͆̈͑̇̑̀̋̀̇͛͠
The story divined, he slowly closed his senses.
A pool of blood beneath his head greeted him.
He stared at it for a moment, focusing himself on the muted world once more. He blinked the stars from his mortal sight, and slowly rightened himself.
"Right. I'll get to work. Isha, Lileath, and Asuryan, right? With Khaine's right arm." He muttered out. He ignored the boys and moved to his supplies of metal, observing carefully. Which one was suitable for this song?