Rise of the Ynnari:
Act Three: The Fracture of Biel-Tan
"It's quite fascinating what the Mon-Keigh will divulge in the face of death. Take the example of an ancient myth one of my specimens told me in the hopes of staying my scalpel. Long ago, there was a deity who had received the prophecy that he would be overturned by his own child. To avoid this fate, he devoured his own godly children, an immortal being desperate to escape the end at any cost. An amusing fable, to be sure, but what struck me the most as I began my vivisection was how it appeared to me to be a twisted mirror of our own fate. Our ancestors, in their heedless debauchery, birthed She-Who-Thirsts, whose first act was to engage in a birth-feast that devoured not only its parents, i.e., the vast majority of the Aeldari Dominion, but its fellow kin, the rest of the Pantheon.
" In a more metaphorical sense, so too was our race's sense of unity, the bonds of kinship sundered forevermore as we fractured into petty squabbles over how to change our souls and bodies to avoid sharing the fate of our ancestors and to escape the atavistic black-holes in our hearts that gave birth to the daemon-queen. Or more intriguingly, with our unity seemingly forevermore broken, what might happen should another god come along promising to reforge our species anew in exchange for our souls? I suppose what I am trying to get at is, which is more important to us, freedom or unity, and what does our decision say about us?"
- Master Haemonculus Bellathonis, formerly of the Coven of the Black Descent
Scene One: The Two Heralds
For nearly a dozen millennia, the Dark City of Commorragh has been home to the vast majority of Aeldari life. Of the scant trillions that survived the Fall and the destruction of their empire, perhaps ninety-eight percent reside in the Webway. Though their cruel activities shaped the galaxy in far subtler ways than the fate-shaping actions of their Craftworlder kin, the Drukhari nonetheless represented both the last remaining connection to the Aeldari Dominion of old as well as the single greatest hope of rebuilding their ravaged population.
Now, in the waning hours of M41, that ratio has changed drastically. New gods stir in the Warp, their influence reshaping the galaxy as they see fit, and their mortal worshippers pay the price. The destruction of the Crystal Moon of Coheria and the subsequent rise of Yvraine, Herald of Death, has resulted in catastrophe sundering the Dark City. These so-called Ynnari are obsessed with death, for they adhere to an ancient prophecy that states to undo the smothering hold the Chaos God-Goddess of Excess Slaanesh has upon their souls, every Eldar must die and be reborn in the worship of Ynnead, the Whispering God, a posthumous heir to the departed Khaine and Morai-Heg.
By unleashing the apocalyptic fires of a sun, Yvraine and her followers killed billions of the Dark City's citizens, primarily the oldest and most powerful elites, before fleeing Commorragh into the misty halls of the Webway aboard the starship Lanathrialle. Her deeds have won her many followers, including a handful of Anhrathe Corsairs that followed Yvraine before her rebirth, as well as several thousand Drukhari from every strata of Dark City society that swore fealty upon witnessing her power. Already the might of the god of death has begun to reshape this fragile new alliance, healing the soul-sucking affliction that blights their Aeldari psyches by replacing it with a new thirst for souls.
Upon the bridge of the Lanathrialle, Yvraine sat upon the captain's chair, single-handedly determining her vessel's course and by extension the Ynnari as a whole. The Opener of the Seventh Path appeared to be an island of calm amidst the busy command center, plotting their trajectory through the misty halls of the Webway with single-minded focus. Her first and foremost objective was to leave the Dark City behind, to ensure her new followers escaped from any potential pursuers coming after them in search of revenge. Thus rather than going anywhere in particular, the Lanathrialle was almost sailing at random, folding the tunnels of the Webway behind them.
Finally, after what seemed like weeks of fleeing, Yvraine judged they had escaped any possible pursuers. By this time, the Lanathrialle was far from the ship it had once been, reborn alongside its crew. The psycho-plastics that made up its hull had been changed, altered by the very presence of the Ynnari. Its bulkheads had shifted from white to a pale green, exhibiting a new resilience, while its armaments now glowed amethyst with newfound power. In its holds, singer-engineers had transfigured into being a new host: the mighty Graveguard, automaton warriors whose nadirite and wraithbone shells had been infused with the spirits of the slain to make them far more potent than the original wraithblades they had been created from. This was an action born of necessity, allowing them to fight beyond death once more in service to a faction positively miniscule on the galactic stage.
Indeed, the singers could not call up new warriors quick enough, for as the Lanathrialle drifted serenely through the Webway, it would soon need to face the worst, for it was not alone. The labyrinthine dimension was not what it used to be: entire arteries had been submerged in the Warp, soaked in raw madness that constantly sought to subsume the entire realm. Other tunnels led back on themselves or were splintered from causality, endless loops of both space and time. Still more led to dead ends, dropping unlucky travelers into the freezing void of space or the heart of a blazing sun.
Guided by the whispers of their new god, the Lanathrialle was spared such a grisly fate. However, darker powers also watched over the fledgling Ynnari. Called by the miniature suns that were Aeldari souls, the minions of She-Who-Thirsts were attracted like sharks to blood. Malign wills pressed upon the Webway, immaterial pressure weighing down particular tunnels at the very moment the Ynnari's vessel passed through it. Miniscule holes began to give, through which the tides of madness poured like an invisible tide splashing down upon the starship. The birth of Slaanesh had sundered many parts of the Webway as She-Who-Thirsts sought to deluge it alongside realspace, leaving many tunnels and sub-realms lost forever while weakening the walls of others enough to permit further intrusions.
The first sign of the impending manifestation were the walls of the Webway, stark crystal giving way to wet and glistening slabs that looked like flayed skin. Mocking laughter and enchanting melodies rang out as faces emerged from the walls. Were this an Imperial ship, the first sign of this influx of madness would have been mutation upon the hapless mortal crew, followed by daemons bursting forth from dozens of unguarded minds. Aeldari souls were made of sterner stuff, taught since birth to protect themselves from the dangerous whispers of the Warp, and so intrusions of that magnitude were comparatively rarer. However, faced with such dark intent, the Lanathrialle itself had no such protection, for Aeldari ships are not designed to enter the Warp.
Thus before the horrified eyes of her crew, a veritable tide of daemons poured through a hundred breaches in reality. Perfumed clouds of every color imaginable gave way to hideous yet alluring daemonettes that pirouetted and pliéd out of the haze to behead their victims. A macabre display erupted as scores of Slaaneshi daemons fought sword to claw with the Ynnari. Protected though their souls may be, the boons of Ynnead did nothing to shield their mortal bodies from being butchered by the soul-hungry fiends which sought to devour them. Every move was a new step in a demented dance, the creatures of the Warp frolicking about and through the halls of the starship at random as they searched for fresh meat, for ever-more partner-victims to toy with.
Upon the bridge, Yvraine found herself face to face with the leader of this daemonic warband: the Masque. The Herald of Slaanesh wasted no time in beginning a duel with the Herald of Ynnead, its dancing-curse spellbinding as it compelled its foes to ape her too-fluid steps. No words were exchanged, for none could compare to the elegance of their bladed pavane. Only Yvraine's succubi training enabled her to keep pace with her daemonic foe, though even her skill struggled to land any telling blows upon the daemonette, whose fine raiment remained immaculate. As always, the Masque was dressed in ancient Aeldari finery, the sort reserved for royalty, and such was her glamor that other Eldar stared dumbly at her, their hexed bodies dancing right along until they were beheaded.
However, for all the strength possessed by the Masque, it meant little on its own. Already the fickle tides of the Warp had begun to recede, just as suddenly as they came. As soon as the breaches occurred, the natural defenses of the Webway kicked in, seeking to repair the damage. Thus with a sudden and unsatisfying finality, the daemonic energy that sustained the daemonettes was gone. As the rest of her warband faded from existence like a bad dream, the Masque found herself alone, still matching blows with Yvraine. Feeling her own essence pulled away as well, she let out a horrendous scream, the force of which stunned her opponent and ended the bewitching allure that had forced her prey to dance along. Sanity resumed as the breaches snapped close, and Yvraine found herself alone, surprised to find that the path of their duel had brought her many decks away from the bridge.
As she returned to the command center, the Herald of Ynnead passed many of her followers along the way. It is difficult to say which had more effect, her encouraging words or her aura of calm self-assuredness, but the Ynnari soon brought the Lanathrialle back into working order once again with the aid of the ship itself. The hull of the vessel had been infused with nadirite, the grave-sand reacting to the psychic commands of its crew even more readily than wraithbone did to the voice of singers. Their ship functional once more, Yvraine resumed her position upon the bridge, interfacing with the consoles. All that was left to do now was decide on a destination, for it was clear that the Webway was no safe haven. Yvraine turned her head, able to hear clearly what were the faintest of whispers to all others, and thus discerned what her next step would need to be. The message of the death god needed to be spread, and for that, the Ynnari would need to find new followers. Luckily, Yvraine knew just the place.
Scene Two: The Rebirth of Ancient Days
The stately queen of Craftworlds, Biel-Tan was perhaps the greatest of the world-ships. Where other Craftworlds housed refugees or political dissidents, Biel-Tan was a warship first and foremost, its people composed of those who had rejected the decadence of the Aeldari Dominion. For millennia even before the Fall, Biel-Tan had policed the galaxy, ruthlessly crushing every threat as a form of pest control, including countless Mon-keigh warfleets of the Terran Federation and their robotic Men of Iron legions. Its citizens lived the Path of the Warrior first and foremost, many spending their whole lives consumed in the heat of battle.
In the tumult of the Fall, Biel-Tan was forced to re-evaluate its position. No longer part of a galaxy-spanning Dominion and at the risk of losing their souls upon death to the eternal damnation found in the maw of She-Who-Thirsts, its leaders knew it would have to transform. To reclaim their lost empire took on an almost-religious dint for the Aeldari of this Craftworld, and as a sign of this new fervor, their warship was renamed to 'Biel-Tan', an Aeldari term which roughly translates to 'The Rebirth of Ancient Days'.
Its population swollen by the influx of refugees, the armies of Craftworld Biel-Tan began to set up a new dominion. Dozens of Maiden Worlds, those colonies of Exodites who had left the heart of Aeldari space long before, eagerly swore their allegiance in exchange for protection, a new bedrock for what many hoped would be a civilization reborn. So too did other world-ships bend the knee and pledge their support, respecting them as the epitome of martial honor. Perhaps the greatest of these allies was Craftworld Iyanden, whose claim to glory included their status as the inventors of the legendary Infinity Circuits and the discoverers of the Spirit Stones.
Together, these two Craftworlds would form the bedrock of an alliance which sought nothing less than to vanquish the forces of Chaos attempting to eradicate every vestige of their lost civilization. For thousands of years, Biel-Tan and Iyanden purged the galaxy, their people as brothers sworn to rebuild their empire. Their mastery of the Webway ensured that even outnumbered, the warhosts of the Eldar would be able to outmaneuver and vanquish any foe. Biel-Tan was the master of the Western Marches, while in the Eastern Fringe, Iyanden held sway.
Yet it was this very arrangement that spelled their doom. Countless light-years apart, the philosophy of the two Craftworlds began to diverge. While Biel-Tan focused on the restoration of the Dominion by reclaiming old worlds now lost, Iyanden sought a new state of affairs entirely, one that could only be accomplished with the destruction of Chaos. Thus both distracted, neither was prepared for the arrival of an entirely new threat: the Tyranid Swarms. Though eventually defeated, the extragalactic armies of the Great Devourer killed over ninety percent of Iyanden's population, reducing what was the most populated of all the Craftworlds to the edge of extinction.
However, their losses would only continue. Unwilling to tolerate weakness, the aggressive Council of Autarchs who ruled Biel-Tan had come to consider themselves the very best of their race, and would not abandon their long-laid plans and strategies of reconquest to travel across the galaxy to aid their kin. This was not the first time narrowness of vision had hurt their alliance, for in ages past, Iyanden had neglected calls for aid in pursuit of its own aims, though the resulting costs then had been far lower. Thus in their hour of need, the Eldar of Craftworld Iyanden found themselves abandoned.
In the seven years since, this once-warm alliance has grown cold as both Iyanden and Biel-Tan assume the other to be uncommitted to their partnership. Proud as ever, the Rebirth of Ancient Days has refused to make the first step to mend this vital alliance. Instead, Biel-Tan continues its relentless purges to reclaim every Maiden World as they peregrinate across the vast reaches of space, marching from victory to victory with a glory now unrivaled among the rest of their race. Its leaders are fully convinced of their superiority over the rest of the galaxy, the self-proclaimed leaders of a new Aeldari Dominion in the making.
It is to such a realm that Yvraine decided to take her people. The mighty armies of Biel-Tan would surely be a great boon to the Ynnari cause, and if it could be converted, many others would be sure to follow. To arrive there was no trouble at all, for the massive Craftworld housed multiple Webway gates situated around its flanks like gems through which entire fleets of reinforcements could pour through if needed. The arrival of the Lanathrialle was expected, for news of the events of Commorragh had traveled fast even without the prescience of its Seer Council.
As Yvraine's vessel exited the Webway, her sensors quickly located where they were in the galaxy using the stars around them. The Craftworld currently sat deep within what the Mon-Keigh called Ultima Segmentum, at the end of a long trail of Exodite worlds that they traveled endlessly. Both guardian and conqueror, Biel-Tan was no fleeing refugee but rather a mighty lord, whose armies patrolled its kingdom in search of foes to vanquish. The will of Yvraine had bent the Webway to bring her vessel to the realm she had once called home, and soon the Lanathrialle was docked near one of the many wraithbone spars. However, rather than extending an umbilical to connect the two ships, Yvraine's vessel was prevented from joining at gunpoint.
Upon her bridge, the Herald of Ynnead found herself accosted by a haughty autarch and his bodyguards, all of whom had teleported unprompted onto her ship. It was far too dangerous, he explained, to allow the Ynnari's vessel to touch the hallowed halls of the Craftworld. Only necessity, as well as a generous portion of patience akin to that of the dead, kept Yvraine and her crew from escalating the situation. They knew full well how they were seen: messengers of a strange new faith whose very ship had been altered and transformed alongside their bodies. By calling upon her skills leftover from her time walking the Path of the Diplomat, Yvraine defused the autarch's hostility, agreeing to come with him to the Council of the Autarchs to account for her actions.
From amongst her crew, Yvraine chose a select few Eldar to accompany her. Hailing from both Corsairs and Drukhari alike, the Herald intended to show the people of Biel-Tan that a new future was possible. Together, they followed the autarch to the council chambers, though they were soon disappointed, for their method of transportation was an enclosed shuttlecraft. Clearly the Council had no intention of allowing others to see them, or risk any chance of corrupting their home by walking upon it. The rest of the Ynnari were left upon the Lanathrialle, keeping themselves busy by repairing the damage inflicted to their vessel by the brief daemonic incursion.
Yet even as the Herald of Ynnead drew close to her destination, those same daemons which had nearly destroyed her vessels were themselves plotting. After being cast back into the Warp, the daemonic herald known as the Masque and her promenade of excess found itself adrift in the domain of the Dark Gods known as the Chaos Wastes. They were in a peculiar sort of limbo: they had not failed per se, at least not completely, but their inability to achieve victory had placed them on the cusp of exile. Only a most sublime victory would bring this host of Slaanesh back into the favor of the Dark Prince, a revenge complete and total over the forces of the Ynnari.
However, to achieve such a goal was currently beyond the Masque. Her own forces were sorely weakened, and she could not expect reinforcements from her own choir. Nor were the Plague Hosts or the Courts of Change likely to be of any use, for both Tzeentch and Nurgle were occupied with schemes of their own. The forces of the Blood God on the other hand, boorish though they were, were just the sort of disposable tools that the Masque could use. Even better, the Chaos Wastes were home to one such warband that could be turned to the benefit of Slaanesh: the Axes of Skarbrand.
Skarbrand the Exile
Long ago, the Bloodthirster known as Skarbrand was the greatest of Khorne's generals, his mightiest servant who destroyed the Palace of Slaanesh and slew the plague wyrm known as the Poxviathan. Yet it was this might that proved to be his undoing. The wiles of Tzeentch stoked the daemon's hubris and rage to a boiling point, and in its blind fury, Skarbrand dared to strike Khorne himself. This blow, which would have been capable of sundering an entire planet, opened up but a minute gouge in the Blood God's brass armor.
In return for this betrayal, Khorne seized his wayward minion, throttling out every emotion except the desire for slaughter, before hurling him out of his domains to crash into the formless wastes between the realms of the gods, ruining his once-magnificent wings in the process. Since then, Skarbrand has roamed the Wastes, aimlessly slaughtering all that cross its path, subconsciously hoping for a redemption that will never come from its merciless creator. Such single-minded devotion has attracted a bloodbound warband, who call themselves the Axes of Skarbrand. They follow the bloodthirster like hyenas would a lion, eager to share in the ruin he wreaks all the while fearing to fall beneath his fearsome gaze.
Of the four Primordial Annihilators, Slaanesh and Khorne are among the most opposed, their rivalry consuming the bulk of their limitless armies at any given point. In addition, the God of Battles' need for blood makes his forces apt to resort to violence against any being in their sights. Thus the Masque knew she would need to act carefully. As expected, when the towering bloodthirster caught sight of the herald, he attacked, colossal twin daemonic axes Slaughter and Carnage gouging deep furrows in the ground with each swing. Yet rather than strike back, the Masque merely danced away from each blow, gracefully dodging while weaving a most subtle glamor.
Soon enough, Skarbrand began to lose interest, the lack of bloodshed causing him to see the Masque as little more than an insect unworthy of his attention. As the Exile began to stomp his way across the wastes once more, the Masque spoke to him. The herald of Slaanesh turned all her wiles towards stoking the Bloodthirster's pride, telling the greater daemon how she too was now an exile in search of redemption. She artfully laid down a wager, betting that a competition between their two hosts would win them the approval of their dark patrons.
Never one to back down from a contest of slaughter, Skarbrand snarled his assent to the challenge, eager to amass a new tally of skulls for the Skull Throne. The two set off across the Wastes, making their way across the realms of madness. News of this unnatural alliance and the wager associated with it spread, and soon hundreds of thousands of daemons of both Khorne and Slaanesh had amassed, followed by countless of the carrion-feeders known as furies. When their hosts had swelled to an acceptable size, their pilgrimage was noted by their patrons, who bestowed on them a token of their favor.
By the will of the Dark Gods, a psychic tempest of frightening potency ripped into realspace, engulfing a Maiden World known as Ursulia. The entire system was swallowed before any could react, its pristine forests and plains now infected by countless daemons as its sun turned a sickly puce. The Exodites who lived there mounted a valiant defense but a futile one, dragon-mounted knights tilting against leering daemonic cavalry that outnumbered them five to one. It quickly became obvious to the shamans who ruled the Exodite clans that their salvation would have to come from without. Thus the call for aid was sent forth, though by the time their messengers traversed the Webway corridors through a portal known as the Obsidian Gate in search of aid, nearly every Aeldari soul upon the world had been extinguished, devoured by the ravenous monstrosities.
Upon Biel-Tan, Yvraine and her coterie had only just reached the antechambers of the Council of Autarchs when news of this sudden invasion reached them. Ursulia had long been under the auspices of Biel-Tan, and to hear of this invasion was a blow felt by many. More importantly, if the Obsidian Gate fell, such a tide of daemons would surely sweep through the Webway onto the Craftworld itself, an unimaginable violation should it come to pass. Thus scarcely after completing their introductions, the Council of Autarchs challenged the Ynnari to make good on their claims of protecting the Aeldari race by joining their armies in an expedition to Ursulia.
Yvraine swiftly agreed to this request, for she knew that by avenging this grievous insult would make the Council more willing to hear her out. As she traveled back to her ship, the transport passed over the vast fields which served as the mustering point for Biel-Tan's armies, the legendary Bahzhakhain of which she had once been a part. The forces of the Swordwind, as the Mon-Keigh called them, were filled to the brim with every sort of warrior imaginable, yet this strike force was more narrow in scope, eschewing the usual preferred footbound Aspect Warriors in favor of mechanized spearheads of tanks and transports.
Altogether, there were several thousands of Eldar readying themselves for battle, their war-masks slipping into place upon their psyches as they mustered, mounting up in their grav-transports in preparation for a single swift strike. The entirety of this Bahzhakhain strike force was united as one in a psychic link guided by their Farseers, whose visions ensured the army was able to respond and adapt far more fluidly than any force linked by mere technological means. The Ynnari however were not part of this gestalt, for the rest of their former kin could tell there was something unnatural about these new arrivals. It did not bother Yvraine's forces overmuch, for they were content under the command of their high priestess.
Once the last of the strike force were loaded into the transports, the assembled armies began to enter the Webway. At the forefront were the fastest vessels, sleek Crimson Hunter jet fighters moving at exceptional velocities. These were perhaps the most lethal of all Aspect Warrior Shrines, for rather than blade or rifle, the Hunters utilized their aircraft as the tools of their trade. Long before the rest of the expedition had exited the Webway, the Crimson Hunters had already entered battle, unleashing devastating bursts into the crowded hordes of daemons milling about Ursulia.
As expected, the once-verdant world was now a charnel house, one vast battlefield torn between the Legions of Excess and Blood. Raging fires had left the forests little more than kindling, while massive Chaotic symbols had been etched into the landscape, profaning the prairies with deep scars and craters filled with blood. Makeshift skull altars had been erected everywhere, the daemons of Khorne focusing primarily on decapitating the corpses of the fallen, while the minions of Slaanesh had busied themselves mutilating what was left over atop slick Fanes.
The Crimson Hunters were spared the worst of it, the horrific fates of their Exodite kin all but unseen from so high above. However, they were far from safe, for the skies of Ursulia were positively teeming with daemonic Furies. These Crows of Chaos were some of the lowliest and weakest of daemons, but their sheer numbers and semi-tangible forms made the gargoyles not to be ignored. Soon the fire of the Crimson Hunters had shifted, unleashing precise bursts of fire with their scatter lasers so as to not hit each other in the crossfire. On the ground below, densely-packed ranks of daemons had begun to congregate around the Webway, expecting foot soldiers to come pouring out.
In this they were sorely-mistaken, for as the second wave of Eldar burst forth, it was not infantry but grav-tanks, for only the mechanized elements of the Swordwind had come to fight. The mighty war-engines rained down withering fusillades of lasers and shurikens, along with more than a few distortion blasts. The Eldar had not held back anything in their arsenal, unleashing the dreaded Cobra tanks, whose heavy D-Cannons fired miniature warp vortices that sucked entire formations of daemons back to whence they came while tearing others apart limb from immaterial limb. More common were the burning scarlet beams unleashed from the Fire Prisms, combining their lasers into focused lances that blasted deep gouges into the oncoming daemons.
Powerful as it was, their firepower was almost not enough. The madding crowds of daemons pressed in on every side, heedless of the losses they suffered. Both choirs of Neverborn were eager as always to unleash slaughter, their eternal rivalry transformed into a competition by the wiles of the Masque. Their frenzied packs all but hurled themselves into the guns of the Eldar, who were more than willing to oblige them. In the skies above, the Furies clogged aircraft engines with their very bodies, sending the ancient craft spiraling down to the ground below. This was a battle between two entirely different sorts of hosts, one composed of hordes of infantry, the other a collection of razor-focused armored vehicles. The Eldar knew full well the speed provided by their transports and tanks was all that would keep them from being overrun and trampled by the endless ranks of their foe.
As the tally of skulls grew higher, the daemons of Khorne swelled in power. The slaughter acted as a beacon, the bloodshed calling out and innervating them with new vigor. Leering bloodletters plunged their smoking hellblades in and out of the bodies of Eldar pilots as they spilled from sundered grav-tanks, the lesser daemons working in perfect concert with the hulking cavalry which hurled themselves bodily to send the oncoming vehicles careening into the ground. Greater Daemons began to appear amongst the ranks of their lesser kin, towering Bloodthirsters roughly shouldering their way through the rest of their allies as they eagerly sought to close with their foes. Laser fire simply bounced from their brass armor and thick hides, provoking only roars of fury as they bisected entire columns of Aeldari with each swipe of their massive axes.
Not to be outdone, the Daemons of Slaanesh were close behind. The luminous souls of Eldar held special appeal for the minions of She-Who-Thirsts, calling out to them like a siren song. Archaic chariots festooned with razor-sharp blades scythed through the packed Eldar, who tried and failed to dive aside from the stampeding fiends. Above the tumult of battle, hypnotic dirges rang out, sung in ancient Aeldari by daemonettes whose visages flickered between beautiful and horrific. Darkly-majestic Keepers of Secrets of every color shimmered as they stalked about the battlefield, as tall as the trees around them yet preternaturally nimble. Where the Bloodthirsters simply tanked every shot sent their way, the Keepers of Secrets danced and weaved, effortlessly swaying out of the way of hails of missiles and laser fire.
Such was the protean fury of the daemons that the Eldar forces were obligated to disperse lest they be dragged down. They were far, far outnumbered by the armies of the Warp, but this was nothing new for the Children of the Stars. The Swordwind scattered across the surface of Ursulia, having no trouble at all finding their foes no matter where they went. Though they knew it only on the most subconscious of levels, the cauldron of war was what the Eldar had been made to do, enjoying the thrill of battle in every kill as they indulged in their atavistic impulses. Their actions upon the battlefield this day were a thing of terrible beauty, their normal tranquility transformed by their War-Masks.
In stark contrast, the forces of the Ynnari fought with a deceptive calm. The protection of their god allowed them to do battle without that self-imposed mental construct upon their psyches that the rest of the Craftworld Eldar relied upon to avoid the risk of corruption. Utterly sure of the protection of their god, they were free to act without those split-second hesitations and fears that other warriors would give into. Those that did perish only strengthened their comrades, for each death seemed to invigorate all Ynnari around them with a burst of energy and speed, their very souls empowered by meting out death.
Mounted atop venom skimmers, the former Commorrites and Corsairs did not fear to hang from the sides of their transports, elegantly striking and slashing as they rode past. Though small in number, the servants of Ynnead inflicted a disproportionate number of losses upon the daemonic hordes, for they were completely inspired and utterly unafraid in the presence of their High Priestess. Yvraine was a maelstrom of death, her Cronesword turning every daemon it struck into a pile of ash. Though daemons could not truly die, such was the potency of Kha-Vir that any Neverborn discorporated in such a manner would not be able to return from the Warp for a full thousand years after their banishment.
Scene Three: Daemontide
Deadly though they were, the Eldar were few in number in comparison to the endless tides of madness that sought to overwhelm them. More than a few Falcon tanks were dragged down, the lives of their crews now forfeit to the dark gods. As the armored spearheads of the Children of the Stars dispersed across Ursulia, the Masque began the second stage of her plan. With quicksilver swiftness, the daemons of Slaanesh began to disengage, beelining straight for the now-active Obsidian Gateway. The armies of the Dark Prince poured into the Webway, for their true goal had been nothing less than to invade Biel-Tan itself and claim the rich bounty of souls that lived there. The non-euclidean geometries of the Webway led the daemons through dozens of fractal corridors, a wave of Excess whose sheer malice rippled through time and space itself.
Most of the over-extended Swordwind were completely unaware, noticing only when the battlefields seemed to be filled solely with the Blood Legions as more and more of the Cohorts of Excess slipped away. With mounting panic, the Swordwind realized the trap they had fallen into, reversing course as they fled back to the Obsidian Gateway. Upon the plains, Skarbrand the Exile roared in greater fury, realizing he had been duped. The cruel laughter of the Masque seemed to ring in his ears, and he began to storm towards the Gateway, an unstoppable juggernaut that crashed through both his own forces as well as the paltry Eldar resistance that sought in vain to bar his path.
Soon enough, the armies of Khorne had plunged into the Webway as well. Their path was simple enough: all they had to do was follow the stream of Eldar transports flying above them as they sought to return home to warn their kin. Upon Ursulia, what few Eldar still remained immediately recognized the threat this posed. With grim finality, they turned their guns upon the stones of the Obsidian Gateway itself. Baleful energy beams struck the columns, sundering the portal to halt the endless tides of daemons from pouring in. Thus did the remaining warriors of the Swordwind sacrifice themselves, abandoning any hope of returning home and trapping themselves upon a ruined world where they would surely be hunted down and slaughtered for sport just to give their kin more of a fighting chance.
Upon Biel-Tan itself, this second influx of Chaotic hatred rippled through the skeins of fate. Every Farseer could sense the impending doom which now threatened to fall upon their world. The many-branching paths of the Webway meant the daemons could emerge from any of one of the rune-gates which connected to the Craftworld, an intolerable threat. Thus one by one, the Biel-Tani began to shut down their gates, seeking to limit the number of places that the forces of the Empyrean could arrive. Aspect Warriors of nearly every temple began to muster around the remaining portals, from both the well-known such as the Dire Avengers or Striking Scorpions, to the less wide-spread, such as the Crimson Hunters or the Slicing Orbs of Zandros.
Slicing Orbs of Zandros
For most Aspect Warriors, the pursuit of war comes first and foremost, relegating their focus on being perfect instruments of a particular facet of war to the detriment of every other portion of their personality, including their psychic natures. Not so with the Slicing Orbs. Hailing from the minor Craftworld of Zandros, these Aspect Warriors are far more in tune with the Warp than the rest of their kind, utilizing telekinesis to levitate and spin countless miniscule spike-balls. No bigger than grains of sand, these orbs are transformed into whirlwinds of death, rapidly moving in the forefront of Aeldari battle-lines as skirmisher units designed to disrupt enemy formations. When faced with concentrated firepower, the Slicing Orbs draw the dust to themselves, forming an impenetrable shield that excels at dissipating kinetic force, though it suffers when faced with heat weaponry.
As the last of the Swordwind returned home, they relayed all they knew, painting a dire picture as they described the threat they now faced. It quickly became evident that the daemons would soon make their way onto the Craftworld itself, tainting the land as they passed. The presence of Skarbrand, one of Khorne's most powerful lieutenants, was most distressing, and so in the innermost sanctum of the Craftworld, the choice was made. As the call to arms rang throughout Biel-Tan, a group of Exarchs gathered in an ancient shrine around a wraithbone idol. Behind sealed doors, a gruesome sacrifice was undertaken, a Young King willingly allowing himself to be butchered by his Court to begin to awaken their only hope: the god of war and murder.
.
With a deafening clamor, the rune-gate that connected Biel-Tan to Ursulia was blasted open. As the wraithbone dust settled, the Eldar gathered around the gate found themselves growing resentful, an irritation that soon blossomed into fury that overwhelmed even the tight emotional control offered by their war-masks. Bellows of unfettered fury filled the air as Skarbrand Ragefeaster bulled his way through the oncoming daemons, his rage driving him to be the first to set cloven foot upon the Craftworld. The Axes of the Exile had somehow contrived to arrive before the Cohorts of the Masque, and arrive they did, smashing into the gathered defenders with elemental fury.
However, when it came to battle, few mortal races could match the mastery of the Aeldari. Each Aspect Warrior held millennia of combat, their Exarch leaders tens of millennia. Where tanks and fighter craft had protected the Craftworld, now came the turn of the infantry, for Biel-Tan was home to more Aspect Warriors than anywhere else. Every facet of war was the specialized domain of one of the Shrines, unleashing slaughter at every turn. From far away, skeletal-faced Dark Reapers launched barrages of missiles that rained down like meteors upon their foes, while daemon engines used to being unstoppable juggernauts found themselves melted and dissected by the molten pikes of the Fire Dragons. Every attempt to breach the Eldar strongholds was clinically repelled by stoic ranks of Dire Avengers, and in the thrill of melee combat, bloodletters found their match in the savage fury of the Howling Banshees.
Wherever they marched, the daemonic hordes were assaulted by rapid-striking skirmisher squadrons of Slicing Orbs and ambushed by kill-teams of Striking Scorpions. Across the entirety of Biel-Tan, the Swordwind moved back and forth, striking with the force of a hurricane before retreating with utmost haste. In such a way did they minimize their casualties, for every life was a finite treasure to be safeguarded and spent in such a way as to extract the maximum toll in return. The minions of Khorne roared their fury as Eldar Warlocks and Farseers, among whom were some of the most talented psykers in the galaxy, unleashed their witch-fury in crackling bolts of energy, turning the powers of the Warp brought by the daemonic incursion to their advantage. It was they who directed the rest of their kin, forestalling every ambush and guiding their kin to places of maximum effect.
From crystalline catacombs, rank after rank of wraithbone warriors marched into battle, woken by bone-singers whose voices were hoarse and cracked from the exertion of waking the dead. In this the Ynnari, who eagerly joined the Biel-Tani in defending their people, proved their worth the most. The followers of the god of the dead had a vivifying effect upon the spirit-constructs, who rather than viewing a battlefield covered in mists and shadows were able to see clearly for the first time in their unnatural existence. With uncanny speed and fluidity, the wraithblades hacked deep furrows in the ranks of the oncoming daemons, while huge craters were blasted by deadly distortion scythes fired by wraithguard.
High above, windrider jetbikes and Vyper weapon platforms unleashed death from on high. It was they who represented the power of Kurnous, long lost god of the hunt, as they rained down bombs and laser blasts from above. Teams of Shining Spears charged like bolts of lightning, the elite Aspect Warriors bloodying their laser lances as they struck deep in the flanks of snarling slaughterbrutes and brought down countless winged daemons. They were joined in the skies by flocks of Swooping Hawks, who represented Khaine's revenge as they flew from warzone to warzone to avenge their fallen kin. Likewise, swarms of Warp Spiders blinked across Biel-Tan, their warp-shunt generators teleporting them rapidly to wherever they were needed most to unleash clouds of monofilament strands from their death spinner rifles.
Yet for all their skill, the Aeldari could not hold off the horde forever as the daemons' numbers began to take their toll. The tides of the Warp swamped Biel-Tan in their oppressive influence, empowering the creatures of the Immaterium with unflagging vigor and allowing them to continually manifest reinforcements. At the forefront was Skarbrand himself, a creature of elemental fury whose rage rendered him insensate to every weapon and sorcery. Accompanied by seven other towering greater daemons, the Exile was like an avalanche as he smashed through every force the Eldar sent to face him. Their fury was positively incandescent, setting the ground itself on fire from the heat of their rage and leaving flaming footsteps to mark where they had been.
Such was his advance that the Eldar found themselves forced to continually fall back, unable to devote sufficient force to bring down the eight daemons. Every patrol that attempted to face them in combat in hopes of slowing them were utterly annihilated, hacked to pieces by the Exile as he killed, maimed, and burned his way to the heart of Biel-Tan. The original wager posed to Skarbrand by the Masque was long-forgotten, the muscular behemoth given over to slaughter as he sought only to spill more and more blood. Yet as things seemed their darkest, hope finally arrived in a most unlikely champion: a god of murder.
Skarbrand let loose a mighty bellow, roaring his fury for all to hear. The latest attempt to slow him had been by a coven of Warlocks, whose witchery infuriated the daemon of Khorne to no end. The last of them was currently dying noisily beneath his cloven hoof, slowly being ground beneath his burning boot as he screamed in agony. Yet to the daemon's surprise, the scream began to change, transforming from a squeal of pain to a howl of fury. Skarbrand glanced down approvingly, recognizing a newfound anger in his victim's eyes, an expression that would be forever etched upon the Eldar's face as the Exile bent down and lopped the Warlock's head off, one more skull for the Skull Throne.
It was this action that saved Skarbrand. From amidst the trees, a horrific Wail pierced the air as a spear forty feet long flew through the air to impale one of Skarbrand's retinue. The bloodthirster it struck was slain instantly, and as the other bloodthirsters looked up to find this new threat, they were greeted with the sight of a molten giant. The Avatar of Kaela Mensha Khaine strode through the trees, which caught flame as he passed, raising his hand to draw back the Wailing Doom.
As he caught it, the spear shifted into a flaming sword, which the god-shard swung into the nearest bloodthirster. The daemon snarled in response, unaware that it was already dead up until its brutish head fell from its bunched shoulders, effortlessly decapitated in a single blow. Yet the Avatar did not stop there, flowing from one combat form to the next as it dodged and weaved between the blows coming in from the rest of the bloodthirsters who sought to avenge their kin. Despite its towering size, the living statue was as nimble as any Eldar and physically stronger than even the most hulking daemon.
Skarbrand himself was the last to fall, hacking deep cuts into the molten body of the Avatar. The Exile's axes had been knocked aside, pinned to the ground along with the Wailing Doom as the two monstrous warriors wrestled. But his fury too proved insufficient, his flames impotent in comparison, and for the first time since his exile, Skarbrand was cast down. The shard of Kaela Mensha Khaine grabbed the bloodthirster by the throat, effortlessly picking it up as the blood of Eldanesh the First Hero streamed down the arm of the Bloody-Handed God. With a squeeze, Skarbrand's throat was crushed, banishing the daemon from the Materium as the Avatar roared his triumph for all of Biel-Tan to hear.
Yet as the tide turned against the Blood Legions, the doom of Biel-Tan unfolded, hidden from the Eldar who in their desperation had left their heart unguarded. In the core of Biel-Tan, the Masque danced her way over the twitching bodies of Eldar Guardians. Her target was simple: the Infinity Circuit that formed the nervous system of Biel-Tan which housed countless Aeldari souls. The daemonette clambered atop the pulsing wraithbone roots, followed by her cavorting followers. With a flourish, the daemons of Slaanesh slit their own throats, allowing their corrupt essence to pour down like a curse into the psycho-circuitry that formed the skeleton of Biel-Tan.
Like a basin of water draining after the plug is pulled, the daemontides rushed into the wraithbone circuits of Biel-Tan. The corruption was immediately evident, the healthy white of wraithbone bleaching into the sickly pallor of dead coral. Tumorous protrusions began to take shape across the Craftworld, calcifying into cancerous growths. The few mausoleums of wraith constructs that had not sent their warriors into battle, whether because of distance or lack of singers to awaken them, lost their occupants one after another as the lattices that housed the empty warrior-frames were transformed into pagan idols. Upon the battlefield, the Eldar noticed this sea change. True, their foes faltered as the Immaterium receded, a reversal of strength just as sudden as the one that had occurred upon the Lanathrialle. However, the pervasive malaise that replaced it seemed far more foreboding. Where once the tumult of battle roared, now mocking silence pervaded, the winds alive with mocking laughter that promised a second Doom.
Scene Four: Necroquake- The Fracture of Biel-Tan
In the council chambers, daemonic whispers rose to a fever-pitch, the few remaining members of the Council of Autarchs almost hysterical at the prospect of losing their home. Had they been assembled in their full senatorial numbers, perhaps calmer sentiments would have prevailed. Alas, fate had contrived it to not be so. Over the millennia since the Fall, the rulers of Biel-Tan had grown proud, their minds gnawing away at the idea that only they could save their race and undo the Fall. The carnal excess which had characterized the Aeldari Dominion was not to be found amongst them; theirs was a spiritual arrogance, a hubris that grew with each world returned to their stellar thalassocracy. By the waning years of M41, the Council was composed of the vainglorious, a collection of commanders whose skill in battle was matched only by their pride and self-importance.
Thus as the armies of Biel-Tan busied themselves purging the remaining Khornate daemons from their home, an illicit trial came to pass. Many months before the invasion of Ursulia, this self-same Council in its full assembly had played host to the wandering prophet known as Eldrad Ulthran. His skillful oratory had convinced a slight majority of Autarchs to lend his expedition a portion of the Swordwind's might. In the aftermath of the destruction of Coheria, the remaining members of the Swordwind present had combed through the dust and echoes. Their aim was to recover what bodies they could find, to safeguard the spirit-stones of their fallen kin from falling into the wrong hands as well as to save any survivors.
Little and less had remained, though the scouts' curiosities and fears were stoked when those stones that they did find were empty. More troublesome was the discovery of a crystalline amethyst orb just barely bigger than the average escape pod, being perfectly spherical and almost thrumming with barely-contained psychic energies. Bringing it to their ship, the Biel-Tani cracked the globe open where, to their surprise, they found a single Eldar within. As the sides fell away, it became clear the occupant was almost fused with the shell, the psychic power that had created the barrier now fading away.
Somehow and someway, Eldrad Ulthran had survived, though the being that lay before the scouts was far from the regal figure of legend they had expected. His once-proud robes were bloodstained and ragged, the top half of his ghosthelm sheared away to leave only a jagged gorget. The runic symbols adorning his armor and topping his staff had all transformed, their original meanings lost and reshaped into characters which denoted death of every sort. Most alarmingly, Eldrad's skin had been changed as well, coagulating in places into amethyst crystals which the scouts dared not touch.
By the time Eldrad was brought back to Biel-Tan, his body was nearly half encased. The Farseer remained in a coma throughout the journey, and nothing the medical teams attempted yielded any results. These tests were then interrupted, their studies aborted as the staff were called away to triage those that fell in battle. With the chaos unleashed by the daemontide, Eldrad lay half-forgotten, his presence known only to a select few, including those of the Council of Autarchs. The Farseer's failure to make good on his grandiose promises meant his backers were no longer in the ascendant, and as the daemonic whispers continued, Eldrad's enemies made their move.
Quite literally dragged before the assembled Council of Autarchs, such as it was, the unconscious Eldrad Ulthran was put on trial for crimes both real and imagined. The various Autarchs took turns accusing the Farseer of every crime they could conceive, true and false; it made no difference. From wasting Eldar lives to stealing the Crystal Seers; conspiring with Mon-Keigh and consorting with daemons; and for every action ever undertaken by the people of Craftworld Ulthanash Shelwe that didn't further the aims of Biel-Tan, Eldrad was accused and summarily found guilty. Underlying it all was the one charge that was not presented: that Ulthran had the nerve to present an alternate future beside the one determined by the Council of Biel-Tan.
Such was the length of this trial that by the time it came to an end, the daemons had been routed from the Rebirth of Ancient Days, though their malign presence still lingered. The corruption they brought in their wake had struck the Infinity Circuit like an electric shock to a nervous system. The body of Biel-Tan now convulsed with misinterpreted and abortive signals, twisting in the seizure throes of an Immaterial curse. None of her people knew quite what to expect, for each and every Craftworld swamped in the Immaterium had become places of nightmare, each different from the last. And the thought of losing Biel-Tan, the queen of Craftworlds, its people's home for over ten millennia, was the grandest catastrophe imaginable.
With their leaders either struck down in the heat of battle or absent entirely, it is no wonder then that the Aeldari began to turn en masse to the message of Ynnead. The words of Asuryan, long-lost patriarch of the Eldar Pantheon, seemed distant, the Paths insignificant in the face of so looming a calamity. The whispers of the Whispering God rose to a fever pitch in the minds of the Ynnari across the Craftworld, and the message of a life beyond Death gripped the souls of vast crowds. However, in all of this, Yvraine was not among them; Ynnead had a much more important task for her.
The yearning of a kindred soul pulled the Herald of Ynnead across Biel-Tan until she found herself on the threshold of the council chambers. No locked doors could halt divine purpose, and with a single stroke of Kha-Vir, she cut through the wraithbone like paper. As the ruined doors disintegrated behind her, the Herald strode into the midst of the assembly, ignoring the outraged squawks of fury issuing from the autarchs above her in the tiered room. Her reason for being here was quite obvious: as the Thanatiphoros and her Visarch approached the comatose Prophet of Ulthwe, the nadirite crystals, for that was what encased Ulthran, began to grow with renewed vigor.
Soon enough, Eldrad was completely cocooned. Yet Yvraine did not seem dismayed by this seeming death-sentence. As she placed her hand upon the crystalline shell, it glowed with an ethereal corpselight, thrumming with barely-contained power as the Herald let loose an unearthly wail. The pitch crescendoed higher and higher, a keening hymn both eerily similar to yet utterly unlike the screams released from the Howling Banshee Aspect Warriors, and as the music reached its climax, the shell exploded.
A snowstorm of fragments filled the air as the crystal cocoon encasing Eldrad Ulthran shattered with the force of a grenade. An unearthly aurora coruscated off the wraithbone walls, bringing shimmering amethyst and ectoplasmic green hues out of the stark white into vivid clarity. With inexorable finality, the new Prophet of Ynnead died and rose up, his unconscious psychic might reshaping the nadirite swirling around him into armor that clad his crystalline skin perfectly. Ghostplate armor of deepest purple that perfectly accented the fabrics worn by the Thanatiphoros locked into place around the expectant Eldrad, no longer frozen but disturbingly mobile as the wargear slipped onto his limbs.
As the former Farseer opened his eyes, all could see they had been changed into a vivid green that now peered beyond the veil of this realm. Whomever Eldrad's eyes passed over, that individual knew with certainty that the Prophet beheld the time and manner of their death, and it was no small relief when that terrible gaze moved on. The Prophet knelt before his Mistress, who placed a new Ghosthelm, its wraithbone paler than pale, upon his head. Beside them, the Visarch nodded his approval, for he knew the Prophet was now fully of their cause, while in the Warp, the slumbering Ynnead tossed fitfully.
As the aftermath of Eldrad's rebirth died down, the Autarchs peered over the walls they had just been cowering behind for fear of gazing upon the god of death. Yet no reborn deity stood before them, only a trio of Aeldari who now seemed quite small with the otherworldly might that infused them no longer visible. The pusillanimous autarchs began to hurl down accusations, finding their confidence once more as their guards rushed into the room, steely-eyed Dire Avengers in their crested helms whose gazes matched the impassivity of the Triumvirate of Ynnead.
As one they barred the door, leveling their shuriken catapults. Yet before either side could make a move that would surely end in bloodshed, an ear-splitting shriek pierced the air. As it ended, just as suddenly as it began, a deafening quiet fell upon the Aeldari, a storm of silence akin to that which reigns over an empty battlefield or the sudden hush that occurs after a stunning conclusion to a heated duel. All looked up expectantly, and beheld a figure perched atop the highest rafters.
High above the crowd, a long-legged and long-haired warrior queen gazed down imperiously upon the assembly, a triple-bladed throwing star in one hand and an elegant polearm in the other. With careless grace, Phoenix Lord Jain Zar, firstfound student of Asurmen and mistress of the Howling Banshee Aspect Warriors, leapt to the ground, landing without a sound upon the floor dozens of meters below. The Storm of Silence had fought for hundreds of lifetimes in service to the Aeldari race, a living legend that impressed even the chosen of Ynnead.
Without a word, she strode up to Yvraine, the Visarch, and Eldrad, looking each of them in the eyes as if searching for something. As the council held its collective breath, waiting for a verdict to be made, the truth was soon revealed. It seemed Jain Zar found them worthy, and rather than challenging Yvraine, the Phoenix Lord would offer her aid to the Ynnari. In response to an imperious wave, the Dire Avengers stood down, respecting her as a higher authority, and watched like statues as Jain Zar strode out of the chambers, followed by the impassive Triumvirate.
Led by the silent Phoenix Lord, Yvraine and her companions descended down and down into the depths of Biel-Tan. It was as though they were going back in time: the deeper they went, the older the corridors became, passing by towering statues of the mythical heroes of old. Each of the Phoenix Lords were represented among their ranks, though the colossal likeness of Jain Zar paled in comparison to the savage beauty of the original. The busts of the gods and goddesses of the Aeldari Pantheon were of little interest to the Ynnari, for the concept of their god had not existed in the ancient days when these halls were sung into being.
Further below, the Triumvirate passed by ancient gaols, long empty until recently, when the autarchs had interned the survivors of Coheria for fear of the nadirite that contaminated their wargear. These forces were freed from captivity, and quickly fell in behind the Prophet who had led them so recently. Far above them, the Avatar of Khaine howled its murderous rage for all to hear, a sound which gave even Jain Zar pause, for its destiny was different than theirs. No doubt it could sense the corruption plaguing the Infinity Circuit, the target of their quest, though it was equally-likely that it could sense the Ynnari, for their god was a spirit of ice and cold to the Avatar's molten fury.
Soon enough, Yvraine, the Visarch, Eldrad, and Jain Zar, along with their retinue, made their way into the heart of Biel-Tan, the central node from whence the rest of the Infinity Circuit began. It was here that the daemons of Slaanesh had unleashed their corruption, and it was here that it would be undone. Yvraine spoke to her followers at this moment, assuring them of their place in the days to come, a time when the stranglehold She-Who-Thirsts maintained upon their race's souls would be undone, the promised Rhana Dandra when all the Aeldari souls would merge into the heart of Ynnead himself.
With sudden finality, Yvraine ceased speaking, and in one fluid motion, plunged her hand into the Infinity Circuit. Just before it struck, it seemed to all present that her hands glowed with the same hematic energy of Kaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed. The wraithbone parted like water as Yvraine struck, rippling across the entire Craftworld in an instant, and before the amazed eyes of the Ynnari, she withdrew a weapon. Not just any blade: the sword in her hands was a twin to her own, for in her hands was the mighty Asu-Var, the Sword of Silent Screams and second of the Croneswords.
The Thanatiphoros beckoned, and to her side, the Visarch came. Upon bended knee, he sheathed his klaive, receiving in its place Asu-Var as his new weapon of war. Yet Yvraine did not stop there. Before the astounded crowd, Yvraine began to draw each and every soul in the Infinity Circuit into herself, infusing them into every jewel upon her. Every cell of her body became a new resting place for the souls which Slaanesh had threatened to claim, countless billions of spirits joining as one in service to the god of death. The Herald was aglow with power not seen since her rebirth, limned with barely-contained might that would need to find an outlet soon.
As so many ancient and powerful souls left the Infinity Circuit, it fell dormant. The corruption which had infected it died out, bereft of a host to feed upon. At that moment, the fracture of Biel-Tan began. Across the continent-sized vessel, colossal chunks began to break and splinter, shearing off as the structural integrity of the Craftworld was undone. This violent end to the ancient craft was as swift as it was sudden, massive portions falling away like frozen petals from a flower. The connective wraithbone tissue was no more, the thousands of operating systems connected to it through long psycho-plastic fibers withering as the spiritual energies that sustained it and gave it shape were withdrawn. This was a necroquake of unparalleled devastation, akin to the destruction that had engulfed those Craftworlds that were too close to the Aeldari Dominion on the days just after the Fall.
Likewise, Biel-Tan society died that day as its people went to war with each other. While some fled in hopes of salvaging what they could, the vast majority were split along two camps. The first, consisting mostly of Aspect Warriors who recognized the authority of Jain Zar, as well as a substantial portion of its civilian population, perhaps a third in total, swore allegiance to Ynnead, putting aside the past in the hopes of a better, though uncertain, future. The rest, mostly those loyal to the Council of Autarchs who had led them from victory to victory for ten millennia, rejected the message of Ynnead body and soul. To them, the Ynnari were deluded, no better than daemon-worshippers, and many went so far as to attack Yvraine, though none made it past her bodyguards.
However, the civil war engulfing Biel-Tan was not their concern. The Craftworld was dead, but in Ynnead it would live on. As the world-ship slowly crumbled around them, Eldrad and a coven of Farseers communed their wills, tracing a series of runic symbols that ripped open a portal in reality. Through this tunnel, the first of the death-gates, the chosen of Ynnead departed Biel-Tan, stepping through into the Webway. Behind them, the armies of the Reborn departed as well, leaving their foes to the ruins of their once-proud home. Guided by the whispers of their god, their destination was clear: Ulthwe, Craftworld of the Damned.
A/N: In a move that surprised even me, there is, has to be, a Part Four to this tale. The Fracture of Biel-Tan is just so utterly packed with lore that there's no way I could pack it into one or even two parts. Thus Part Three is focused just around the Fracture itself, while their journeys beyond will have to come next time. As always, please feel free to leave comments and thoughts, I love to read them. Thanks to everyone who continues to stick with me in this journey through the grim-dark future.
Sharrowkyn, out.