From my vantage point aboard the voidship, I watched the spectacle unfolding below. The vessel we had captured was now set free, drifting - with far more grace than it had when manned by its previous owners - towards the planet - or perhaps a moon - that loomed below.
On its descent through the atmosphere, the metal husk blossomed like a celestial phoenix from the oldest myths, the vessel's shattering remnants cascading through the sky akin to iridescent petals scattered by the wind.
It was said that in times long past, when the Aeldari still thrived upon verdant worlds, children would gather in awe to make wishes upon falling stars. A tradition still carried on amongst the Exodites.
I could not help but wonder if the primitive civilization living down below gazed skyward with similar wonder, observing this cosmic spectacle.
Benefits of innocence.
Soon, our voidship turned, the mariners' anticipation thrumming through the vessel's veins. The time has come to set the course back towards Il'sariadh.
As I departed the observation deck heading back to my quarters, the crew gave me a wide berth. On one hand, it was a quiet acknowledgment of my passage onto the new Path. The solace I was meant to use to convene myself anew, for my further journey.
On the other, I was aware of their whispers, the way they recoiled as though I were a specter from the past. One could always trust the mariners to be a superstitious bunch. Some must have overheard my conversation with Lirelle, in which she admitted that at one point during our last engagement, the threads leading to my death had seemed inevitable. The rumor and anxiety spread through the crew like a warpfire in a hive city, and her eventual reassurances - that currently my threads unfolded akin to any other eldar - did little to quell their worries. It had been enough to brand me an ill omen, someone to be removed from the vessel at the nearest port.
Other warriors began to treat me differently too, albeit for different reasons. No longer was I merely their peer, one of the comrades in arms. They now regarded me as someone akin to an Exarch. Revered, pitied, even envied. A handful of warriors began asking me for guidance, leading me to further question my place in the hierarchy of Khaine's followers.
Certinately, the fact that the Exarchs deemed it prudent to invite me for training spars wasn't helping my predicament. And whereas I said 'invited', given how eager the Howling Banshee Exarch was to wreck me with her mirrorswords, I was certain that she would have attacked me outside of the training halls if I refused. It seemed that despite the ritual blessing, she sought to prove to me that I still had a long way until she deemed me worthy of the blade I had been given.
On a more positive note, I was at least able to fend for myself during my sessions with the Dire Avenger Exarch, mostly due to the mobility afforded to me by the use of the jump generator. Or maybe he was just going easy on me, like Fintan.
And if there was an Exarch who believed that a show of an overwhelming force was the best teacher, it would be the Striking Scorpion. I almost pitied his warriors, for they received the same treatment as I did.
The cycles of the journey slowly merged one into another, the familiar routine settling over me, and before I knew it, we reached the craftworld.
Upon disembarking from the vessel, we immediately headed towards the entrance into one of the intra-craftworld arteries. However, as we marched through the routes dedicated to those who heeded Khaine's call, I felt a subtle tug from the Infinity Circuit, urging me to veer from our intended path. At the next junction, I bid farewell to my Shrine-brothers-no-more, stepping onto a tract unfamiliar, yet beaconing to me.
In hindsight, it was obvious. I was no longer a Warp Spider of the Skeinwalkers Shrine. Therefore, I shouldn't head to their Shrine to conclude my War Trance.
With a newfound curiosity igniting within me, I throdded into the depths of Il'sariadh, guided by Those-who-walked-before, their voices echoing along with my steps.
At last, I arrived at my destination. It was a colossal dome, sprawling with endless wraithbone spires, just one among the countless cities encased within Il'sariadh. However, there was also something setting it apart from the other places I've been to.
It took me a moment to discern the sensation; to realize it was the emotion resonating throughout this area. While the craftworld usually embraced a serene tranquility, this dome pulsated with a tangible tension, a barely restrained anger simmering just beneath its calm surface.
And its source were the eldar gathered here.
For an uneducated xeno, the city might have appeared as a regular gathering of eldar, each of them engaged in their own pursuits. A more knowledgeable observer would have spotted in the crowd numerous corsairs, outcasts, maybe an odd warlock or two. An average Asuryani would have been surprised - and concerned - by the numerous passers-by sporting weapons openly, along with the silent acceptance for such behavior from the rest of the crowd.
But for someone who had at least a brief recollection of the Khaine's Path, or the one who honed his empathetic senses, the truth was evident.
The Bloody Handed was still casting a deep shadow on the majority of the populace gathered here, with even the most innocuous artisans moving with a deathly grace of predators coiled to strike.
This was a haven for those constantly lured by Khaine's haunting song, yet unwilling to fully embrace the gift he had granted them.
Allowing the Infinity Circuit to guide me further, I strode openly through the bustling streets. Unlike in other areas of the craftworld, where I would have faced scorn for revealing my presence, here I was met not only with an acceptance, but even an occasional nod of acknowledgment and unspoken solidarity, greetings exchanged between two warriors who returned from yet another of the countless skirmishes we were forced to engage in every cycle.
At long last, I reached the outskirts of Mei'lehte - as the city was called - and found a shrine to which I have been led to.
+Come.+
Its wraithbone walls reflected light of bioluminescent flora which creeped across their surface, weaving reliefs depicting scenes from battles long forgotten. Though well-maintained, the building breathed nostalgia, holding tightly to stories etched into its very foundations, as if waiting patiently for someone willing to listen.
+You've found the right place.+
I stepped inside, shafts of muted light illuminating my path forward, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of color upon the polished floor. In a tranquil hush blanketing the space, echoes of my footsteps reverberated, the sounds themselves causing shadows to dance longingly.
+It could be yours.+
Finally, at the threshold to the shrine's inner sanctum, an eldar devoted to the Path of Service deigned to approach me, a faint glow of hope shimmering through his eyes.
"There is no one to claim this Shrine as their own. We tend to it, until its true owner returns. Are you the one?"
"What do you mean?"
"Some of those who have perished on the Path you thread, wished not to return to the Infinity Circuit. Others couldn't. They all rest here instead, waiting for another like them, to commune and fight once again. Are you the one?"
In that instant I realized with a startle that a part of me that was a thought-talker tirelessly repeated mantras I had learned long ago, those used to sever tethers connecting one's mind to others.
It was only then I became aware of the beckoning coming from the inner sanctum; the sanctum I had already unwittingly entered. The chamber hummed with life of its own, its central podium glimmering with lights of memories. Here, the boundaries between life and death blurred, for the glittering stones encased within were the spirit stones, each of them eager to offer its legacy.
+The knowledge you seek is within your grasp.+
+Don't let it waste away; it shall be passed to others.+
+The purpose you lack, you could discover.+
+What is fragmented can be whole again.+
+What Khaine has forgotten may yet be restored.+
+Join us.+
+Embrace us.+
+Let us fight once more.+
Visions unfurled before my mind's eye, threads of fates yet unborn, on the precipice of becoming.
A warrior gathering disciples. Neither a Banshee nor a Warp Spider, not anymore. A journey, craftworld after craftworld. A Path unfolding; the one for others to follow. A thousand deaths, a thousand rebirths. Each bringing knowledge, each creating new myths. A throne in a Shrine Beyond, finally occupied, amongst those who wage their wars timelessly.
I listened to their promises, and took a step forward. And then another one, the icy grip of temptation surging through my veins. My body felt heavy as I defied the beckoning podium, heading not towards it, but the area meant for apprentices.
Perhaps I had opposed everything I had learned on Khaine's Paths. Perhaps I heeded the warnings imparted by the Exarchs who had guided me thus far.
What was promised here was not the fate I sought for myself.
Having performed the rites to remove my War Mask, having freed myself from the influence of the Exarch-in-Making, I looked around the sanctum once more.
The chamber was lined with niches displaying weapons and armors of patterns both familiar and strange. Each of them a testimony to the preferences of the warrior who had used them, often heavily modified from the standard designs used by Aspect Shrines. Some had the Banshee helmets elegantly integrated into traditional Warp Spider regalia, others sprouting exarch-like spinners from the backside of a Banshee's armor. There were even forms that housed jump generators so diminutive that I could hardly recognize them for what they were.
This sight reminded me about the weapon and armor that was mine now, still in a dire need for adjustment. I might have been tempted to rest, however even without the embrace of the War Mask, I just couldn't have afforded to have my equipment in a less than pristine condition.
I reached out to the Infinity Circuit, seeking to arrange a meeting with a bonesinger that could fulfill the task.
After a moment's contemplation, I also requested someone to bring my belongings to Mei'lehte. I was not barred from leaving the area - as long as my armaments remained with the Shrine - but there was little reason not to move here. On my way here I have already caught a sight of the spire to my liking, and a mountainous range overlooking the city might be a pleasant change of scenery from the icy expanse of the ocean of my old home.
To my astonishment, there were quite a few artisans willing to acquiesce to my needs, each of them eager to demonstrate their skills. Ultimately, it was I that was forced to decide whom I would entrust with the task of adjusting my armaments.
In five cycles, once again clad in my battle regalia, I stepped into a bonesinger's workshop, where an older Asuryani greeted me. He appeared to be in his twelfth arc, though like with most of those of my kind who nurtured their psychic talents, it probably meant he was at least twice the age. His mere footsteps caused the wraithbone inside the building to react, reaching towards him like a child longing for parent's attention.
"Iriath? Once called the Harmonic Nexus, one seeking to meld the Path of the Howling Banshee and Warp Spider?" he greeted me formally.
"Tarvandru Urean, who had once been known as Praie," I replied likewise. "Shaper of Khaine's Relics, Lost Amongst Wailing Echoes of War?"
I sensed Tarvandru reaching into the Infinity Circuit for confirmation, before guiding me deeper into his domain.
"The ancestors deemed your achievements worthy of my time, so we may begin immediately."
I bowed my head respectfully.
With the omnipresent Infinity Circuit, usage of something as crude as currency was nigh obsolete. Those-who-walked-before judged our merits and needs, interfering rarely, lest someone aimed to get more than he contributed to. Unless one tended to leave the craftworld often, or was exploring a Path of Merchant, he might have even had a problem recognizing the concept of exchange for what it really was. An artist sought expression and recognition; a baker found joy in preparing meals appreciated by others. By satiating their own needs, they also fulfilled those of different Asuryani, a delicate dance only made possible by the ancestors' guidance.
"And I'm glad for it," the bonesinger continued, letting a few notes of eager impatience resurface in his voice. "It has been a long time since I've had the privilege of working with your kind."
"My kind?" I questioned, "I've been told you are one of the foremost experts when it comes to Menshad Korii."
"It's rare for one to meld as you have. More often, it is a Striking Scorpion who learns ways of a Warp Spider. Yes, the Autarchs might merge the two paths as you did, however their needs differ. Now tell me, what do you seek?"
With a gesture he brought my attention to the veritable gallery of his works. A breathtaking display of weapons and armors in varying states of completion adorned the walls and workbenches. Elegant blades, deathly pistols, and countless fragments of raw wraithbone awaiting the song of creation to shape them into something new.
As I explained my needs, Tarvandru began to sing. His voice resonated through the workshop, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves of ancient trees. Sluggishly, at first, the wraithbone responded, shrinking and reshaping itself along with the quickening cadence of his notes.
The top of my helmet sprouted a Mane of the Crone Goddess once again, its base reforming itself to house psychosonic amplifiers. The bulk typically defining a Warp Spider's armor melted away, leaving behind something far more elusive and sleek, the jump generator remodeling itself before my eyes. While this change would limit the maximum distance I could cross through the Warp in one go, and force me into a longer period of cooldown if I decided to push for it, I was prepared to pay the price. Both the instincts ingrained during the training as a Howling Banshee and my previous skirmishes, have shown me that I favored agility above all. Even during my tenure as a Warp Spider, my armor remained on the lighter end of the spectrum used by the Shrine.
As the bonesinger sang, I moved to his tune, the patterns of wraithbone forming the armor's joints and reinforcements writhing and changing, shifting ceaselessly to better accommodate for my range of movement.
I let his song guide my steps, time slipping away unnoticed, both of us completely engrossed by the ongoing collaboration. I knew not how many cycles passed before the artisan paused.
Tarvandru took a step back to evaluate his work. However, the desire to create was still brimming within his eyes, the bonesinger not yet done.
"For a finishing touch, I would usually recommend mounting a death spinner to the back of your armor."
I saw the appeal, reminiscing both the carnage Fintan could have unleashed with his twin spinners, and the old armors I've seen in the Shrine, many sporting the aforementioned modification.
A part of me that was a Warp Spider desired it, whereas another wasn't as convinced. It felt more suited for one relying on pure strength in close combat, for one more accustomed to fighting in heavy armor in melee. A weapon fit for the likes of a Striking Scorpion much better than a Howling Banshee.
Still torn, I looked around the workshop. If I was to chart my own way down this Path, I'd prefer something less cumbersome, but still appealing to the sensibilities of a Warp Spider.
"Could you mount me this instead?"
"Curious choice... and almost sacrilegious." Tarvandru raised an eyebrow. "You asked me the wrong question, young warrior. Could I? Without a doubt. But would I? Some will take offense at your request when— not if— they discover it. For they will discover it for sure. Others will consider it a great jest. A challenge cast, and they would burden you with another in return. So I will ask you instead, young warrior, is this your final decision?"
Despite the bonesinger's warning, now that I set my eyes on the weapon, I was unwilling to let it go. In principle it was similar enough to a spinner, giving me confidence in the ability to operate it properly. While wielding it would mean I would be basically forgoing any capacity for a ranged combat, I'd gain even more prowess in melee. An enticing bargain.
Tarvandru smiled knowingly, feeling my resolve.
"Your mind is set, then. Truth be told, it would be my pleasure to shape something I never had an opportunity before. For it is not the pieces, but the end result that matters," he took the contraption and motioned for my forearm, measuring dimensions. "I will sing and shape it much like the powerblades mounted by the Exarchs of your previous Path, and it would function alike. Merged with your armor, the need for manual control could be eliminated altogether, the weapon connected with its psychic circuits. Not only would your hand be freed, it would also allow it to retract along the forearm when unneeded."
So I wouldn't need to forgo a sidearm, after all. Even if proficiency with pistols was never my forte when I pursued the Path of the Howling Banshee, having such an option would be appreciated.
"Unless you make its other features obvious, it would pass for a normal, albeit short, powerblade. And, if I were you, I'd never have coined this weapon with a more ostentatious term than a Sting."
I left Tarvandru's workshop wondering if the choices made by my Khaine-addled mind won't come back to bite me. Or rather when they'd bite, if the artisan was to be believed. Yet, as I glanced towards my left arm, feeling the new weapon through the armor's circuit, I knew I would make the same choice again if given the chance. Moreover, it was already too late for a change of mind - the bonesinger wouldn't have even entertained a notion to remove it anyway.
With my helmet tucked beneath my arm, I aimlessly wandered bustling promenades of the Mei'lehte, unable to quell my restlessness and unsure what to do next.
I longed to meet with Searlieth, unwind my doubts about the continuous grip of Khaine's song over my soul. Surely with her by my side to share in my thoughts, the haunting allure of the Bloody Handed would have weakened. But she was far away, on yet another trading venture Cegorach knows where with House Eldren. If I hadn't known about her recently renewed interest in xenology, I would have been afraid that my dream-partner became lost on the Path of Merchant.
Perhaps I should embark with them on another journey? No one would discount the benefits of having an experienced warrior amongst the caravan, not with countless threats looming in the galaxy.
An interesting prospect, but for another time.
Whereas I could reach for my other friends, I was hesitant to meet any of them. Neither I wished to burden my father right now, for he barely moved on from the Path of Mourning. I needed to resolve my own problems first, not impose them on others.
The temptation that I first felt in the new Shrine, it hadn't diminished since, constantly gnawing at my mind whenever I wanted to conclude the war trances. I knew it was incessant for those who walked in Khaine's shadow, but since I began my new Path, the feeling became more intimate, more pressing.
The Infinity Circuit wanted me to seek advice from a counselor, but the very thought seemed excessive; all I needed was a moment to breathe and collect my disordered thoughts. Probably the time I had during the journey back to Il'sariadh was so far simply too short to convene myself for this new Path.
Maybe I should rectify this by appeasing the interests I picked on my prior Paths? Watch a few newer plays? Or maybe enjoy a treatise about some newly encountered xenos? Even if humanity tried to outdo orks when it comes to spreading throughout the galaxy like a vermin, there were so many different, interesting species. My mind wandered back to the race we left with the remnants of the spaceship…T'au? They might be an interesting research prospect.
My musings were interrupted by the approach of something my senses registered as a metaphorical cloud of anger - one in a different shade and scope from the typical leashed fury kept by the warriors under the War Mask.
"One can't go back on the terms and promises that were made, you said," my gaze moved towards the eldar who was its source. There was something familiar about her.
"Not so talkative anymore?" the agitated ranger was completely engrossed in a heated - albeit one-sided - argument. With her own rifle, of all things. "You should have kept your mouth shut earlier. To think they just refused to pluck you back into the Infinity Circuit! Have you really done nothing that made you hate them?"
The gun seemed to vibrate with frustration as she spoke, one of the gems encased within pulsating dangerously.
"I don't care! I will simply return you to another craftworld's! Surely other seers would know better than to listen to some half delirious wraith. No! I have it enough to take care of my own spirit stone, thank you!"
The ranger pressed forward, completely uncaring for the crowd surrounding her. Finally a recognition dawned on me, just before the woman came to a sudden halt, almost crashing into me.
"What is wrong with you?" she shouted in bewilderment as I helped her regain footing.
"With me?" I replied, genuinely surprised.
"I always take those alleyways because there's no one to accidentally trip into. Literally everyone evades you instinctively. So yes, an armed warrior not even trying to? There must be something wrong with you."
She scrutinized me further, tilting her head with curiosity, "Or maybe I know you?"
"Fia. Long time not to see."
"Ah! Iriath, now I remember. Carralos. Quite nasty stuff happened," she folded her arms, the earlier agitation fading, replaced by playful reproach, "and despite that, you actually stood me up in that bar afterwards!"
"Not on purpose, really. A seer came with an urgent matter, forcing me to change my plans."
"It always comes back to seers, doesn't it?" she sighed.
"A curious weapon you have, to not use a harsher word," I pointed out. "Also seer's fault?"
"It's a long story," Fia answered, a smirk blossoming on her face. "One better spoken over drink - which you still owe me! And in all honesty, you look like you'd really need one far more than I do. There's a reputable tavern not far from here; let's go!"
The tavern stood in stark contrast to the refined elegance of Il'sariadh, a thrashy bar resonating with boisterous laughter and shouts echoing through the dimly lit room. The wraithbone forming its walls and tables became rough-hewn from arcs of neglect and abuse, but still fared better than abundant xeno furniture decorating the place. Rowdy corsairs of unknown affiliations engaged in raucous games of chance, their heated arguments mingling with clink of glasses, creating a cacophony that felt alive, filling the place with a raw energy never seen in more refined establishments. In a far corner of the hall sat a solitary figure, brooding over a drink while methodically polishing a blade. The warrior presence was unsettling yet captivating all the same, more fit amongst the Incubi of Commorragh than abroad the craftworld.
"This is what you call reputable?" I quipped, raising an eyebrow as I took in the scene.
"Of course, it has a well-earned reputation," Fia replied playfully. "And the drinks are fine."
I took a sip of my beverage and nodded in agreement. Before long, we were ordering next rounds, adding our own notes to the rhythm filling the tavern, recounting the adventures we had since our last meeting.
"These days you sure tread more interesting Paths than most of our kin," the ranger remarked.
"Maybe a little too interesting," I admitted. "Recently, I began to doubt how much of me is left beneath them…"
"Don't we all sometimes do?"
I shot her an unconvinced stare.
"I wasn't always an outcast, you know. Actually, it was one of the reasons I decided to leave the craftworld and become one. I was afraid that by trying to fit into the mold, like a 'proper Asuryani' should, I would lose that thing which makes me myself."
"And have you ever regretted the choices you've made? Wished to return back, for real?"
"More times than I could count," Fia laughed, her mirth dancing in her eyes. "Sometimes I tell myself this will be my last adventure, that afterwards I will settle on the craftworld, at least for an arc or two. But then I am here, and I remember all the wondrous things I saw. Terrifying too, but life is too short to remain confined to the craftworld out of fear, not when there is so much yet to see."
Her words struck a chord in my soul, resonating with the longing that had driven me from the Path of Playwright, igniting my desire to explore the universe. The very yearning which later pushed me down towards Khaine's Path, and made me step on it again and again, almost forgetting about my own dreams. Similarly to Fia, it led me to finding things both horrific and miraculous, though they were always laden by an undercurrent of violence.
I must have allowed some of my musings to bleed outwards, for the ranger's eyes suddenly sparked with mischief.
"I know, you need some vacation! We could visit some Exodite Worlds, race on troodons. And trust me, after flying on a pterosaur you'd never want to step on a jetbike again."
A tempting thought indeed—if Khaine's song twisted my dreams, maybe it was time to wrestle for their control myself?
"Unless, of course, you are afraid?" she added.
"Only about the planet we step onto together exploding again."
"Carralos was a one-time fluke!" she retorted, hand waving, dismissal bolstered by liquor coursing her veins.
"What about your hunt for a marshal of Black Templars? I was there too. And when this whole mess ended, Isynelean fared not much better."
We exchanged solemn glances, ultimately raising our glasses in silent toast to the fallen eldar who had perished during that calamity.
Fia sagged, her earlier enthusiasm dimmed, "Maybe you're right, and our presence is cursed to lay waste to every world we step upon together?"
"If that's the case, I should make sure to remove you from Il'sariadh with all haste," I chuckled lightheartedly. "When are we departing?"
Meanwhile, far above, in one of the tallest spires of the craftworld, a certain farseer was meticulously observing strands of fate unfurling before him. Suddenly, a smile graced his lips, for the tapestry of destinies took a shape closer to the one he had hoped to see. However, down in the tavern filled with laughter, we remained blissfully oblivious to it.