**Author's note: This is the last of the large alternative point of view chapters. A very special guest is finally introduced here! We return to our protagonist on the next update.**
Farseer Evoray Nox sat exhausted, frazzled, and alone within the lounge of a hotel that catered to alien guests in the city of Evna. He had just arrived with his small group of adventurers all the way from Quilan, and was waiting for them to wake and join him for dinner. Steering through rough remote areas of the Webway, the group of five Aeldari managed to find an area of temporal displacement that greatly reduced their travel time. This was initially quite convenient until that particular section of the Webway collapsed behind them into a turbulent section of the Warp as they passed!
After a harrowing run through this disintegrating area, they finally emerged a mere three light years away from the world of Tar Vigaz this morning through a Webway gate floating within the rubble of a maiden world that had been destroyed many millennia ago through an unknown event.
A scant few hours later, and they found themselves approaching the Vigaz system. After answering some questions through an automated system, they were granted an "Alien Visitation Visa" for a trade of some of the precious metals and gemstones they carried with them as currency. They were then instructed to fly through a minefield that loomed dangerously around the inner planets which protected that world.
They sat in line for some time as they watched the Mon-keigh vessels pass ahead. It was apparent that they were obviously seen as second class citizens, but this wasn't as bad as most human worlds.
Their craft was a smaller Aeldari vessel of sweeping wraithbone, resembling its name of Dove Tear, and it gently landed at an alien port far outside the city of Evna on a flat stone runway. At the very least, the local Drukhari and independent corsairs had spent some money into upgrading the general Aeldari/Drukhari wing of this port, so while this port was remote, it was at least somewhat nice.
After trading many of their items for script and finding a decent hotel that would accept non-humans, they waited for an air shuttle into town.
The group ended up finding adequate lodgings at a hotel called "White Tower", which allowed Aeldari, Drukhari, and human guests, and no other xenos. It was briefly discussed that the five of them should stay at an ork mercenary hostel, with Evoray being too hyper-fixated on finding his wife to understand that it was a joke.
After they had found an adequate larger room to house all five Aeldari, the small group of exhausted adventurers ended up collapsing into sleep on their beds. They had not slept in some time since their unexpectedly frantic journey, and the stress of nearly dying in the Webway had frayed many nerves.
Evoray could not sleep, however. It was evening in Evna, and an inner sense drew an intuitive understanding within him that his wife was somehow close. He missed her greatly, and prayed that he could find her. He knew that he had to tell her about his son's death. It was simply the right thing to do.
Unable to rest, the Farseer got up, and changed into more casual robes before walking down to the lounge of the White Tower. Evoray left a note for his companions that he would be in the lounge for a meal, and welcomed them to join him. His inner sense was telling him that this was the correct place for him to be, and he had learned to follow his intuition in strange places such as these. He was also hungry, and a bite to eat would be good.
The White Tower lounge was nearly empty. A long bar of simulated wraithbone was lined with tall and elegantly designed white stools, and a few round tables sat waiting for diners. At one table at the far end of the room, two pale-skinned individuals wearing dark blue and black armor adorned with sharp embellishments turned toward him with a sneer. A third individual also had his back turned to him, could not be seen. The Farseer felt his heart chill when he recognized that these were Drukhari. Let's hope they're better behaved on a xenophobic human world, Evoray sniffed.
A fair-skinned and dark-haired Aeldari man smiled politely as Evoray walked to the bar. Above, a large view screen was displaying local news and events. "What can I get you?" the bartender asked Evoray.
"What is available to eat here? I have not been to this planet before."
The bartender offered Evoray a small pamphlet detailing food and drink items. He poured the Farseer a cup of water as he perused. "You in town for business? Pleasure?"
Quickly, Evoray decided on a local vegetable platter on the "Aeldari cuisine" column, and returned the menu. "Family," he replied with sadness. The Farseer had incredible precognitive abilities, but the ability to pinpoint where his wife had traveled to had been hampered by the Laughing God's jests every single time. However, he did have a vague sense that Zerine was presently somewhat near, so he decided to cautiously ask the bartender, "Have you seen many others of our kind recently passing through this area?"
The bartender nodded as he poured a bottle of dry fruit wine into a flute glass, and pushed it forward to Evoray. "I'm assuming you mean Aeldari, but as you can see, there are others in Evna presently," the bartender waved his hand in the direction of the three dark individuals who he had seen when he had first come in. One of them briefly smiled nastily at the Farseer. The bartender tapped his fingers against a clear crystal display, sending the food order to the kitchen.
"I mean, well..." Evoray trailed off. He was very tired and psychically exhausted from his journey, but at the same time, his mind was filled with unrest. Finding the words for his thoughts was proving dreadfully difficult. Massaging one of his temples, he asked, "A Harlequin troupe. Have you seen or heard of one recently? In this city, I mean."
The bartender paused after putting the meal order through, and straightened up. He then swallowed nervously, and glanced furtively at the three individuals in the back of the room. The Drukhari turned toward them again, sniggered, and whispered something to the other man who had not turned around. What was happening here? The bartender then turned back to Evoray, and nodded. "Yes, you could say that we have. Many offworlders are here in town for Langwidere's costume ball, and this includes a passing troupe. But, I wouldn't-" his words cut off as one of the individuals in the back then stood up. The Farseer turned back to the bartender, who immediately looked away as fear crossed his features. "Your food will be here soon," he said, and began to busy himself with sorting glasses and wine bottles. The emotion of fear was now so heavy that Evoray could almost smell it.
Cautiously, the Farseer turned back to the mysterious trio. Now understanding that a confrontation might take place, Evoray gripped a small rune in a pocket. Trouble already.
The Drukhari he had seen smiling at him approached. He was a shorter man with greyish skin and long black hair, and he wore a thin suit of indigo-blue iridescent armor adorned with short ridges along aesthetically pleasing plates, almost giving him an insectoid appearance. "No need for that," the stranger smiled, displaying filed teeth. "I am just saying 'hello' to a fellow misguided gentle-hearted adventurer. My friend here, he also wishes to say hello. And remember, the superstitions are entirely true. To speak to him is to invite damnation!" The Drukhari playfully slapped Evoray on his back before leaving along with another of his kind, a tall black-clad widow of a woman with black eyes. Both grinned nastily at the Farseer, who then turned to observe the last individual, who remained seated with his back to him.
The room grew colder, and slowly, the third man turned around.
He was wearing a pale mask, Evoray realized in horror. A leering mask with curved horns. The eyes of the mask were as black as pits, but somehow the Farseer knew that this individual was staring right into his soul. Despite wanting to flee, Evoray found himself glued to his seat. When the dark figure stood, and began to approach him, the bartender had slipped into the kitchen to hide.
It was a Solitaire, he knew immediately.
The figure wore a cloak of strange thick darkness around him, almost as if veiled in night itself. He was dressed all in black with the exception of a large red jewel that acted as a belt buckle. On his left arm, Evoray recognized the distinctive shape of a Harlequin's Kiss. It was brazenly and obviously displayed despite the laws against overt possession of weapons.
"This one expresses welcome to you, Evoray Nox," the Solitaire said to him in a musical deep voice before sweeping in a dramatic bow. The voice chilled him to his bones! "This one is here to thirst and to dance with your lost wife, Farseer."
Evoray had just been spoken to by a Solitaire and his mouth grew dry. To even communicate with such a being was to invite the gaze of She-Who-Thirsts, and eternal damnation! He didn't even quite register what the terrifying stranger had said. How did he know his name?
"The Farseer expresses fear in his presence? Expected, yes. Such is the way of all in the great performance." The mask he wore then transfigured itself into a more neutral expression. "The dreams this one has. All of death and consumption, but sometimes of other things. Beautiful things."
"W-what do you want?" Evoray couldn't even look at the damned creature directly. "You know me? How?" Evoray asked.
"Those of the damned see through the eyes of hell, and they see many things that mortal eyes miss. This one received a vision upon visiting this world of the dancers, and of the grieving Farseer. The Solitaire goes to them; it is what this one must do. You should know that there is a larger, grander dance that all of us now take steps in, and even the Farseer has his role in this. This one wishes to aid in his steps." The pale mask watched Evoray critically, and now even wore a small grin that could even be interpreted as warmly comforting, somehow.
"So, you're... you are a part of the Masque of the Veiled path, and they are here?" Evoray's heart began to flutter! "Where is Zerine? Where is my wife?"
"Not here, blinded little Farseer. She is preparing with the others in the governor's palace. They have a performance tomorrow, at a gathering of humans of all alignments. And, so do you, but in a different, even grander dance than even the Solitaire walks. This incredible dance is lead by the humans, and a godling in their number will be born. Just as this one walks his path and has his role, so shall you have yours."
The Solitaire spoke in haunting riddles, and the air around the creature was as cold as haunted dreams. The Solitaire then angled his head curiously, and looked up at the display above them. "Mmm, yes," the creature mused, the expression on his horned mask became amused. "The humans have a fledgling god, and she is here. You have been looking for her, yes? How serendipitous that you are here."
"What are you talking about?" Evoray asked.
"Look," the Solitaire angled his masked head upward.
Evoray turned his head upward toward the display, and was shocked at what he saw.
It was Fate's Sundering flying in a low circle around the city of Evna! A newscast showed the majestic gold eagle soaring low and brilliantly in the light of the setting sun. Evoray was transfixed at the screen!
"The Solitaire offers the Farseer a generous gift, so that the godling may offer you a gift as well. The godling will be where your wife will be tomorrow. A precious gift will be given to you then, one that if delivered to the right persons, will elevate relations between humans and Aeldari," the Solitaire said beside the Farseer as he continued to watch various clips of Fate's Sundering as it soared across the sky. A notation on the screen noted that it had flown into the city of Evna just last evening!
"How long has it been in-" Evoray turned to speak to the Solitaire, but instead, found nothing. He glanced back up at the view screen, and saw that it was now another different newscast covering the tragic murder of six humans. Had he hallucinated the encounter? Had he been under that much stress? The Farseer watched with haunted eyes as the bartender emerged from the kitchen once again, and he was holding a plate of hearty vegetables and fruits.
The Farseer was confused, and began to hesitantly ask, "Excuse me, but-"
"We will not speak of cursed ghosts. Not here. You will eat and you will leave," the bartender curtly interrupted Evoray.
Confused and greatly disconcerted, the Farseer glanced down at his dinner platter, and found a rectangular envelope under the metal plate. Pulling it out, he opened it, and discovered what appeared to be a ticket to the costume ball at the planetary governor's palace tomorrow! A harlequin troupe would be performing for the human guests? Instantly, his powerful intuition spoke to him, and told him that his wife would be there!
Evoray glanced around, searching for any trace of the Solitaire or his Drukhari companions, but they all seemed to have vanished! The only thing that remained was the chill of the damned creature that had surrounded it, and the Farseer shivered.
Elsewhere:
"No, no. That won't do. All of these reference pictures are nonsense. On whose authority should I be required to shave my beard?" the man with the scraggly beard said as he was fitted for his costume late in the evening deep inside the planetary governor's palace in a richly appointed study. "Men with beards are wise. It is a universal rule, and it must certainly be a rule here. The Sigilite must have had a beard. Beards display strength and maturity!"
"I am sorry, but we only have one illustration depicting Malcador with a beard. Silk-hand has done his very best work, and his costume is perfect. Surely you could sha-"
"No, the beard stays!"
"Very well, my lord," Pallai said as she placed a few final stitches and alterations against Grand Advisor Grigori's thin body.
Grigori smiled. Pallai was an attractive specimen, he thought. She had a large bosom, perfectly fair and rosy cheeks, and lips ripe for every piece of him. She made him strangely homesick, in a way. He enjoyed her touch as she fussed over his costume, which wasn't very fancy in the least, but he had been told that it was historically accurate.
"Historically accurate, what utter nonsense," Grigori growled under his breath. There was barely any accurate record keeping in this universe. And current modern history was over ten thousand damn years long! How is anyone supposed to do their jobs if history keeps getting obviously rewritten and altered? That also reminded him of home somehow, and then he sighed. Under Nicholas, he had also dealt with poor record keeping.
There's no place like home, he thought sadly once again as Pallai finalized Grigori's Malcador the Sigilite Costume. After getting his final approval, he undressed, and his costume was hung away for tomorrow in an open closet. A representative of Silk-Hand would arrive tomorrow to dress him and to apply his make up. Malcador had a beard, he was absolutely certain. All important men had beards. Even the Emperor must have had a beard, he had complained to people.
Grigori waited for Pallai to leave before requesting a hug, which she declined. Well, that sometimes worked with women, he thought with a shrug. Better to not get upset about it now, as he had a guest tonight, and he wanted to have an even head when speaking to him.
Shortly after Pallai left, Grigori opened a bottle for what passed as vodka in this psychotic shithole of a universe and poured himself a drink as he sat at his desk in his study. Before sipping, he swept the cup of vodka with his keen psychic senses, checking for any poison. It had become a force of habit in the last ten or so years after someone had drugged him back home. Even with that pungent memory, he yearned for home.
Grigori Rasputin was often homesick.
The infamous monk sighed dramatically as he swished the vodka in his cup. The horrors of the future came with some blessings, but what he wouldn't do to have the simplicity of a proper Muscovite high-class prostitute keeping him company on a cold December night right about now. Or even to lounge on the pillows of a stout housewife with pretty blue eyes. Simplicity had a sort of comforting elegance, and he missed it.
He downed the entire cup of the alien imitation of vodka, drinking it all. Holding the empty glass in his hand, he concentrated, and then, it slowly began to levitate into the air. Using his potent psionic skills, he then telekinetically threw his glass into the corner of his room, where it shattered everywhere. At the very least, having potent psychic abilities was entertaining. His precognitive and visionary skills had been increased by an order of magnitude, and now, he could perform miracles daily. There were others with his ability, he had learned, and they were called "psykers".
Hearing the shatter of the glass, a machine-slave wandered mindlessly into his room, and began to clean up the mess. This reality was certainly insane, he thought as he observed the servitor mindlessly clean. Incredibly disturbing was the concept that literal daemons came into the material universe routinely, and entities called "Chaos Gods" ruled over them in hell, which was where spaceships somehow traveled from place to place. Luckily, Grigori had very few experiences with daemons, but he always had enough sense to decline whatever they were offering, as the price was always too high. Because of that, he was glad that he knew that he had remained uncorrupted in spirit.
In the ten years of him being here, Grigori had used his legendary charisma enmeshed with his incredible psychic influence to climb the social ladder of Evna society. From his modest beginnings waking up in a new body outside the capitol city, he initially thought that he had been kidnapped by the British. That notion was quickly dispelled after he was able to charm his first Evian woman, the wife of the man whose body he now dwelled in. Grigori quickly discovered that he was on an alien planet, and far into the future. It wasn't quite reincarnation, as he was not reborn as an infant, but rather, he had apparently "stolen" this unfortunate man's body when he had experienced some kind of religious delirium. Quickly learning the local language (which was English for some reason that he could not fathom), Grigori set about making sense of this strange new reality, and he found that he both hated and loved it. Apparently, everyone worshipped something called the "God-Emperor", which was some sort of psychic man-creature that had been shackled to a magical power-magnifying throne that served as some kind of spiritual lighthouse. It didn't make much sense, but the displaced monk had given up in attempting to understand some of the logic behind these beliefs.
Grigori voraciously consumed knowledge of his new reality. Aside from the entities called "daemons", and their place of hellish residence, named the Immaterium (or Warp), the displaced monk learned about the different aliens that existed throughout the galaxy, and the Imperium of Mankind, which felt like a run-of-the-mill fascistic society that had somehow grown large enough to encompass a million worlds. It was both fascinating and terrifying when he thought about it. Humans remained humans, even forty thousand years into the future.
To Grigori's delight, he discovered that he had also inherited potent psychic gifts. He easily discovered that his own mysterious abilities were far stronger than they had once been, and he set about honing his impossible new talents. Telepathy, telekinesis, and clairvoyance were all strengthened within him beyond his wildest dreams. Sometimes, daemon entities would invade his visions, but Grigori had always known to ignore such things, even in his home universe. It was always unwise to humor any malevolent spirit, no matter what universe you find yourself in. And, he followed his own advice. Most of the time.
Grigori became stronger, wiser, and even more charismatic through his appetite for knowledge and social power. After a time, he became bored with the wife he had inherited. When she became tiresome, he bewitched her into thinking that she wanted a divorce, and then, he was a single man once again. The displaced monk set off to explore Evian society, a crooked grin on his face.
After enmeshing himself in the local gentry as a man who had seen "the glory of the Emperor in a vision", he became a popular character in high society parties, beguiling all with his keen sense of storytelling and influence. He told brilliant stories and bewitched women as he went along, enjoying himself greatly. Due to his spartan robes and religious tone of speaking, he had once again picked up the moniker of "Mad Monk", which amused him greatly.
During yet another fabulous gathering at a nobleman's penthouse, he was then invited to the governor's palace for an after-party. From there, his life became even more interesting. Grigori had assumed that the ruler of this world was a stern man named Justinian Sinclair, because he was the person who handled most of the business here. His younger brother Evring was more of a playboy, which made him very fun to socialize with.
The palace was a setting of mirrored gold, emeralds, and graceful ivory. It was grand, beautiful, and extraordinarily wealthy. There, he met the scarcely-seen Langwidere with a small group of other high society nobles. She was a stunning woman, with long black hair curled immaculately, porcelain skin, and blue eyes that were nearly as hypnotic as Grigori's own. She wore a simple long white gown, and a collar of emeralds around her neck along with a bracelet holding a mysterious key carved out of solid ruby.
After some liquor, he had decided to engage this group of nobles in a story. Grigori told the story of the history of a faraway planet named "Russia", and of the brave people that dwelled within. For thirty minutes, he spoke to the crowd, not even needing to psychically enhance his words, and simply using his incredible charisma as he offered anecdotes, legends, and myths surrounding the mythical Russian people. When he was finished, no one initially spoke. At first, he thought that he had caused some offense, but then someone began to slowly clap. The governor herself wore a grin, and she even stood up to offer his marvelous story applause.
Grigori had been told later that Langwidere had been roused from her typical ennui through the displaced monk's story, and after a short time, he received an invitation to visit the palace again. He was offered the position of "Personal Advisor", as the previous man who had held the position had fallen mysteriously ill.
For the last few years, Grigori had found himself once again speaking into the ears of powerful people, delicately pulling strings and influencing minds behind the curtain. While this universe was insane and daemon-cursed, he did have to admit some of the perks were worth it.
His life in the palace was relatively relaxed; Grigori could study metaphysical knowledge as he advised the Sinclair family on matters concerning the Conglomeration of Ev. Sometimes, he even spoke to the governor herself, but she often cloistered herself, involving herself in her own vain pleasures and pastimes. Recently, he had even been given authority to act in Langwidere's name in some matters, which concerned the Sinclairs, but they did care not enough to do anything about it. To them, it was simply less work for them to fuss over.
During a party some months ago, a large black-haired and amber-eyed visitor made a visitation to the palace to sell his mysterious wares, which included knowledge and strange artifacts. He claimed they were from alternate realities. To everyone else, such a concept was rather unbelievable, but to Grigori, he absolutely knew such things were true, as he himself had come from another dimension! As a "thank you" for his services, Langwidere had indulgently allowed him to purchase an artifact that had struck his fancy.
It was the Book of Revelation from the Bible itself! It must have originated from his home universe! Grigori busied himself immediately with his new acquisition, reading the priceless interdimensional artifact as soon as it fell into his hands, comforted by its familiar words. The bookseller, a long-haired giant of a man nicknamed "Word Bear" had noted his interest, and in his mind, he then heard a whispered message.
You're a Traveler, aren't you?
Grigori didn't know what a Traveler was at that time, and ignored Word Bear as he scanned through Bible passages.
I know you can hear me, psyker. You have come from another universe, haven't you? You have read this book before. I can feel it.
Grigori closed the book, and looked up.
I came from where this book was written. What do you know? Grigori cautiously "thought" back the giant man.
Much, Word Bear replied. Speak to me again in a more private place, and perhaps I can interest you in more wonders...
After a visit to the bookseller's home later, and spending an incredible amount of script (and promising to prevent the investigation of a few missing persons), Grigori had then learned that other people like him existed. And, could become incredibly powerful. Even as powerful as the legendary Emperor himself! A living god in this universe! But, it required one of his kind to interface themselves within a powerful machine that would transform them into this god-thing. The machine was a spectacular gold eagle that flew through the stars, made millions of years ago to create gods and heroes for dying races.
Some time later, Grigori had a flurry of dramatic visions of a gold eagle, the same one that Word Bear had described! In his joy, he immediately went to discuss his profound dreams with the Sinclair that was currently available in the palace, which was (unfortunately) Evring. The young lord accused him of being drunk, and had dismissed him as he lay with his whores. This did not bother Grigori so much, and instead, set about interpreting his visions secretly. It appeared that the Traveler currently interfaced within the eagle was a woman, so that would make her easy to manipulate or dispatch, should he encounter her. He also beheld a keen sense that she would actually visit Tar Vigaz itself, so the advisor went about having a visitors wing of the palace cleaned and tidied just in case. Another helpful vision even gifted him an approximation of where the eagle might be in the galaxy, which wasn't so far away. Using an astropathic contact, he offered a group of mercenaries who flew the notoriously fast Ebon Hare seven million in script if they could find visual proof of the eagle of his visions. He directed them to the region of Kolch, an empty dusty world some distance away deeper within the Ghoul Stars.
He made a joke to himself that it seemed that fate was on his side, and began fantasizing what he would do as the new God of this universe. It would take a little bit of scheming and manipulation, but he was Grigori fucking Rasputin, beloved prophet of God and all of Russia, and this was not beyond him!
A few days later, and after Evring left to visit his cousin, Grigori then had a vision of a small blue bird. The bird suggested to him that they could be "friends" and that events were all coming together to ensure him that he'd be able to pilot the eagle himself, and that he would become powerful beyond his wildest dreams! It was all so wonderful! However, the bird also suggested that the Ebon Hare had met with an ugly end, but that one of their number had survived! Their mutant Navigator, named Ven Tristan, still lived, but had become stranded.
Because of what Ven Tristan had seen, he was too valuable to leave to die, Grigori decided, and with a quick astropathic call, he summoned the yacht owned by another nobleman to look for the stranded Navigator in a certain region of space outside the perilous Deadly Desert. Due to the formation of a new rift nearby, time in this region was behaving in an irregular manner, and so, a trip that should have taken weeks only took a few days. The Navigator was rescued, and then, the nobleman met with Evring to party on the planet of Rash, a planet on the periphery of the Conglomeration of Ev. Ven Tristan was transferred to Evring's yacht, who was soon bound for home in order to attend the masquerade ball, and he was offered the (somewhat superfluous) position of Navigator for the young lord. Finally, Grigori instructed a very reluctant Evring to wait at the outer periphery of the Vigaz system, as he had received yet another precognitive vision that the eagle was bound for their planet soon.
The blue bird appeared to the head advisor just this morning as he witnessed his elaborate scheme begin to fall into place. "And soon, you will become more powerful than imagining, Grigori Rasputin, and soon, your soul will be mine!"
That was the line that had actually spooked the Traveler, he thought, pouring himself another cup of vodka. Was this tiny blue bird a daemon that was also scheming his own scheme, he wondered? Whatever, it didn't matter. Ultimately, he had learned from Word Bear that the gold eagle ship actually repelled Chaotic taint, so any designs on his soul surely wouldn't go far if he was interfaced with it.
Grigori's senses prickled, and he felt his guest arriving. Three knocks sounded outside his study door. The servitor was just finishing cleaning the mess of broken glass.
"Come in, Ven Tristan," Grigori said, setting out another glass for his guest, and filling it with vodka. Ven Tristan was reportedly traumatized by the loss of his crew, and had not been sober in many days, from what he understood. The unusual passage of time was making it worse, in a way. But, the renegade Navigator enjoyed his liquor, so Grigori would oblige him. He needed the drunk traumatized three-eyed mutant for something right now anyway.
The cleaning servitor left the study as the double doors opened, and waiting behind them, was the intoxicated Navigator. A faint scent of body odor and stale liquor immediately wafted through the room.
"Grigori," the Navigator bowed before the Traveler. "Why do you summon me? I've already told you everything."
"We can't have a pleasant little chat, my friend? Come, sit, relax!" Grigori offered, and gestured to a large leather chair that he didn't mind becoming a little dirty. The Navigator approached, and sat down, his hands in his lap. "Drink?" the advisor telekinetically floated a full short glass of vodka over to Ven Tristan, who took it in a hand, and began to sip. "I take it that you're enjoying your seven million in script. And, you've even gotten an invitation to Langwidere's famous party. Things are starting to look up for you, Tristan!"
The Navigator did not respond, and kept his eyes down as he continued to sip his vodka in a fugue. The cut on the side of his face was beginning to look infected.
"As a friend, I will say that you're not looking so well," Grigori responded to his observations. "If you need a doctor, I can arrange one through Langwidere's physician. And you also need a bath."
"What do you want from me?" Ven Tristan miserably responded, adjusting his filthy red bandana over his Warp eye. "My crew is all dead."
"Yes, but, well, sometimes that just happens, you know? This universe is dangerous, the Warp is very dangerous, and that assignment was extremely dangerous, hence the large pay out. But you survived, and got the entire bonus, at least. I commend you for that, my friend."
The Navigator did not respond immediately, and Grigori saw his eyes begin to wet. "What do you wa-"
"I want you to be happy, my friend. You're a very talented and lucky individual. I heard a story that you've escaped the destruction of each of your vessels as the soul survivor twice now. That's really interesting, and that sort of luck makes you valuable." Grigori gently psychically examined how receptive to suggestion Ven Tristan would be before continuing, and prepared for what he would say. The Traveler lowered his voice ominously. "I'm... actually willing to bet that what you want most in this world is to see the person responsible for the death of your crew dead. Am I right here, my friend?"
Ven Tristan looked up from his glass, and sniffed. Good. He was interested. "So, a little bird told me that the woman responsible for your hardships will also be at Langwidere's party tomorrow evening."
"A little bird?" the Navigator asked, his features becoming strained. He took a long drink.
"Just a figure of speech; pay no attention," Grigori walked back the comment. "But the point is, I want to see you continue working for the Sinclairs with your incredible luck and skill. We want to make you happy, Ven Tristan."
A long silence as the Navigator leaned back in his chair. He lowered the glass to his lap, and began to tap at it with two fingers. "I want her to suffer," Ven Tristan said in a small voice. "I want her to suffer for what she did."
"And we want to make you happy," Grigori replied, reaching under his desk for a small black box. He placed it on the table. "Completely unrelated, but inside this box is a very potent poison, one that should completely incapacitate even a psyker with poison resistance. It is rare, and deadly. To be assured of effectivity, it must be delivered through the bloodstream. Say, from a dart, perhaps. If someone were to prick themselves with such a dart, it will render that someone paralyzed, but still completely conscious. They would also be unable to use their psychic gifts as well, and would be at the mercy of whoever would be nearby. After a time, if not helped, they would die in agony."
Grigori gently telekinetically floated the box over to Ven Tristan, who took it with a hand. It was about six centimeters wide, and ten long, and it was sealed with a festive red bow. "You see, it is simply a dangerous thing to have around the palace, what with all the intrigue and danger here. I believe you are a lucky individual, and would know how to, say, dispose of such thing."
Ven Tristan began to slowly smile. "I see..." he said, drinking from the cup of vodka in his other hand.
"Yes, you do," Grigori smiled. "Completely unrelated, but accidents during parties can be notoriously difficult to prove, as there will be many offworlders in the palace. So please, find a way to safely dispose of this terribly poisonous dart. Maybe tomorrow?"
Ven Tristan was now smiling widely. "Thank you, my lord. You have given me a task, and I will be delighted to dispose of this item safely."
"As long as you promise to bathe before the party, I have total trust in you, Tristan."
The Navigator began to laugh, and he shook his head. "You know, I misjudged you. I'm sorry for that."
"People have been misjudging me for a long time," Grigori Rasputin said with an evil smile.
"This woman, this monster, this damned witch," Ven Tristan was now madly giggling. "I had to hear constantly on Shower of Gold with Evring on just how wonderful her gold bird ship is. That ship killed my friends, and I want to see that Erika Romanov bitch suffer for that."
Grigori's heart almost stopped, but he managed to keep himself perfectly composed. "Her surname is... is... Romanov?" the advisor managed to choke out the question in his surprise. "Are you certain of this?"
Ven Tristan was now finishing his glass of vodka, placing it down, and standing up. He placed the box in one of the pockets of his robe. "Yeah, it's Romanov. 100% on that. You know, I had to hear her fucking name constantly when I was on the Shower of Gold with Evring coming back here. 'Erika Romanov this' and 'Erika Romanov' that! He is obsessed with fucking her, I think. Tired of hearing that bitch's name, and soon, I'll have my peace!"
Grigori sat, absolutely stunned and now, struggling to keep his emotions in check. His vodka glass cracked in response, and Ven Tristan kept happily babbling.
"Don't you worry, though. Don't. I won't fail. I'm lucky. I'm Ven Tristan, and I always survive! Thanks, Grigori! Let's go drinking sometime after all this is done!" the Navigator said as he exited, walking through the double doors with a skip in his step.
The sound of Grigori's heartbeat was heavy in his own ears. The surname of the pilot of the eagle was left off of most visas that came in with a Writ of Confidentiality. All he had known was her first name.
"Erika Romanov..." he whispered. Romanov. He gasped, and with shaking fingers, he pulled one of the drawers of his desk open, and retrieved the file they had on the captain of the gold eagle. Quickly flipping through it, he discovered that there was actually no surname officially associated with her. It was never properly recorded because of the damn Writ! He paged through her file, and something else caught his eye. There was a page of rumors that had been overheard in recent months concerning the appearance of a gold eagle, and with some of those rumors, people claimed to see a God-Empress. Along with the Romanov last name, Grigori could not believe what he was reading. And he had just sent Ven Tristan away with a dart of lethal poison!
He exhaled, and shook his head, trying to calm down. He attempted to rationalize letting Ven Tristan kill her, but his unique moral and spiritual code would not allow him this. Even reminding himself that she was probably not of royal blood would not allow this!
Many years ago, when he lived with Tsar Nicholas, he made a very binding oath to the Romanov family. After one of his many visions, Grigori swore to himself that he would always protect and honor that name. This revelation of a Romanov surname along with the fact that people were calling this Erika woman an "Empress" made it too serious for him to ignore. Even if she wasn't of royal blood, the coincidence was simply too much, and deep down, he now knew that he could not let her be killed!
Grigori telekinetically hurled his cracked vodka glass against the wall, and gripped the sides of his head. Still, he did not order Ven Tristan back to his office. He tried again to rationalize that it was alright to murder this woman.
But, if he permitted the murder of this Romanov, he would be going back on his oath to God to protect those with that name. Perhaps this was why he had been placed here in the first place? Perhaps this is why he had been transplanted by God to this insane universe?
Nearly deciding to call Ven Tristan back to his study, he paused. Calming himself, the displaced monk instantly made a new plan. Perhaps he would be the one who would actually save this woman from assassination? The poison he had given Ven Tristan would initially only have paralytic effects before it eventually killed its victim in agony, so even if she got stuck, Grigori could easily administer an antidote in time. Surely, she would be happy with the person who saved her life? Maybe this would enable him to get closer to her, and to gain her trust? From there, he could figure out what to do. Being close to Romanov women had always been the right thing to do for him.
Yes, this works, he thought, pouring himself another cup of vodka as the servitor returned to clean up this new mess of broken glass. I will save her, and gain her confidence. Perhaps murder wasn't the correct way to gain control of the miraculous divine god-making eagle? Maybe for her, having an advisor like him would be valuable? He reminded himself that people were now openly joking that Grigori was the one who actually ran Tar Vigaz and the Conglomeration of Ev, considering his relationship to Langwidere.
"Oh, the strange places life takes you," Grigori spoke in Russian as he began to look forward to another advisory position under a Romanov Empress. And, like before, he would also like to enjoy a few other positions under a Romanov Empress, Grigori thought as he smiled lecherously.
Yes, and the Emperor had his Malcador advisor, after all, he thought, glancing over to the costume that hung in the closet. Even if Malcador somehow didn't have a beard, Grigori Rasputin would never shave his, and people would know this about him thousands of years in the future if the displaced infamous monk played this right.
Elsewhere:
The weather was perfect and sunny as the king and his loyal steward Kaliko traveled down from orbit in their shuttle. Their Harvest Ship, the Grandiloquent Abundance, had been left orbiting above Drazak, and they were now on their way to the Fallen Lord's palace, which was within a ruined city of ash, bone, and gore somewhere below under a ominous cloud cover streaked with lightning. However, to the Nome King, his eyes saw a beautiful sunny day above a verdant paradise of perfectly welcoming forests, lakes, rivers, and mountains. Ah, Roquat loved visiting his brother! He had such a beautiful planet!
It was an excellent day for flying, the Nome King thought as he merrily hummed a mad little tune. Roquat leaned happily against a blank wall that he thought was a window, watching the clouds of the upper atmosphere pass by their shuttle as Kaliko explained some boring things that he didn't care about to his personal guard. He didn't want his mood to be hurt any longer. It had already been a day of terrible news, as one of the Nome King's personal vaults had suffered a raid, and thousands of light years away!
But, the clouds outside were awfully nice to watch, he conceded, and his rage was immediately diffused. Puffy and pretty and like dancing white dragons in the sky! The Nome King was glad that he still owned his soul at this point, because to most of his people, they couldn't appreciate beauty like this!
Rolling grey storm clouds of smog pushed through the nighttime atmosphere, and they descended to the depths of the Bone Kingdom.
With a bump, they had landed, and the Nome King genially thanked the mindless pilot for such a lovely flight through this beautiful afternoon. His personal guard ready, the five Nomes prepared themselves for their visit with Valgûl.
The hatch of the shuttle opened, and before them, a blasted scene of crumbled devastation lay before them. Smog and mist billowed across the broken grey landscape, and curious red eyes hungry for flesh peered at the small group as they walked along the broken road.
"We do not have the same compulsions toward hunger as my brother and his eccentric subjects, and since our flesh is not organic, we have nothing to fear. It is also a myth that they are cannibals, you see. A silly myth that other jealous Overlords started because they are not nice! Come! Excuse the eccentricities of Valgûl's people! They are harmless," Roquat announced to the small group, who couldn't feel proper fear anyway, seeing that they were all undead metal skeleton robots.
The Nome King walked confidently ahead, and on each side, a red robed lychguard flanked him for security. Kaliko followed directly behind the king, and two more lychguards in crimson robes followed. The road was a broken, and poorly maintained masonry pathway that led to Valgûl's palace. "I do declare that my brother needs to have this road fixed," Roquat observed critically. "But, it is still a lovely day anyway. I do not want to be upset any more. And look! Valgûl's people, they've come to greet us!"
Roquat stopped on the road as a tall stooped Necron of monstrous appearance loped over to them. The shredded remains of a human guardsman lay cloaked around its shoulders like a ghoulish cape, and blood caked around its skeletal form. It made a sniffing noise as it approached Roquat, and began to clack its scythe-clawed hands in interest at this new group.
"How do you do, young lady?" Roquat bowed politely to the bent monstrosity that gnashed its sharp jaws and stamped its clawed feet before them. It made a guttural sound that resembled some kind of tortured engine reminiscent of a hungry growl.
"Hungry," it then groaned with a voice of a thousand knives being sharpened at once. "Endless... hunger..."
"Why yes, it is a lovely day! And, might I say, you're looking quite ravishing in that sundress! My compliments to your dressmaker, and your husband is a lucky man!" Roquat said to the confused creature, which still had enough self-awareness to understand that the Nome King hadn't responded as expected. It even turned to Kaliko, its red eyes filled with confusion at what it had heard the king say. Kaliko could only shrug at the Flayed One, who turned away.
"Need... meat..." the hunched bloody monster said before wandering off somewhere else, and vanishing into the night.
"Lovely lady. Voice like music. Don't you agree?" the Nome King asked Kaliko. "Too bad that she's married. This king has long yearned for a queen by his side."
"Yes, sire," Kaliko responded wearily as they walked.
Many red eyes continued to investigate the newcomers in the smoggy veil of night as they walked down the promenade toward the palace. Hissing and mad hungry chattering could be heard all around the group. Many voices were disappointed, as they on some level could recognize their cousins, the maddened Nomes. Something that even resembled an irritated groan of "Not them again" wafted through the air, briefly causing the Nome King to become angry. Kaliko simply told Roquat that it was the wind, and then, the king forgot all about the insult.
Finally, the small group came to a wall with a broad metal door which yawned open at its central point, and the five entered.
"Valgûl, dearest sweet brother of mine! It has been a very long time since I've seen you!" Roquat called out into the completely black space of the throne room. "Your land and your people are as beautiful as ever. A glorious day it is to see you once again!"
The darkness before them was then lit by the orb at the end of the Nome King's staff, which glowed with a pale green fire, illuminating the interior throne room of Valgûl, the Flayer Lord. Slumped and motionless on a throne of sharply splintered bones and bloodied skins, and surrounded by the stripped and bloodied skeletons of various fleshy organic beings, Valgûl did not move.
"Bashful today, are we, my brother?" Roquat quipped, and began to walk forward, the metal steps of his entourage echoing in the wide empty space.
Two sets of bright red eyes emerged from either side of the Fallen Lord, and the clawed, gibbering forms of Valgûl's lychguard stepped forward. In response, Roquat's own guard then stepped forward, displaying their warscythes in a defensive manner, ready to defend their maddened monarch.
The Fallen Lord's guards both stopped, and then, stood at attention on either side of his throne. Their glowing eyes watched the Nome King's people.
"Rooo... quaaat...," a croaking voice of hollow weariness then sounded from somewhere in the area of the throne. A single gleaming ruby eye then ignited within the slouching figure, which jerkily straightened to life. "Why... why are you here, Roquat?"
"To see my favorite brother, of course!" the Nome King answered with good cheer. "You do not answer my communications. Are you feeling well, Valgûl? I fear for your mental health."
Valgûl stared balefully down from his charnel throne before slowly standing up. He appeared to stretch. The Fallen Lord had a somewhat peculiar habit of inhabiting differently shaped bodies from time to time, and currently, he was about as tall as Roquat, willowy and bone thin. Presently, Valgûl, like his brother, wore a jagged crown upon his head, and his fingers were long and bladed, each resembling sharpened scimitars. As he was immune to the Flayer curse, the Fallen Lord was not unkempt, nor did he have a spot of blood or viscera on his person. Overall, with the exception of his long claws and his single red eye, Valgûl resembled a typical crowned Necron Overlord of high status.
"You are still mad, aren't you, my brother?" the Fallen Lord spoke, his voice impassive and gloomy.
"Mad? Why would I be upset?" Roquat questioned. He then immediately remembered that he had been robbed very recently, and his emotions turned dramatically. "Yes, they robbed me. Someone has broken into one of my caches!"
"You came all this way from Nome to tell me that someone robbed you?" Valgûl replied dubiously as he reached to the side of his throne, and retrieved what appeared to be a long bladed pike. The Fallen Lord then slowly began to walk toward the Nome King.
Roquat stood dumbly for a moment, still roiling with fury at sensing the desecration of his precious emeralds. He even mimicked the motion of deeply inhaling his nonexistent lungs, and clenched his metal jaws, absolutely impotently furious.
"Brother Roquat?" Valgûl asked him as he walked closer.
And, as quick as the emotion of rage had grasped him, the Nome King then relaxed. "Oh, yes," he said, coming back to himself. "I've come to see how you are doing, and to request your aid on an epic, righteous quest."
"A quest?" the Fallen Lord questioned as he now stood between his two lychguards, who twitched and gnashed their jaws.
"Do you remember hated Gir'Auda, the gold devil that chased the skies and brutalized our people? The creation of the Old Ones sent to destroy us?"
"Surely, I do. But, that era has long past, brother," Valgûl replied. "I now spend my time here with my subjects. We only go on 'quests' for more meat, which is what my people hunger for." The Fallen Lord gestured toward one of his lychguards, who trembled and gnashed like a restrained wild beast.
"Yes, but now, Gir'Auda has been awoken to its full strength. Others have also seen it. I made a human friend recently, and was able to perceive that he recognized it! They are dreaming of it, you see! The humans! Gir'Auda flies again!"
"Surely this is your idea of a joke," the Fallen Lord did not sound impressed, and his hollow rasping voice was deadpan.
"No joke. Not at all! Gir'Auda cracked my Tomb World, dear brother! Nome has been destroyed!" Roquat began to speak desperately. "It has a pilot again, a human woman. And she has caused a great insult to me by thieving from me, and breaking my world!"
"Brother..." Valgûl began, obviously not believing his mad brother.
"My apologies for speaking out of turn, but the Nome King speaks the truth, Fallen Lord," Kaliko decided to speak up, and bowed deeply. "The Equerry of the Old Ones has a new female human pilot, and she has stolen both energy cells and priceless valuables from the Nome King on top of the insult of destroying our Tomb World."
Valgûl paused, and made a brief noise of surprise as he fixed his glowing red eye on the group. "Truly?"
"Yes! And she stole my belt too! Or, an alien under her employ stole my belt! Look!" The Nome King then pointed toward his bare midsection.
"You... you lost your belt?" the Fallen Lord was now actually surprised. "Your belt, if I recall, housed a shard of The Sleeper, and you somehow managed to lose a C'tan shard, brother?"
"I still have the remaining one!" Roquat added quickly as he willed his staff to brighten. "The second piece remains in this staff, and with it, I can sense the location of the belt!"
"I can't believe you lost a damned C'tan shard," Valgûl moaned, placing a long bladed hand on his face in a gesture of frustration. "And now, you want my help to go on a quest to attack Gir'Auda. Shouldn't you be concentrating on getting your belt back than chasing relics from ages past?"
"Gir'Auda really is awake, brother! And, the alien who stole my magic belt flies within it. What I desire is for you to stop being so depressed on this planet and come with me to conquer Gir'Auda and retrieve my belt! I worry for your soul, dearest brother! You are always so morose here!"
The Fallen Lord removed his hand from his face, and paused. It appeared that Valgûl would say something, but then he shifted his weight, and thought better of it. "So, you know where it is?"
"Yes! Precisely now! The alien just recently used the belt's power to unlock one of my treasure caches! I know where he is! Come with me! We need to be respected again by the other Necrons, and shattering Gir'Auda will certainly make the others notice our might! Aren't you tired of everyone avoiding you?"
The Fallen Lord again did not answer immediately, and appeared to be deep in thought. "Thinking practically, it has been some time since our last Time of Bounty," he wondered aloud. "We were about due anyway."
Roquat didn't really know what that meant, and if Valgûl had told him what a "Time of Bounty" was at some point, he had probably forgotten, but the Nome King nodded frantically, agreeing with his brother.
"Fine, I'll do it," Valgûl said wearily. Roquat was so happy that he leapt with joy. "This is assuming the place we're going is somewhere where there is abundant living meat, good skin, and tender flesh."
That sounded a little unusual to Roquat, but the Nome King understood that he himself was perceived as somewhat eccentric due to his vibrant soul, and sometimes, the things he spoke could seem odd to those around him. He loved his brother, no matter how weird he was. Family was family! And now, he was overjoyed that he'd be going on another great quest with him! "Oh yes! Lots of living flesh, meat, bones, blood, all the deliciousness you could ever eat!"
One of the lychguards standing next to Valgûl seemed to actually be drooling, as a thin red fluid dripped from his mouth while his sharp jaw chattered in excitement. The Fallen Lord turned to the Nome King, and said, "You will guide us to this place, and my people will feast. I will help you if I can in whatever you're doing, my mad brother. Gir'Auda or not."
"Oh, I'm not mad anymore! I'm excited! And yes, just follow us on the Grandiloquent Abundance and I will guide you to where we need to be!"
"Very well," Valgûl said calmly, almost seeming bored with all of this. The Fallen Lord then walked back up to his sharp jagged throne of bones and torn skins. Sitting down, he gripped one of the armrests, and an inner red light began to shine within. "Are you sure you want to do this, Roquat? I must follow through on calling a Time of Bounty. The action cannot be undone. My people do not like being teased in their voracious hunger."
The Nome King happily clapped his metal hands, and said, "Yes! Of course!"
Kaliko glanced over at his king almost sadly, knowing that this campaign would likely be tragic for multiple parties. Roquat shot his chief steward a nasty look, and said, "Are you mocking my choice, Kaliko?"
"No sire. I was simply watching your glorious form, oh wise one."
"Of course. Good, good!"
"Let all who hunt and feast upon Drazak know that a great Time of Bounty has been called. We will be preparing for departure as soon as capable," Valgûl's voice echoed and boomed across the throne room, and a moment later, joyous caterwauling could be heard from all directions, both near and far. It was a roar of a sound, like a coming wall of water, or even a cloud of predatory insects. Countless Flayed Ones were cheering in maddened glee across the entire planet.
The Nome King himself was also screaming in joy, caught up in the rapture of the all encompassing noise that now surrounded them.
"Gir'Auda, we are coming for you! Alien thieves, I will have my revenge!" Roquat screamed like an animal in the throne room before descending into maddened laughter.