~Moot of Eld~
~798. M30~
~Segmentum Ultima~
~Charnac~
~Asarnil, Dragonlord of Exodite-World Charnac, Once-Prince of the line of Caledor, Veteran of the War of Northern Aeythr~
He had yet to remove his mantle of gold, that cold certainty of judgment that weighed on his mind like a heavy crown. He needed it to stay calm with the revelation of how many had arrived. Seventy thousand ships in his system, and a new keep needing to be constructed to house all the attendees of the moot. No war-rations could be accumulated in such conditions, his world practically being stripped bare as those locusts ate all his crops.
It was unfortunate, his ally would be displeased, but understanding. Not feeding guests would violate their rights, and even now he owed the Exodus-Lord weregild for his assistance. Debts were unfortunate things, and he loathed them.
Seventy thousand ships. There were not enough Exodite-ships in existence to match that number, even if they sent everything they had. Which means there were non-Exodites in his system, and in the moot, something he was hoping to avoid entirely. Merchant-Princes and Coreworld Refugees, coming in civilian ships and eating his food stores and generally being a nuisance on his planet.
What use were merchants and refugees in a war-effort? Nothing! They traded for exotic souls and slaves! They busied themselves with tortures and pleasure-machines! Worthless fools that never fought a day in their lives! Worthless bodies eating his food and complaining about the quality and contributing nothing because they knew nothing of actual work!
He ground his teeth, keeping his red anger shackled in chains of gold.
Much as he despised them, Roboute wanted to help as many as possible, claiming they can learn. Asarnil doubted this. They walked a worthless life-road, and they have been walking it for a long time, deviating from it would be difficult for all, impossible for some.
Just like them, Roboute had been walking his life-road for too long, deviation would be nearly impossible for him, even if they could afford it. A twilight-king, lord of a crumbling empire, too used to using everything possible in desperation to keep his people alive and united even a year longer. A statue, stone flesh wearing away from metal bones. He could not see that his arrival on Charnac had changed his legend.
He wasn't a twilight-king anymore. He was a dawn-prince now. He could afford to cut away less useful things and keep only the good, to build the strongest foundations of his Empire and for himself. He could afford to live, instead of merely surviving.
Asarnil would persist in his efforts regardless, this white-cycle was only possible by Roboute's arrival, he owed it to his friend to ensure that he enjoys life. Now he just needed to help stern-eyed Miriel seduce him, but how would he go about that? Roboute had been too relaxed to notice her persistent stare during the massage…
"Dragonlord. It is time for the Moot." Wretched Savan decided to interrupt his silver-scheming with a reminder that Asarnil had duties as a host. Duties to wretched fuschia-guests that eat all his food and most likely spent all their years before the forewarned calamity strapped and thrashing on tables. Mindless animal-eld being milked for their sensations. Savan should've fed them to the dragons, or at least sent them away, not offer them guest-rights.
Gold weighed on his brow, making his stand and nod, expressionless. Donning the cloak of a Dragonlord, he pushed from his chambers and moved to enter the webway as it formed in front of him.
A step later, he was in the ugly new fortress on his favorite mountain, and Savan close behind him. Another step later and the temporary gate behind him closed, and an escort of his dragonknights stepped forwards to flank him along his way. Ten more steps and he was at the entrance of the massive moot-hall hastily constructed for this exact occasion.
Ten thousand speaking Eld in that chamber, at least half of which he would rather not have on his nice world. There used to be bare, beautiful mountain here, and the sun would hit this side perfectly in the evenings of winter, and now that was gone for some massive ungainly fortress that he wouldn't need after this.
His brow twitched in red. The Inevitable Jaws of Certain Death touched his mind in white-green. He returned the touch with gold-red, and his companion understood. He breathed in heavily, then out again, and stepped through the gates.
The massive, gaudy chamber was large enough to fit a ten-circle of Knights in its innermost stage, circled by ring after ring of seating that extended upwards for hundreds of feet, enough seating for tens of thousands in a chamber that he could do little else but host theater in hereafter. He thought he was done with theater when he joined the Exodus-Fleet and left the coreworlds behind him.
And of course, filling the first several rings of seating, were ten-thousand Eld. About half of which he would prefer were not here. In the seating directly adjacent to the theater-circle were the figures of particular note. Roboute was there, his presentations next to him at readied. Malekith Mallorn was there, standing as titanically as any Prince of Eld ought, Lord-Commander of the Exodus-Fleet. A full six of his fellow Dragonlords. A figure he did not recognize…
…And there were the rest of them, a handful of merchant-princes, a handful of coreworld-princes, and several others he assumed were equally worthless. Highest honored among degenerates and slavers was lowest honored among heroes. Their most noble members were likely their toy-makers.
None of that now Asarnil. You had to speak with these creatures now.
First was the formalities.
Stepping to the center of the theater-circle, he stood straight, cast his gaze among the assembled eld, and focused his mind to project his voice. Even through the aegis of Charnac's spirit, he could feel the fuschia stare of she who thirsts upon him.
He sneered at it. A crown of weighty gold holding down his burning red. His sword-art twitched.
It did not have the right to exist in his sight.
"Gathered Eld." He began, voice powerful and carrying throughout the chamber with admittedly well-done acoustics. "Now begins this Moot of Calamities."
Some of the fatter ones twitched and sneered at that. By declaring a Moot of Calamities, he declared that this moot would not be delayed for any reason, such as food or drink. Served the locusts right, and it would get this over with faster.
"I am Asarnil Once-Caledor. Dragonlord of Charnac. Four-crowned master of the Bloody Handed Arts." A warrior of greater experience than any save his fellow Exodite-Kings. Some of the refugee-princes looked confused by that declaration, the fools forgot the old ways it seems. He could crush them with three of his fingers and a stern glare.
He supposed it would be best to get right to the point. "Isha lives."
A ripple of discussion and emotions washed over the chamber, Savan reinforced the World-Spirit just in time for Fuschia to clash against it. After a few moments, the tide receded, and he could begin speaking again. Did they forget their golden mantles? Worthless.
"Bound in the garden of the Parasite-Bastard." He had to give applause to roboute, his various names for the lord of flies were absolute artistry. Calling the one who styled himself a loving father a 'bastard that sunders loving houses through unending consumption' was quite a well-struck blow. He would naturally steal it in a shameless manner.
"Bound and tormented. But alive. Isha is alive. It is our duty as her children to rescue and defend her." He left no room for disagreement with his declaration. "It is our duty to carve a red path through that bilesome heap, pull her from it, and preserve her against She-Who-Thirsts. We can do nothing less."
"Then why do we delay?!" A merchant-prince in red, black, and white shouted out. "Why do we wait while she lies in torment?!"
"How many of the assembled are warriors?" Asarnil questioned. "How many among you are warriors, and not toy-makers. Not painters. Not merchants. Not Poets. Not Performers. Warriors."
Only a third stood, the majority of them were Exodites. To his credit, the merchant prince remained standing, a klaive at his hip. He looked around though, and frowned in grim black before sitting down once more.
"We have not the number of warriors required, not only to face the boundless armies of the Parasite-Bastard, but also the boundless armies of She-Who-Thirsts, as well as keep Isha safe while we retrieve her. Nor do we have a psychic-stronghold sturdy enough to keep her protected as she regains strength." Asarnil spoke the facts plainly to the assembled.
"We need more warriors, we need more war material, we need new lands, we need stronger wards. We need all of these things and more if we are to fulfill our duty."
"And you would have us ally with vermin!" A merchant-prince in cream and green sneered out. Asarnil turned a red gaze upon them, even as they continued. "Creatures of flesh and iron, wielding technology of the materium and covering their worlds in dung!"
Asarnil attempted to keep his calm. "If you are here then you had the vision shared with you."
"The vision is lies! To believe that the Empire of Eld could be brought low by screaming dogs! You would have us rely on animals to secure our future, shall we send cattle to war next?!"
"The Empire of Eld has brought itself low!" Asarnil roared. "Ignoring all warnings we attempted to provide! Deciding to debase itself for nearly an Age until birthing a brand new extinction!"
"This isn't what we wanted! A new god to lead us to greater heights! This is not what was promised" A refugee-prince declared in desperation. Much to the sudden swelling of red in the chamber.
"This is what you desired! A new god to indulge itself in every sensation imaginable! Doing exactly what your wretched Urbanite kind did to all other things!" An Exodite-Lord called out furiously. "You deserve your extinction, bringing it upon yourself!"
"Enough."
Gold weighed down on the chamber, smothering all emotions beneath it. A set of footsteps echoed. Wraithbone boots stepped into the center of the theater, next to Asarnil.
The Exodus Lord, eyes and crown-jewels shining as stars, stood among the assembled Eld.
"I will not let the Many-Fathered Bastard-Goddess of Gutter-Whores devour our sweet mother. I will not allow our sweet mother to remain in the captivity of the Spite-Smiling Dung-Devouring Intestine-Ouroboros. This I swear upon seven dead gods. This I swear upon a people in ruins. This I swear upon a red-handed soul."
The weight of gold receded slightly, allowing the rest of them to breathe and move once more. Asarnil turned his gaze to Malekith, whose eyes shone in slight apology for the breach in etiquette. Asarnil nodded in thanks, and moved to sit next to Roboute on the side.
Nodding at his weathered-statue friend, he turned his gaze to the Exodus Lord.
Malekith Mallorn regarded his assembled kin with heat on his brow. Waiting the perfect length, he began to speak.
"Discount all considerations of white-cycles. Consider only golden-truth.
Our coreworlds have been consumed by a catastrophe. Our souls are now at risk of being devoured if we relax our minds for even a moment. Only three-tenths of our fleets are present among us, if that. Our only remaining safe-homes are the Exodite worlds, which cannot support a dedicated military effort on their own. Staying upon them, behind the aegis of the world-spirits, will only mean a slower death.
Our cycle of reincarnation is shattered. Perhaps only a handful of the Old Kings of Eld remain among us. No more will be reborn afterwards, no more will remember the old glories once they fall. We will only diminish and die after this, and our future will be ash.
If we fail.
Our strength is our Gods. Cegorach lives hidden in the webways and far beyond us. Khaine lives shattered, scattered throughout the wheel. Isha lives, and is whole, in captivity. We must bring them to strength once more, we must build a safe place for them to gather power. We must protect our gods to protect ourselves from the disaster of our own making.
Here we have the godling of a fledgling race. He has come to our worlds with the message of our living mother. He has come with oaths on his soul to rescue her. He asks for nothing but friendship, and aid in completing his oath. He asks for nothing from us but what we need, allies.
What foolishness would be to turn him away, even without the Prophecy of Doom? We have a godling-prince willing to stake his soul on aiding our mother and we consider sending him away? They had a name for this kind of foolishness, but Cegorach outwitted the Deceiver long ago.
We are not submitting to his yoke. We are gaining a friend. Are you to sneer at offers of friendship?"
"Friendship cannot be held between greaters and lessers." A wizened and loathing voice declared softly. A Coreworld prince, with studs of bone in his forehead and burning red in his eyes. "Only equals. Are you to declare us equal with this infant species?"
"Yes." Malekith met the coreworld prince's gaze with eyes of green and blazing brow. "What power do refugees that are prey to their own new god have? Nothing if they stand alone."
"I name you a liar." Another coreworld prince declared.
"Then come down and cut out my tongue. You have a sword do you not? Not just a whip?" Malekith returned, reaching down to rest his hand on the hilt of his blade. A terrible blazing-red heat issuing from his gentle grip. A golden circle slowly beginning to form on his brow and behind his head as his spirit-stones began to glow. "You are a gold-browed, red-armed warrior, are you not? You wear the skins of gods and a crown of stars, do you not? Able to yoke the wheel and turn it in any direction unobstructed?"
Silence was his answer, for it was quite unfashionable to carry swords in the coreworlds. Malekith continued after a moment.
"It will be difficult. There is a long road of work before us if we are to regain our former glory. There is much refuse that must be cleared away from the path, and many spirits that seek to consume us along the way. Our time of excess is over, we cannot afford to indulge any longer. Now is a time of struggles, now is a time of labors.
The path I see before us is littered with corpses, littered with luxuries discarded, littered with compromises made.
But I see friendships made. I see children born. I see happy descendents and a noble kingdom. I see a Castle built of White and Gold, next to a Sea of Blue, guarded by Warriors of Red and Green, Supplied by craftsmen of Black and sorcerers of many colors. I see a many-colored rainbow, and the path we must take to reach it.
I see our three living gods in those halls. I see them strong and whole."
Malekith's face grew dim, and the heat on his brow intensified like a newborn sun. The world-spirit was garbed in gold for just a moment.
"I see the corpse of Slaanesh."
Fuschia crashed into a dragon made of ghosts and armored in gold. An ocean of thirst slamming into wraithwings. Eyes of Excess hungering at a Glare of Green.
The gold flashed. The wings extended. The tide broke.
Shaking Eld slowly pushed themselves up, eyes flashing in desperate fear. The Exodus Lord stood unbowed, crowned in stars and gold.
"I see the path before us. I will reach out my hand in friendship to the godling of a young race. Who among you will follow me?"
There was a long silence in the chamber. Asarnil stood.
"I am." For he had already offered his hand in friendship.
Another dragonlord stood. "I will."
Then another. "I will."
Then dozens more. "I will."
Then thousands more. "I will."
Then their entirety, speaking even if they didn't believe in it. "I will."
Malekith regarded them for a while longer, before slowly nodding, and turning his head to steadfast Roboute, unphased by the presence of the goddess, for he had arms of Gold. "Son of Man. Slayer of Evil. Friend of the Eldar. Rise and speak if you would, we seek your war-counsel."
Roboute rose, took up the 'foldable table' he called it, and the psychic projector. He had learned how to control it as his first lesson, much to Asarnil's dismay. Walking to the center of the theater, he regarded the assembled Eld for a moment, before unfolding the table, placing the projector upon it, and focusing his mind.
A massive map burst to life in the center of the chamber, upon which ten-thousand data points were listed and elaborated upon extensively, upon which a hundred-thousand or more hours have been poured into creating and revising again and again. On the side of this map, a dozen more notes burst into life and began to slowly scroll.
And in the center of the room, Roboute began to explain his vast plans in full, the sum of his king-star shining on his brow.
"Three things will be required for the rescue and continued safeguarding of goddess Isha. A staging ground near the Eye of Terror from which to launch the attack and prevent its further expansion in the meantime. A vast and mobile military to launch the attack, retrieve her, and escape. And a territory sufficiently warded and powerful enough to protect her within as she recovers and gains strength. This is our first objective to prepare for. There are a total of seven calamities to come in the next ten-thousand years that I am aware of. I will elaborate upon them after the details of the first objective are known and sufficiently debated upon…"
Asarnil almost sighed. He knew all of this already, which means he was just going to be sitting here for another nine hours…
No, the machine-worshippers were quick and efficient with their questioning. These were Eldar.
Eighteen hours, at minimum.