I took off my eyes from the crystal reader and reclined in my armchair with a sigh. I've been trying to decipher this manuscript for a longcycle, with nothing to show for it so far.
An inconspicuously dressed man used the moment to refill my cup with fikaf. I gestured my thanks and took the drink. During my first passes as a scholar such pampering grated on me, but as I became more drawn towards my research, I learned to appreciate the diligent work done by Asuryani of Path of Service.
I sipped the fikaf, ruminating over the quarter of arc I spent as a linguist. The Path was fruitful. Maybe its fruits won't be as tangible for others as the masterpieces I created as a composer - unless they would search for translations of a handful of obscure texts that I added to the Il'sariadhian repository of knowledge - but the study served to broaden my horizons tremendously.
While I began the Path to sate my curiosity concerning the old Aeldari language, it goes without saying that a true linguist seeks to master multiple tongues. The undeniable sense of achievement associated with learning yet another xenos' dialect became my constant companion.
However, it wasn't the only thing pushing me forward in my studies; it was also a feeling of wonder, sometimes even a degree of understanding towards the alien, a certain familiarity and deep rooted knowledge of their culture that could be grasped solely through knowing their language, and would be lost by relaying on translators or dry historical records.
Even the part of me that was a warrior urged me along this Path; after all there were numerous advantages to knowing your foe. And in this war torn universe, it was more a question of 'when it happens' than 'if'...
Naturally, the sense of connection with xenos was the most palpable in psychically active tongues.
Like when I became more familiar with treaties of now extinct Egarians (because I refused to call their corrupted descendants to be of the same species); when I began understanding their unique way of perceiving the universe I finally comprehended why some of our ancestors considered building a civilization side by side with them.
Of course, certain xenos crossed the line between 'unique' and simply 'too alien'; the abominable Fra'al a prime example of it.
Ah, deciphering their markings was truly challenging. After all, one had to protect his mind from the influence of their records to not go insane; the quasi-gestalt consciousness of their Satraps was simply irreversibly incompatible with the psyche of other species. I still remember the headaches caused by the echoes of their dreadful psychic 'song' whenever I worked on their texts; I pity the eldar unlucky enough to witness it in person. Even the curiosity of the linguist wasn't sufficient to make me watch a dream-crystal containing it…
I shuddered at the thought.
And to think that some eldar willingly subjected themselves to the torture, believing that it could be reverse engineered to better protect us against the denizens of the Immaterium. True, the Fra'al were able to use their 'song' for this, but like most scholars, I supposed the moment any non-Fra'al could listen to it, it would have stopped being effective against warpspawn too.
When I was done with studying Fra'alian, I turned my attention to more mundane tongues. It was a fairly regular occurrence amongst linguists; there was even a running bet that someone dives into another psychic language right after studying Fra'alian; nobody had in recent arcs.
The highlight of that period was studying languages of the Imperium of Man. Even before becoming a linguist I had a decent grasp over some of their tongues collectively belonging to the family known as Low Gothic, however it was learning High Gothic that proved to be interesting. A dialect more refined - if such a term could be used to describe anything those xenos created - which, in contrast to its bastardized variants, was also known to resist linguistic drift, remaining the same over the millenia. Even with only a small percentage of humans being fluent in it, given their sheer numbers and isolation between various pockets of their worlds, it was a highly irregular occurrence. Statistically impossible for a psychically inert language - and we had no reasons to believe it was anything but.
Needless to say it was a fertile subject for academic discussions. Especially, when some scholars argued that the whole point is moot, as there was a drift within High Gothic. They pointed at Heliosi, which opened a whole other can of worms - and roused xenologists to join the debates.
I smiled at the thought; whenever Heliosi were brought, when there were two Asuryani scholars, there were three theories. Even classifying them as a separate race instead of subhuman species was only a recent development, and still the subject to much controversy.
What were they? Their blatant use of variant Low Gothic for outward communications, similar appearance and technology, as well as reports of them being tolerated by the ridiculously xenophobic Imperium was enough to convince many that they were merely nomadic abhumans.
Yet, most of our traders believed that to be ruse. Their ships were better maintained than most Imperial vessels, and their behavior didn't match that of Imperium affiliated-humans. While their mercantilism painted even the most greedy Rogue Traders as altruistic in comparison, they were much less prone to irrationality and xenophobia than most Imperials. However, the fact that Heliosi's own, internal tongue bore multiple similarities with High Gothic, was only birthing more questions.
Many thrill-seekers; corsairs, pathfinders and xenologists alike, made it their life goal to investigate the Heliosi. While the xenos used various names for themselves - Gnostari, Kreg or Demiurg being the most well-known - their fleets were most often encountered in proximity to the Galactic Core - the everbright region of the galaxy - which led to our moniker for them. Asuryani explorers deemed this area as the most probable location of their homeworlds - if they actually had any.
As far as I knew the research was still inconclusive; even at the height of the Dominion, the Galactic Core wasn't well explored, and nowadays its scarce Webway passages were notoriously spotty and hard to travel. Our expeditions often had to resolve to utilizing Voidseers or even Void Dreamers for navigation, and the Immaterium wasn't the only threat for them; this swath of space was known for numerous strange anomalies claiming countless reckless explorers.
My fikaf finished, I turned back to the crystal reader. The distraction fulfilled its purpose, allowing me to return to the current problem with a clear mind.
Necrontyr and Necrons; they were the focus of my ongoing research. Like many Asuryani I was curious about our eternal rivals, and when I began my current Path I knew that at some point I would try to study their glyphs.
Our oldest records of their language were well researched; it was a precise, concise tongue, devoid of elaborate lexis. An adequate tool for a fleeting race. However, that tongue had died, even before Yngir irreversibly claimed them. The influence they exerted on Necrontyr caused their language to shift overtime, incorporating more and more mathematical patterns within, their glyphs becoming more akin to seeds for fractals from which multitude of information could be deduced. Provided one knew how to decipher them. Which meant that when trying to read their language you could end with something interesting, arcane gibberish, or cycles long enumeration of titles held by a phaeron. Or all above at the same time, as some seeds could be deciphered by multiple algorithms.
I sighed; we, Asuryani, were patient, but soulless eternity given to Necrons by Yngir made them utterly insane. I chose not to think what it spoke about me, given that I was eagerly jumping at the challenge of trying to understand them.
I managed to decipher another dozen of glyphs, before suddenly recoiling.
Il'sariadh shook, once, and then again. Those-Who-Walked-Before stirred within the Infinity Circuit, angry and restless.
The impacts continued, now more as a sensation of psyche, as the Infinity Circuit relayed the unthinkable; something managed to attack the craftworld itself. I caught glimpses of primitive greenskins joyfully rampaging across halls and domes, spreading destruction and death without care.
Already, deep within the bowels of the worldship a thumping grew in response, fueled by pained echoes of Aeldari dying without understanding. The Avatar was rousing to defend our home.
My heart quickened as his call resonated within me and I knew what had to be done.
A mental call through the Circuit was all it took to assure me that my armor and blade still awaited me in the Shrine of Echoing Silence.
From my vantage point, I watched destruction wrought below. We've been engaged in combat for many hours, but now it was all but over, the craftworld almost cleansed from the greenskins.
Even with the War Mask, the events of this cycle left a sour taste in my mouth. To think all this was caused by a freak accident, a thread of fate so thin that no farseer managed to predict it. A space hulk full of orks, drifting through the Immaterium for Cegorach knows how long, only to randomly drop to the realspace on a collision course with Il'sariadh, so close that our escorts were unable to intercept and stop it from crashing onto the worldship. While the attack claimed lives of numerous Asuryani caught by it unaware, our response was swift and decisive.
Il'sariadhians of all Paths responded to the threat, many of them rejoining their old shrines to defend our home. We pushed the greenskins back, retrieving the spirit stones of those who fell from their hands.
But even if we had slain them all, it still wouldn't be enough. It wasn't so easy to get rid of the orkish infestation; especially the one you couldn't see nor slay with the weapon anymore.
Despite the damage it suffered, the dome was still beautiful. I knew its every nook and cranny; how could I not, after all it was the one my parents tended to for passes; the Starlight Dome.
It must have been a deliberate decision of the Autarch to order my Shrine there, to have combatants familiar with this battlefield. Most of the other squads securing this area also contained at least one Asuryani who used to create it. Even now, despite her being on the other side of the dome, I could sense the presence of my mother, once again marching amongst the Dire Avengers from her old Shrine.
I took another moment to engrave the sight of the Starlight Dome into my memory, for the one last time. Though not directly hit by the orkish crash-landing, the greenskins still managed to taint it.
Rhiodhna signaled us to leave; the spiritseers cleared the area for venting. As soon as the last Aspect Warriors left it, the wraithbone shell of the dome opened.
The Council deemed it prudent to be overcautious when dealing with orkish spores. While thanks to my prior experiences on the Path of the Botanist I knew a few ways that could eradicate them, none were without risks. Given that only a small part of the craftworld was affected by the attack, a fail-proof, if drastic, measures were taken.
I stood and watched as the lifework of my parents was sucked into the cold void of space. The Avatar's song felt hollow as I recognized plants they painstakingly tended for so long. My fury, directed at the xenos who invaded the craftworld burned within me, however it also was empty. Their death hadn't changed anything; didn't revert the destruction they had wrought upon the worldship. Two of the warriors from my Shrine, youths who donned their War Masks for the first time, perished against the greenskins, and enacting revenge on their killers didn't bring me satisfaction.
With the Khaine's work done, witnessing the end of the Starlight Dome, I had time for introspection. Since we joined the fight, I had a constant feeling of dissociation gnawing on me. Yet, my armor and blade were familiar, my body accustomed to using them, the War Mask worn in accordance to Rhiodhna's teachings. But something had changed, and it took me a while to understand that it was me.
Before, the warrior-me was primarily an outlet for aggression and hatred, born out of and domineered by anger and desire for revenge. Now, when the war called for me once again, my reasons for answering the summon were different.
I didn't return back to the library after removing my War Mask. While I still considered my journey on the Path of the Linguist to be unfinished, I put it on hold, deciding to focus on the revelation brought to me by the recent fight.
Unlike the first time, I wasn't hesitating, already convinced which Aspect to pursue, which emotions to further incorporate into my War Mask to better my understanding of myself. And while there wasn't solely one Aspect whose philosophy should be capable of fulfilling my needs, I was determined to choose the one which appealed to me also for other reasons.
My feelings on the matter must have bled through into the Infinity Circuit when I requested guidance from Those-Who-Walked-Before, as from all the shrines that had vacancies, they led me to the Skeinwalkers Shrine.
I grinned; it was an apt name, indeed.
As I entered inside the dome housing it, I could not stop myself from comparing it to the one I was familiar with. Where one could describe the Shrine of Echoing Silence as a vast plateau ridden with canyons, the Skeinwalkers Shrine was more akin to a dark, gloomy forest. There were no familiar howls of winds, only silence, interrupted by the occasional rustle of leaves or the snap of a twig. My previous Shrine had its building-proper visible from a distance; this one lacked such an obvious goal for the hopefuls to reach.
I stepped forward, acutely aware that even the scarce sounds that I heard before were all gone. Despite treading with grace and acumen borne from my Banshee training, in the silence of woods, my footsteps were akin to a thunderous storm for all to listen.
And listen they did. I could sense the presence around, of other Asuryani, and of creatures living inside it. Some were friendly, others hostile, all of them judging. I did not look at them; I wasn't there to seek confrontation, not unless they try to bar my path.
I could have been walking for hours before finally discerning a faint trail of wraithbone leading deeper into the forest. And not a moment too soon I have found it, for this deep into the woods I was able to spot barely visible flickers of monofilament webs spread between the trees.
I slowed my trek, a doubt briefly crossing my mind; would they have stopped me if I were about to accidentally walk into their traps? Was the wraithbone trail safe to walk, or just a means to lull alertness?
My thoughts were interrupted by instincts of warrior-me screaming about danger. I jumped forward.
Where I was but a heartbeat ago, an eldar stood. He was clad in a bulky black armor, covered with elaborate red and white ornamentations. His panoply was not only much heavier than Aspect Warriors usually used, but also heavily warded, not unlike armors worn by warlocks. Twin spinners mounted from his backplate trailed my movements. The figure cocked his head, lowering his arm; the powerblade mounted on it must have been aimed a hairbreadth away from where my head used to be.
"You have trodden in the shadow of one of Khaine's Aspects," he stated. "It will be both a boon and detriment to you; having learned to wear a War Mask, and managing to put it away - for a time at least. Who taught you?"
"Rhiodhna, of Echoing Silence."
"I know of her; she trains her disciples well, her warriors harbinging Khaine's wrath with their ferocity," he nodded. "Yet, you come here, and seek me, Fintan, the Exarch of Skeinwalkers Shrine, to guide you. Why is it so? Do you think of yourself as an Autarch? Or are you afraid to continue wearing your War Mask as you were, now that Khaine called for you again?"
"Anger and revenge guided my blade before. Now I wish to wield the weapon to protect."
"Good. You are at least aware of the difference in our philosophy. The Banshee Aspect is based on speed, agility and precision. Their fury is plain for all to see as they charge in the open, breaking the enemy's spirit. That you will have to unlearn, and start from scratch.
"Stealth, surprise, deception. Shadows are allies of the Warp Spiders. Like our honored friends," Fintan raised his arm, his stare, full of uncanny fondness, focused on a tiny crystalline creature walking on it, "we guard our people, unseen, striking at the enemy who'd try to harm or enslave them when they are unaware.
"We are also explorers. We neither shun nor worship the Warp, but respect it. The Skein is our tool and weapon, to be used like any other resource, with caution and wisdom. Can you do so?"
His words summoned memories. Taunts of a daemonette on the dying world. Crushing pain radiating from my spirit stone when the Sea of Souls opened before us on the broken Webway. The monstrosities we faced in harlequins' vision-dream. Maddening screams, but also utterly alien, beautiful music. Mesmerizing patterns of unlight, landscapes and vistas that cannot be found in the realspace…
Since our return from Belial IV, I felt a yearning, a call of Immaterium. Moreover, I also knew it wasn't something that budded inside me as the effect of the expedition; no, that longing was one of my constant companions, present as far as I remember, merely the one I couldn't place before.
A cycle ago, I was determined to continue ignoring it, like I did my whole life. But now, with Khaine reaching for me again, I jumped at the opportunity to answer both calls at once.
"The seers taught me about the Warp and its dangers when I studied as a thought-talker. I've been touching it again as a Banshee, using my mask to direct Skein's energies against our opponents. I returned from the Croneworlds, crossing shattered paths of the broken Webway. I do not fear it."
The exarch stood in silence, a gaze far older than his body piercing me.
"But you should," he finally said. "Follow me, there is much to learn."
I was in my apartment, aware of a guest waiting outside. It's been two longcycles since Fintan began training me, and the first time I was given leave from the Shrine. I mentally allowed the door to be opened, making myself presentable before greeting the guest.
Even before I entered the main hall, I knew it was my father who visited me, however I was taken aback by the sight of him, or more precisely by the white robe of mourners he wore.
"Iriath! May ancestors be praised!" Eraethel exclaimed as soon as he saw me. "I had to see you with my own eyes."
"What's going on father?" I asked, flooded by the undercurrent of relief momentarily rising above his sorrow.
"I was afraid that I lost both you and Talanne in the aftermath of the orkish assault."
I froze.
"What happened to her? She was well when we finished the orks; I felt it. Had we missed a pocket of xenos?"
Were we not throughout with their eradication, and the fighting continued while I was isolated during my training?
My father denied with a gesture and looked at me with a grim expression.
"It's not the orks who claimed her. You weren't the only one who secluded yourself after the fighting. But Khaine's grip on you wasn't as firm as on her. You've returned, but she refused to let go of the War Mask and took the mantle of an exarch."
I stared, hearing him but refusing to accept the words, "Why would she…"
"Throw away her life to join Khaine's priesthood?" my father interjected.
"...give up on the pursuit of other avenues of life, opportunities granted by other Paths?"
"Your mother is gone, Iriath. Her soul claimed by Khaine for eternity, forever barred from the Infinity Circuit," he said, his very posture haunted.
I remained silent, listening to my father, letting him unload emotions tormenting his soul. Eraethel's outlook on the exarchy was bleak; I took it for granted, given that he managed to never step onto the Path of Warrior in his life. I, for one, believed that exarchs retained parts of who they were before, albeit much changed, influenced by their other previous selves. Were the eldar they once were completely gone, the exarchs of the same Aspects would have behaved the same, yet they didn't.
"Have you seen Talanne after the fight? Talked with her?" I asked.
Eraethel shook his head, "She never returned. I consulted the Infinity Circuit to learn about her fate."
Which then pushed him onto the Path of Mourning. A reasonable choice, when one was dealing with grief. However, having taken this Path myself before, I could see that his way of trodding it was unhealthy. He yearned for resolution, and I was afraid he would become lost without it.
When I had become a mourner, filled with guilt over the deaths of the Asuryani whom I guided as a thought-talker, communing with their spirits helped me. This option was taken away from my father; Talanne wasn't one of the ancestors bound to live eternally within Il'sariadh's Infinity Circuit, and she would never become one. However, her soul wasn't lost to us; and I was determined to force my father to find closure this cycle.
Exarchs were barred from leaving their shrines and walking around the craftworld in times of peace. Regular Asuryani were allowed to enter the shrine solely to join its warriors. The custom, as old as Phoenix Lords themselves, was followed across all craftworlds.
However nothing forbade an Asuryani from asking an exarch for a meeting, with both parties standing at the precipice of their own worlds. On their shrine's doorstep; on the threshold between peace and war.
Not many sought this opportunity. One needed resolve to nudge the Infinity Circuit to briefly commune with Khaine-touched mind of an exarch. Then, he needed to agree, and why would a priest of Khaine concern himself with the affairs not pertaining to war?
They rarely answered. However, sometimes they did.
The gates of the dome known as Shrine of Argent Dawn opened before us, a single figure standing in the doorway.
The eldar wore an archaic armor, its wraithbone dominantly silvery rather than bluish, as was more common for the Aspect she embraced. She forwent her helmet, presenting us with a familiar face bearing an unfamiliar expression.
"You sought Dryre, the Exarch of Argent Dawn Shrine," her gaze fixed on me. "Iriath. Are you already seeking knowledge of another Aspect? My Shrine may open for you at the conclusion of your current Path if you wish so," she turned to address my father. "Or maybe it is finally your time to accept the legacy you keep denying, Ereathel?"
"Talanne? Ancestors, is this really you? What have you done to yourself?"
For a brief moment her posture changed to something definitely resembling my mother's own, but it was gone in an instant.
"I am Dryre. I am Talanne too, as I am all the Asuryani who donned this armor to become Dryre over the arcs since the Argent Dawn Shrine exists. And I have found my solace in Khaine's embrace."
"Is this how you justify this madness?" Ereathel's voice was quavering. "You had so much to offer, so much to live for. You were a sculptor, a botanist, a healer. And you have forsaken it all, choosing the war."
"Sculptors, botanists, healers," the exarch echoed, her cadence measured and detached. "Poets, scholars, merchants. Crafters, vagabonds, lamenters. I were them all. I created, tended and healed, only to see my achievements turned to dust; destroyed, killed. Why even bother? Why, when there is something that remains?" She motioned her sheathed Diresword, "This."
Her cold response broke the last vestiges of control my father had, his grief shattering the dam which tried to contain it.
"You were Iriath's mother! My soulmate, my joy! Our plans and dreams, have you forgotten them all? We were going to explore the galaxy, create new wonders. Together! We were meant to grow old, to join the ancestors in the Circuit as one. How could you throw all that away?"
The outburst elicited stronger reaction from the exarch, to the point of her actually stepping back from us.
"Because I understood. Peace is a lie, naught but transition between the conflicts. Only strength can shape the destiny of the universe, change its history. There is no other way to save us. I resent myself for reaching this conclusion and yet revel in it. If our people are to have a future there must be sacrifices, else all shall suffer. And if mine manages to stave off similar catastrophes, allows another Aeldari to live forthcoming cycles, gives them time to find different solutions, then it'll be worth it."
The gaze she sent us was definitely Talanne's own, and for a moment I could have sworn that I saw a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
"Leave now, Eraethel, and you, my son. I release you. Live and find eternity for yourselves, like I have already found my own. I can only hope yours would be a different one."
Without another glance she turned away, the wraithbone doorway slamming shut behind her, not to open again despite my father's tries.
"You are ready," Fintan said.
We were in the deepest sanctum of the Shrine. After cycles spent training in the darkness of the forest I felt very exposed standing in the middle of the circular chamber.
However, even my War Mask could not dampen my delight as I took the sight of prismatic lights dancing throughout the room. A warm glow radiating from the alabaster-white wraithbone walls was dispersed by countless crystalline arachnids, their movements creating mesmerizing spectacle from its spectral components. The Guardians of the Circuit moved openly here, covering every space, melting and recrystallizing to allow other Aspect Warriors assume their positions around me.
"I taught you stealth. I told you of currents and signs. I warned you of dangers. Trust your knowledge and your intuition. Mask your presence. Ward off attention; fight or flee it. Find the safe route. From this moment on, a whole new dimension of warfare and wonder awaits you."
The exarch finished and I took a deep breath, focusing.
Everything he taught me was leading to this moment. To the timespan of a single heartbeat; the default setting for the jump duration.
Feeling the throb of my heart ending, I activated my jump generatior for the very first time.
The chamber flickered out with the smell of ozone and I was immediately surrounded by vast slowly rotating constellations of possibilities. Tendrils of power reached towards me, denied by the tiny bubble of reality as the wardings engraved into my armor strained to hold the Immaterium at bay.
I floated in the Skein, feeling like a grinweed addicted Dreamer receiving another dose. But I was no longer a naïve sightseeker of maddening vistas, but a traveler journeying with a purpose. I expanded my senses, reached for one of the calmer psychic currents, and willed myself to move alongside it.
The energies flowing through the jump generator reversed, the device beginning to eject me back to the realspace.
It was at this moment when I sensed the presence. A predator laying in wait, deciding to pounce now.
I directed my Death Spinner against the creature. Its shape resembled canines often found on worlds inhabited by humans. However no regular canine would have managed to evade the cloud of razor-sharp wire my weapon spit against it; the shadowy beast achieved this feat. Momentarily it was upon me, its jaws trying to gnaw through my gauntlet.
The jump generator activated and with another flicker I crossed back to the Shrine's sanctum.
I was a dozen meters from my starting position - a decent distance.
Few meters above the area I was meant to emerge - somewhat acceptable, given that I landed gracefully.
I swept my arm in annoyance, shrugging the Astral Hound trying to munch through my armor off. Before I pulled the spinner's trigger again, the crystalline arachnoids swarmed the creature. With pitiful whimpers it struggled to escape them, making a few frantic jumps throughout the sanctum. It was a futile effort on its part, and soon their writhing mass devoured the beast.
"You were spotted and imprecise with your jump," Fintan said. "Start over."
I returned to the center of the chamber and prepared for another try.