wel, due to havock risings peices, i thought id stick on this first chapter of a discontinued stroy i wrote about the eldar when i was eleven. it bwas going to be the first shrt chapter of a stroy, but i never went back to it. just to discalaim, i know it has many a flaw, but i was young and naive
The GREAT ARCH
On many days, passers by would see the Spire of Anaris tall and resplendent, the moon white wraithbone of its construction gleaming in the noon-day light; resplendent, but lifeless. On that fateful day it was not so. If one looked up, they would see its monolithic crown wreathed in light. The iridescent orbs bobbed and danced like harlequins, flashing round and jumping over each other as they cavorted in an endless circuit around the sinuous and flowing shapes of the building. The onlooker would also feel a barrage of psychic power radiating from the chambers within. It was as if the debate being held inside had spilled out into all mind and matter around it, pressing its many and conflicting views onto every psyche nearby.
All in the adjacent promenades and streets hurried by, unwilling to be drawn in by the energy. All, except one. He walked slowly and deliberately towards the broad, pearlescent steps that stood before the Spire with long, confident strides. As he did so, his midnight cloak rustled softly in the gentle breeze. The countenance he wore was calm and collected, but thoughts and emotions whipped through his mind like lasbolts. He took a breath and banished them, forcing them spinning, out of his head.
The Great Arch stared down towards him as he began to climb the stairs, runes dancing across it. They glowed red with a life of their own, each mark its own individual miniature world. The guards either side of The Arch snapped to attention, their spear heads reflecting the deep green of their cloaks. He nodded to them, his emerald eyes hard as flint, and the black of his hair catching the light. He started forward, but paused as he felt the soft fingers of another mind encroaching upon his own.
“Welcome, Sir. We have been expecting you,” the thought was projected from a third guard, standing unseen in The Arch’s shadow. Now he stepped out, welcoming the light that cascaded onto him. ”Lord K’thien, I was instructed to greet you on your arrival.” As soon as K’thien saw him, his neck stiffened. The movement lasted for less than a second; but the stranger saw it.” My Lord, is something wrong? ”K’thien tensed, he had half expected this.
”Who are you?” he growled softly. It was as much a question to himself as any one else.
The first two guards drew back, shocked at such a vulgar form of communication from one so highly placed. The third however, remained unperturbed; as did K’thien, he had no time for etiquette.
“My name is not important,” the guard remained respectfully formal. K’thien narrowed his eyes and spoke again, much to the irritation of the Arch Keepers.
“Since when were aspect warriors members of the Everguard?” For the third Keeper was not attired like his companions, but in the deep blue armour of a Dire Avenger.
“I am no Everguard.”
The stranger had, like K’thien, reverted to speech. His tone was low and grating, like a sword on a whetstone.
“I am a Phoenix Disciple of the Shrine of the Horned Knight,” he spoke proudly, as K’thien had expected him to.
He had seen that from the moment he had met the Avenger that he was arrogant. K’thien could only see his face; the rest of him was covered in sapphire blue physcoplastic. But from that small area, K’thien could glean a great deal. His hair was brown, but tousled, which seemed strange for such an obviously self respecting warrior. He had sharp, clean features adorning his face. High cheek bones flanked a perfect nose, beneath which lay a set of blood red lips. His skin was pale, complementing his statuesque visage.
“It is not my concern as to where you worship Khaine,” said K’thien icily. Any interest in who the stranger was had melted away, he was nothing more than an obstacle. “Now move aside.”
In less than a second the Avenger’s diresword was blocking his way. The blade glittered beautifully in the craftworld’s artificial light. The Spirit stone set above the hilt shimmered within as it was drawn.
“I am afraid I cannot let you do that, Sir.” If any other Eldar had spoken to him with such impudence, K’thien would have made sure that they felt the searing hot pain of a shuriken in one of their legs; but he knew that if he did that to a Disciple the re-percussions would be massive. Rage was mounting within him, but he knew he had to keep calm.
“Oh? And why not?” he asked in the tone of one who is controlling a tempest of anger.
“Because Seer Malinict has ordered you be kept out at all costs,” his mocking tone had vanished, leaving cold, hard determination. K’thien locked eyes with the Avenger, challenging him silently.
“I bear Farseer Carrious’ seal.” K’thien whipped out a small Witch Blade from beneath his cloak and flipped it in his hand, so that the pommel was facing outwards. The orange rune laid into the translucent crystal blazed like a lone fire among snow-capped mountains. The Avenger’s gaze remained fixed on K’thien. He brought his face closer,
“Seals,” he hissed,” From decrepit seers of a bygone era; mean nothing.”
It was at that point that K’thien brought the pommel up hard into the speaker’s face. K’thien would take insults with dignity, but he would not stand to see Carrious slandered. The Avenger staggered back, blood dripping through the fingers and covering the hands with which he clutched his face. He was gasping, his breath ragged.
Though the wound looked severe, he soon recovered. When he did, his eyes were like coals, roaring with physic energy and, to K’thien’s horror, a shard of the bloodlust that Aspect Warriors were supposed to keep under the greatest restraint until the rites and rituals of the conversion from serene, graceful beings into faceless killers; overtook them. The rituals were convoluted and macabre, no one but the exarches knew them in full. They took many hours and had many stages, such as painting blood runes on the body and making offerings to Khaine.
“You will regret that.” His voice was guttural, and there was no longer anything mesmerising about him, just the sorrowful physic keening of destroyed beauty. The effect was devastating, but K’thien had steeled himself for the results. The guards, however, had not. They were immobilised for a second; but soon charged forward. Though, as was expectable, the Avenger ordered them away with a flick of his hand. This was his fight, and his alone.
The Avenger drew the dire sword in one hand, and closed his fingers in the other. K’thien pushed his pistol and power sword back along his waistline. The Farseer’s honour had been insulted, so he would use a Farseer’s weapon. There was no formality; no bow, no pact to be honoured. Secretly this surprised K’thien, he thought even this arrogant fool would have upheld ancient tradition. The aggression emanating from his opponent, the savage brutality, the base urges, they were almost human. He had had totally transformed from opinionated diplomat to something reminiscent of the Fall. Then it occurred to K’thien that he was probably next in line for becoming Exarch, and only kept the chaos at bay through rigorous training that he had evidently not mastered. Still, it was appalling to see an Eldar this way.
The witchblade felt like an extension of his arm as K’thien swung it. He treasured the weapon, it ha d been presented to him on his ascension to the path of the Seer by the Farseer himself. The blade was no longer one his possessions, but apart of himself. Unlike many warlocks, he did not however favour it as a primary means of defence. That duty fell to sword bestowed on him the Daughters of Khaine.
His mind gave way to training, bringing the dagger up towards the Avenger’s throat. He side-stepped, twirling gracefully, in the way famous to his shrine. K’thien used the momentum to bring himself round at blinding speed. He was just in time to see the diresword racing towards his neck. Now the Avenger was on the attack, charging as K’thien dodged the blow. Their blades became an entwining, shimmering vortex, which even seemed capable of independent thought. It was more of a dance than a fight, both of them twirling until they locked blades and stared into each other’s snarling faces. They forced each other backwards until they were locked in a stale mate. K’thien battled against his limitations, and won. Giving one final push, he threw his opponent backwards.
The Avenger stumbled, and fell. The guards were about to step in, but the crumpled form on the floor raised one hand, thumb and fingers pointing up to create a cradle. It was the delvegan kar, a hand gesture used to indicate to lesser soldiers that their command was at stake on the duel, and that they could not intervene. The legendary Exarch of the striking scorpions Kurnain had coined it, giving it a suppositious reputation. For a widely held view was that on his travels, the warp had tainted Kurnain, corrupting him forever. This moved from rumour to a supposed fact when his armour had been lost fighting the cowed soldiers of the Imperium on the maiden world of Yissan. There were few left on BeilTan who did not believe this, K’thien and Carrious among them.
The very fact he even performed the move was a testament cultural sensitivity that K’thien had deemed beyond such a brutish individual. So many of the younger generation on Beil-Tan had no knowledge of Kurnain, and those who did were taught to hate him as a traitor. It was a terrible tragedy, soon all those who had been faithful would be plying the Infinity-Circuit.
Tearing himself from his reverie, K’thien thrust the blade outwards and up to the Avenger’s throat, letting the tip draw a bead of scarlet blood. His eyes were cold and un-flinching, daring death to take him. A sneer crossed his face, contorting his face still further. ”Finish me,” he retched. “Do you think you are too good to end my life?” K’thien stared him straight in the face, meeting his eyes.
“Yes.” K’thien had never considered himself arrogant; he just knew that he was better than the creature lying before him. It was a simple fact; one which he didn’t find rewarding, just sickening, but it was true. He only felt the same when a member of the lesser races lay cowed at his feet.
The Avenger drew in an indignant breath, as if he was about to speak. But, before he could, K’thien focused his mind into a black void and hurled it at him. For a moment, nothing happened; then he convulsed and lay still. Immediately the psychic impression of the guards was one of utter fury. They actually thought about attacking K’thien. However, this blasphemy soon passed. Their spears, which had been crossing the door, rose in a grudging salute to him. K’thien, for his part, simply looked at them, and, leaving the unconscious Avenger in his wake, turned and stared at the doors. He began to walk towards them. As he continued to stare, the doors started to heave open. K’thien smiled. The Farseer had given him the thought override to the Spire. The fact he was trusted so greatly by Carrious delighted him. He pushed with his mind again, and this time, the doors flew open. And he began to ascend the steps.
The GREAT ARCH
On many days, passers by would see the Spire of Anaris tall and resplendent, the moon white wraithbone of its construction gleaming in the noon-day light; resplendent, but lifeless. On that fateful day it was not so. If one looked up, they would see its monolithic crown wreathed in light. The iridescent orbs bobbed and danced like harlequins, flashing round and jumping over each other as they cavorted in an endless circuit around the sinuous and flowing shapes of the building. The onlooker would also feel a barrage of psychic power radiating from the chambers within. It was as if the debate being held inside had spilled out into all mind and matter around it, pressing its many and conflicting views onto every psyche nearby.
All in the adjacent promenades and streets hurried by, unwilling to be drawn in by the energy. All, except one. He walked slowly and deliberately towards the broad, pearlescent steps that stood before the Spire with long, confident strides. As he did so, his midnight cloak rustled softly in the gentle breeze. The countenance he wore was calm and collected, but thoughts and emotions whipped through his mind like lasbolts. He took a breath and banished them, forcing them spinning, out of his head.
The Great Arch stared down towards him as he began to climb the stairs, runes dancing across it. They glowed red with a life of their own, each mark its own individual miniature world. The guards either side of The Arch snapped to attention, their spear heads reflecting the deep green of their cloaks. He nodded to them, his emerald eyes hard as flint, and the black of his hair catching the light. He started forward, but paused as he felt the soft fingers of another mind encroaching upon his own.
“Welcome, Sir. We have been expecting you,” the thought was projected from a third guard, standing unseen in The Arch’s shadow. Now he stepped out, welcoming the light that cascaded onto him. ”Lord K’thien, I was instructed to greet you on your arrival.” As soon as K’thien saw him, his neck stiffened. The movement lasted for less than a second; but the stranger saw it.” My Lord, is something wrong? ”K’thien tensed, he had half expected this.
”Who are you?” he growled softly. It was as much a question to himself as any one else.
The first two guards drew back, shocked at such a vulgar form of communication from one so highly placed. The third however, remained unperturbed; as did K’thien, he had no time for etiquette.
“My name is not important,” the guard remained respectfully formal. K’thien narrowed his eyes and spoke again, much to the irritation of the Arch Keepers.
“Since when were aspect warriors members of the Everguard?” For the third Keeper was not attired like his companions, but in the deep blue armour of a Dire Avenger.
“I am no Everguard.”
The stranger had, like K’thien, reverted to speech. His tone was low and grating, like a sword on a whetstone.
“I am a Phoenix Disciple of the Shrine of the Horned Knight,” he spoke proudly, as K’thien had expected him to.
He had seen that from the moment he had met the Avenger that he was arrogant. K’thien could only see his face; the rest of him was covered in sapphire blue physcoplastic. But from that small area, K’thien could glean a great deal. His hair was brown, but tousled, which seemed strange for such an obviously self respecting warrior. He had sharp, clean features adorning his face. High cheek bones flanked a perfect nose, beneath which lay a set of blood red lips. His skin was pale, complementing his statuesque visage.
“It is not my concern as to where you worship Khaine,” said K’thien icily. Any interest in who the stranger was had melted away, he was nothing more than an obstacle. “Now move aside.”
In less than a second the Avenger’s diresword was blocking his way. The blade glittered beautifully in the craftworld’s artificial light. The Spirit stone set above the hilt shimmered within as it was drawn.
“I am afraid I cannot let you do that, Sir.” If any other Eldar had spoken to him with such impudence, K’thien would have made sure that they felt the searing hot pain of a shuriken in one of their legs; but he knew that if he did that to a Disciple the re-percussions would be massive. Rage was mounting within him, but he knew he had to keep calm.
“Oh? And why not?” he asked in the tone of one who is controlling a tempest of anger.
“Because Seer Malinict has ordered you be kept out at all costs,” his mocking tone had vanished, leaving cold, hard determination. K’thien locked eyes with the Avenger, challenging him silently.
“I bear Farseer Carrious’ seal.” K’thien whipped out a small Witch Blade from beneath his cloak and flipped it in his hand, so that the pommel was facing outwards. The orange rune laid into the translucent crystal blazed like a lone fire among snow-capped mountains. The Avenger’s gaze remained fixed on K’thien. He brought his face closer,
“Seals,” he hissed,” From decrepit seers of a bygone era; mean nothing.”
It was at that point that K’thien brought the pommel up hard into the speaker’s face. K’thien would take insults with dignity, but he would not stand to see Carrious slandered. The Avenger staggered back, blood dripping through the fingers and covering the hands with which he clutched his face. He was gasping, his breath ragged.
Though the wound looked severe, he soon recovered. When he did, his eyes were like coals, roaring with physic energy and, to K’thien’s horror, a shard of the bloodlust that Aspect Warriors were supposed to keep under the greatest restraint until the rites and rituals of the conversion from serene, graceful beings into faceless killers; overtook them. The rituals were convoluted and macabre, no one but the exarches knew them in full. They took many hours and had many stages, such as painting blood runes on the body and making offerings to Khaine.
“You will regret that.” His voice was guttural, and there was no longer anything mesmerising about him, just the sorrowful physic keening of destroyed beauty. The effect was devastating, but K’thien had steeled himself for the results. The guards, however, had not. They were immobilised for a second; but soon charged forward. Though, as was expectable, the Avenger ordered them away with a flick of his hand. This was his fight, and his alone.
The Avenger drew the dire sword in one hand, and closed his fingers in the other. K’thien pushed his pistol and power sword back along his waistline. The Farseer’s honour had been insulted, so he would use a Farseer’s weapon. There was no formality; no bow, no pact to be honoured. Secretly this surprised K’thien, he thought even this arrogant fool would have upheld ancient tradition. The aggression emanating from his opponent, the savage brutality, the base urges, they were almost human. He had had totally transformed from opinionated diplomat to something reminiscent of the Fall. Then it occurred to K’thien that he was probably next in line for becoming Exarch, and only kept the chaos at bay through rigorous training that he had evidently not mastered. Still, it was appalling to see an Eldar this way.
The witchblade felt like an extension of his arm as K’thien swung it. He treasured the weapon, it ha d been presented to him on his ascension to the path of the Seer by the Farseer himself. The blade was no longer one his possessions, but apart of himself. Unlike many warlocks, he did not however favour it as a primary means of defence. That duty fell to sword bestowed on him the Daughters of Khaine.
His mind gave way to training, bringing the dagger up towards the Avenger’s throat. He side-stepped, twirling gracefully, in the way famous to his shrine. K’thien used the momentum to bring himself round at blinding speed. He was just in time to see the diresword racing towards his neck. Now the Avenger was on the attack, charging as K’thien dodged the blow. Their blades became an entwining, shimmering vortex, which even seemed capable of independent thought. It was more of a dance than a fight, both of them twirling until they locked blades and stared into each other’s snarling faces. They forced each other backwards until they were locked in a stale mate. K’thien battled against his limitations, and won. Giving one final push, he threw his opponent backwards.
The Avenger stumbled, and fell. The guards were about to step in, but the crumpled form on the floor raised one hand, thumb and fingers pointing up to create a cradle. It was the delvegan kar, a hand gesture used to indicate to lesser soldiers that their command was at stake on the duel, and that they could not intervene. The legendary Exarch of the striking scorpions Kurnain had coined it, giving it a suppositious reputation. For a widely held view was that on his travels, the warp had tainted Kurnain, corrupting him forever. This moved from rumour to a supposed fact when his armour had been lost fighting the cowed soldiers of the Imperium on the maiden world of Yissan. There were few left on BeilTan who did not believe this, K’thien and Carrious among them.
The very fact he even performed the move was a testament cultural sensitivity that K’thien had deemed beyond such a brutish individual. So many of the younger generation on Beil-Tan had no knowledge of Kurnain, and those who did were taught to hate him as a traitor. It was a terrible tragedy, soon all those who had been faithful would be plying the Infinity-Circuit.
Tearing himself from his reverie, K’thien thrust the blade outwards and up to the Avenger’s throat, letting the tip draw a bead of scarlet blood. His eyes were cold and un-flinching, daring death to take him. A sneer crossed his face, contorting his face still further. ”Finish me,” he retched. “Do you think you are too good to end my life?” K’thien stared him straight in the face, meeting his eyes.
“Yes.” K’thien had never considered himself arrogant; he just knew that he was better than the creature lying before him. It was a simple fact; one which he didn’t find rewarding, just sickening, but it was true. He only felt the same when a member of the lesser races lay cowed at his feet.
The Avenger drew in an indignant breath, as if he was about to speak. But, before he could, K’thien focused his mind into a black void and hurled it at him. For a moment, nothing happened; then he convulsed and lay still. Immediately the psychic impression of the guards was one of utter fury. They actually thought about attacking K’thien. However, this blasphemy soon passed. Their spears, which had been crossing the door, rose in a grudging salute to him. K’thien, for his part, simply looked at them, and, leaving the unconscious Avenger in his wake, turned and stared at the doors. He began to walk towards them. As he continued to stare, the doors started to heave open. K’thien smiled. The Farseer had given him the thought override to the Spire. The fact he was trusted so greatly by Carrious delighted him. He pushed with his mind again, and this time, the doors flew open. And he began to ascend the steps.
