Warriors of the Shrine of Echoing Silence gathered in a line.
For the first time I stood amongst them.
In my left hand I held a sheathed blade. By now its weight and texture felt familiar under my fingers. Single-edged, slender and slightly curved. Wraithbone hilt studded with tiny focusing gems, allowing for better grip and powering shimmering field energies allowing it to cut through thickest armors.
A trusty weapon, wielded by countless warriors before me. In time I will leave the Path, but it will remain here, to guide future generations.
On the ground, just to my right, laid an armor. Sang to existence by a bonesinger of old, it too saw countless battles before, albeit was worn far less frequently than most gear used by this Shrine.
The reason was simple: not many male Asuryani pursued the Aspect of Khaine I've chosen.
Opposite of us, Rhiodhna, already in her full battle regalia, took a moment to look at each and every one of us before striking the ground with the butt of her power glaive, giving her assent.
"The peace is broken, harmony crumbles in scream, only war remains," from the far left, the oldest warrior intoned.
"Now we clothe ourselves, with bloody Khaine's own raiment, as warriors," the rest of us shouted in response.
In unison we sat down, gently laying our blades on the ground. In pairs we repeated well rehearsed moves, helping each other fit into psychoplastic armor. Soon, the carapace encased me, save for my head. I felt the power it bestowed, the honor it represented.
I was filled with anticipation. I wore the armor before, but solely for training. This time would be different.
The Exarch stepped to me, a dagger in her hand, waiting for me to take it. Being the youngest warrior, finally allowed to join the Shrine for real combat for the first time, I was to be the first to perform rites.
I took the knife and cut my hand, the wraithbone glove deliberately shifting, letting it draw blood.
"Clad in Khaine's fury, we prepare for battle, Crone's blood boiling," I said, as my life fluid dripped into a bowl held by the Exarch, mixing with herbal paste inside it.
"In the spirit of Khaine, their might conjoined, guiding our wraith," I continued, the Exarch drawing a rune on my forehead.
My awareness gained a dreamy quality and slowly slipped away as the War Mask took its hold.
The next thing I remembered was removing my armor in the Shrine, all muscles sore, my soul at peace I had not felt for greatpasses.
Cycles passed, and the Shrine of Echoing Silence was called to take arms a few more times. The rituals followed, the deeds done on the battlefield only a barely perceptible echo in my mind.
Some warriors left the temple, their Path complete.
Others were no longer present when we took the masks off; fallen in combat. We prayed for their spirits, still held in Khaine's grip. Unlike the Exarchs their stones would return to the Craftworld's Infinity Circuit. Alike them, they would continue to fight; the first to be roused as Wraithguard, their Path unfulfilled. Spiritseers claim that in death, Khaine's embrace weakens, and one day they would attain peace and move on. I wish them so.
Cycles passed and yet more warriors joined the Shrine of Echoing Silence.
Rhiodhna finished drawing the rune on the forehead of the Aeldari sitting on my right. She was the youngest now.
The Khaine's priest moved to me next and I drew my blood again. It filled the bowl, yet the Exarch stood still, waiting. She wasn't going to draw the rune for me anymore. I understood what was expected and followed the motions on my own.
"War comes upon us, another dance of fates, another burden to bear," the chant continued.
Freed from the mask once again, my tranquility was disturbed by pain. My left hand throbbed dully, wraithbone armor sealed tight below my elbow, arm missing.
The longcycles that followed I spent with the healers, guiding my body to mend itself. Amongst those helping me was my mother. Talanne, unlike some of them, didn't foolishly try to interfere with my Path, convince me to drop it. There were healers who found it hard to accept that Asuryani felt drawn to Khaine's Path, but my mother, having been an Aspect Warrior herself before, understood the need profoundly, despite the obvious fear for the well-being of her son gripping her heart. She hid her concerns well, but it was hard to fool a thought-talker when guiding his healing trance.
Wounds and risk of death. They were the tribute to the Bloody-Handed, the price to be paid for following in his footsteps. For trying to master his gift, tame the beast he left inside every Asuryani.
For Khaine was a ruthless deity. Vengeful and jealous, yet - in his own ways - protective. Like other deities, he granted Aeldari his gift. The gift that was meant to prevent losing what other gods had given them.
'Others fought before so that I could flourish. It's only fair for me to do the same.'
The thought was of sound logic, and yet it couldn't stop my anger from resurfacing again.
'I will do better. I'll become a better warrior. I won't be disgraced with such wounds again.'
And Khaine's flames burned brighter within.
"I've learned what I wished to learn; the desire for fight ceased, peace attained," one of the warriors said when we removed the masks. "Thank you, my Exarch, for your teachings."
"You wielded your blade steadily, graced Khaine with your deeds. You deem this Path finished, but has it finished with you? Leave your arments and go to the Craftworld. The Shrine is open, should you ever wish to return."
Darina has been talking about leaving the shrine for cycles now. Each of us embraced the sister-in-arms-no-more, wishing her well on her future Paths, having freed herself from Khaine's allure.
She joined the Shrine only a quarter-pass before me, and felt ready to leave it already. A part of me wished to follow her footsteps; finish the training, move on to explore other avenues of life. But I knew that even being at peace now, if I were to eschew the Warrior's Path, the anger that called me to this Shrine would have returned soon.
So far, it always had.
I wasn't ready yet.
The warriors before me finished their rites and it was my turn now. I raised the blade to my hand, but it was stopped by a gesture of the Exarch.
"You etched the rune deep within your soul, it is your part now. Will you still use the crutch, or face your legacy with courage befitting the Aeldari?"
The question was directed to me as well as other banshees who were yet to don their masks. One of them, Cailyth, reached for the bowl and the blade, cut her hand and followed the rites as normal.
The rest of us sat unmoving.
Rhiodhna nodded.
"We march before Khaine, conviction unyielding, freed from hesitation," she proclaimed, and we joined.
The words I never learned came easily to me; I heard them many times, I spoke them when the rune was already drawn on my forehead, when my mask was already worn.
"We harbinger death, pave road for Khaine, swift and feared."
Each line spoken caused me to feel as if slipping into a dream.
"We break the spirit, as elusive as the banshee, with a silent scream."
The dream I dreamed many times before, which so far had always eluded my memory.
"The ears are deaf when anger howls, for Khaine's gift guides."
The dream which wasn't a dream at all, for it was the first time when I truly woke up and remembered it.
When the chants finished, I was enveloped with a feeling of eeriness, of hovering between two worlds. The closest thing that I could compare to it was the first time I meditated, training my abilities as a thought-talker.
All my senses felt strained to their limits and ready to snap, heartbeats painfully slow, the world outside dull and sluggish. Only my mind seemed to remain unaffected.
"The first time is always strange," Elain, one of the oldest banshees, said. Her movements were measured, at a glance lacking the deliberate aggression common to most warriors, movement as graceful as any aeldari. Yet the posture was a farce; each of her stances derived from katas, the warrior ready to strike at any moment.
"Look at your past life, on the Path that brought you here."
As I recounted my memories, I immediately noticed that all my previous Paths, all struggles and achievements felt dim, almost irrelevant. Discussions about history, the pursuit to use that knowledge and turn it into art, all my research in botany and herbalism… It was so important back then. Now? They were just an afterthought, barely worth acknowledging by the warrior I was currently.
"You created the War Mask for yourself, it is a part of you now. It is time to decide how you will wear it," Rhiodhna said. "Be the warrior you were meant to become."
"Some never accept this feeling, the sensations and truths it offers," Elain pointed at Cailyth. "After experiencing it once, they never wish for it again."
"War calls," she growled angrily while donning her helmet. "To bring more thoughts is a distraction from the Aspect we embrace. You talk when you should prepare."
The war. I caught glimpses of our past encounters. Even as incomplete as they were, they had certain clarity, substance my other memories currently lacked. A thrill when we fell onto Orkish Waaagh. The artistry of a battle plan created by an Autarch that prevented a complete awakening of a Tomb World. A dreadful and bloody skirmish against Adeptus Astartes, where losing my arm was a price for clumsiness. A purge of a young spacefaring race that was only guilty of the sins committed in the visions of our seers.
I could dwell on those memories, submerse myself in remembrances of deeds Khaine achieved though my own hands. But beyond them, I saw another glimmer; a thread calling for my attention, a link to another life; faces of family and friends, a promise of wonders waiting to be explored outside of combat…
'Pitiful needs,' a part of me claimed. 'Ambitions of weaklings. Lies that bring temporary comfort.'
I knew it was the leyline that would keep me from staying in the mask's embrace. Like it helped me many times before, reverting me back to my true self.
'Did it? Still, you keep returning. Deep inside, you know that you are incomplete without me, ' a part of me that was a warrior continued with confidence. 'War is the reality, the eternal cycle that shapes the history and destiny of the galaxy. Only in battle can you see the true nature of yourself and your enemy. Embrace it; sharpen your senses, your skills, your spirit! We deluded ourselves with peace and what it brought us? It made Aeldari soft and complacent, it fathered perversions.'
Before, my consciousness has been always separated by the War Mask, hidden from the me-warrior. Now, it was allowed to bleed through in some capacity, leading the warrior to seek out the confrontation.
Was I an enemy to be subjugated? An ally to fight side by side? After all, it was his Path that I walked now. He jealousy strived for control over it.
I closed my eyes, shutting down my strained senses with each heartbeat, a rote well known from my time as a dreamer and a thought-talker. Soon I opened my eyes within my mindscape, to the sight of a lone warrior standing in front of me.
Clad in a banshee armor, his face was frozen in a countenance of a vicious beast. With an animalistic shriek he threw himself at ethereal foes, each slash adding even more gore to his already blood-stained garments.
+I am not you.+
As soon as my thought registered, the mindscape shuddered, and I felt an almost physical pain as a part of my psyche that sustained the War Mask recoiled in agony.
It was a lie. Rhiodhna was right; both the War Mask and the Warrior were a part of me. It was futile to try denying it.
+I am you.+
The enemies disappeared, and the warrior turned towards me with a hint of curiosity. He nodded, his - no, not his, but my - blood-stained face almost serene. His - my! - eyes traced my every movement as I approached myself, so familiar and foreign, with a barely perceptible glint of madness and rage burning deep within.
+But I am also greater than you.+
The warrior thrashed and struggled as I forced my thoughts onto him. Images of peaceful repose before violent acts offered by the shrine as I donned my armor clashed against his ingrained hatred, myths of Khaine in his aspect of a leader and a strategist against those presenting him only as a murderer.
The struggle was both timeless and instantaneous. The grime-coated warrior changed his posture, assuming a more noble bearing, his garments regaining the pristine quality of the armor I was wearing right now. Only his left hand still dipped blood, a reminder that Khaine was still present within.
"Then guide me, master," the figure said, taking a step forward to enter inside me. "For now, at least."
I opened my eyes to the sight of nine warriors standing around me.
"Finally," Cailyth snapped.
To her side, Elain only nodded with a hint of approval, pointing towards my still waiting helmet.
If Rhiodhna minded the delay, she didn't deign on addressing it. The Exarch simply waited for me to finish fastening the last piece of armor before leading us to the inner part of the shrine. From here, we took a transport through arteries hidden deep within bowels of the Il'sariadh, dedicated for warriors so they could reach their destination without bothering regular Asuryani.
Soon, we disembarked on one of the plazas within the craftworld's docks. There were already numerous eldar gathered there. The middle of the platform has been claimed by disciplined ranks of blue armored warriors with crested helmets. Two exarchs stood in front of their squads, proudly displaying symbols of their shrines.
The Dire Avengers remained in stark contrast to a far more numerous, colorful and divergent group of Aeldari. Most of them wore an assortment of exotic armours and weapons, adorned with various trophies. They must have viewed themselves as children of Kurnous, hunters in the void. The corsairs associated with House Praie.
"Traitors to Khaine, lots of them," Cailyth hissed at the sight.
As a warrior I immediately understood the source of her disdain. Most of this group must have followed the Path of the Warrior at one point in their lives. Yet, instead of leaving the Path behind or pursuing it forever, they have chosen to bend its teachings, turn them to profit. Some even went as far as to continue using weapons similar to those they once wielded. One such group stood to the side, as if in mockery of real Dark Reapers.
Me-warrior was mildly disgusted, even if I-myself could understand that they were solely utilizing their pasts to contribute to their future growth.
Behind the motley assortment of the corsairs I noticed another group of Aspect Warriors. They were crouched at the side, heavily armored, their mandiblaster helmets barely moving as their gazes followed the eldar as if watching the prey. The true hunters, Striking Scorpions.
"Brothers! Sisters! Il'sariadhians!" a voice reverberated throughout the plaza. "We stand here today at the brink of a perilous journey. For arcs brave Wraithknights have been providing our craftworld with spirit stones, so that our future generations could grow save from the touch of She Who Thirsts. However, as heroic as their quest is, we can't rely solely on the Wraithknights to secure the bright future for Il'sariadh. When the time is right, we have to take matters into our own hands. And thanks to baron Varael Praie, that time is now!"
At the far end of the plaza stood two eldar. The speaker, a female warlock holding her helm under her armpit, revealing a face marked with intricate tattoos and long hair braided with jewels and feathers. She stood next to the corsair prince, who regarded her with a mix of wariness and admiration. He wore a sleek suit of armor that was adorned with trophies and trinkets from his raids, and a long cloak.
"Praie! Praie! Praie!"
Cheers of Asuryani corsairs were silenced with a single gesture of the baron, in a remarkable act of discipline.
"Your enthusiasm is welcome, but please let warlock Lirelle Il'sari continue with her speech."
"The baron, in his wisdom, shared with the Seer Council an offer presented by his allies," there was a notable twitch on Varael's face at the word used by the warlock. "He even magnanimously offered his vessel should the expedition be approved. How could the Seer Council even consider refusing the guidance to the crone worlds by the Masque of Shattered Aurora, when it was presented by such a steadfast supporter?"
It was at this moment that the corsair crowd was joined by figures wearing real motley. They clapped and cheered, doing their best to mock the behavior displayed by corsairs a while ago, only increasing its intensity so that it was more similar to the crude behavior often exhibited by intoxicated mon-keigh of Imperium. At the far end of the plaza, the warlock and baron were joined by another man, a Troupe Master, who overenthusiastically bowed, waved and thanked Varael for the opportunity given to him, his antics only growing more enticed by the pale-faced corsair and smirking warlock.
"It sounds so simple, little banshee, doesn't it?" One of the masked performers whispered to me. "Just go, pick spirit stones and return. Nothing could go wrong, right? But more importantly, have you asked yourself a question: why would we be even interested in leading you for a journey so mundane?"
He was one of the many, wearing a similar brightly colored patterned jacket and trousers, adorned with countless bells, ribbons, feathers and jewels. His voice and stance were one of mockery, but beneath the facade I felt something familiar. Struggling to reach for memories still hidden on the other side of the War Mask and assisted by my diminished senses of a thought-talker, I finally managed to connect the performer with an eldar that I used to know.
"Rhios, is it you?"
"The story of the poet that you used to know has come to an end when he left Il'sariadh. Rhios is no more. But through his mysterious disappearance, another actor entered the scene. Rhiel, at your service."
"Stop bothering my warriors, clown-follower," Rhiodhna said. "Go, play with the corsairs if you must."
"My apologies for inconvenience, Honored Exarch," Rhiel gave an exaggerated bow, "but the performance upon which your Seer Council agreed requires me to continue playing the proud role of the bother. Unless, contrary to what Cirith, our Troupe Master, predicted, you'd rather improvise on the stage?"
"We'll follow orders of warlock Lirelle Il'sari to retrieve the spirit stones, as is the will of the Seer Council," Rhiodhna said evenly. "Whether her plan would be, we'll follow it. Is there really a need for you to add anything else?"
"That's the gist of the play, its most important plot, at least from the perspective of your craftworld. Unfortunately for you, the cast to play magpies has already been chosen. I will be honest; gathering shinies isn't something you can hope to compete with the corsairs. But do not despair, proud warriors, we have arranged another role that will fit you perfectly! In a spectacle our Masque wanted to play for a while, a quest we wished to undertake. Something that will make our journey to Belial truly worthwhile! Cirith will explain the details of your role, but I'm sure that you will find a way to contribute to our performance… one way or another."