One punch, two punches, three...
Blood sprayed.
The Aeldari Warlock staggered backward, hands clutching his face. The ornate helt had shattered completely, revealing a visage masked in crimson.
Damnable sav... savage monkey...
The Warlock's telepathic curse was fragnted. Shards of the wraithbone helm had driven deep into his scalp, and the downpour of blood blurred his vision. More critically, with the micro-circuitry of his helm compromised, his soul was now dangerously exposed to the predatory winds of the Immaterium.
His beloved Witchblade lay ten paces away, humming a mournful song as it struggled to fly back to its master's hand—only to be ruthlessly suppressed by a superior psychic weight.
Watch your manners, pointy-ears, Enkidu said with a cold, thin smile. He lunged forward, a piston-like strike to the solar plexus embedding the spindly xenos deep into the buckled bulkhead. If you haven't learned politeness after ten thousand years, it's up to the "monkey" to beat it into you.
...You think I would offer... a pleasant face to a hyena of the Thirsty Lady?
The Warlock lay amidst scrap tal and dust. His robust physiology—far exceeding that of a baseline human—kept him from imdiate death, but he was physically spent. He could do nothing but glare at the approaching armored initiate with eyes full of venom.
I told you, I don't worship Slaanesh, Enkidu countered with annoyance.
Being part of a Slaaneshi warband was a constant headache for this very reason: regardless of your personal faith or lack thereof, the mont you stood on the galactic stage, everyone—xenos included—assud you were a depraved degenerate.
Static hissed and crackled inside his helt, a jarring distraction in his ears. His lenses were spider-webbed and useless for combat. Assessing the tactical situation, Enkidu simply reached up and yanked the damaged helm off.
His vision cleared instantly.
The mont Enkidu's face was revealed, the Warlock shuddered involuntarily. A primitive urge to beg for rcy surged through him—or at the very least, a plea to stop ntioning the Thirsty Lady.
Out of a warrior's pride, he clamped his jaw shut, though his psychic voice remained defiant.
Ha. Even if you are not her lapdog, you are surely kin to the Blood-Seeker's hounds.
Is that all you have? Enkidu lifted the Warlock by the throat, his gauntleted hand tightening until the wraithbone armor groaned. Do you dare claim your hands are cleaner than mine? When you committed your atrocities against the galaxy, when you slaughtered humans by the millions, did they not bleed? If you ask , you and those tal skeletons are all garbage deserving of the shredder. If you hadn't started the War in Heaven for your own amusent, would the universe be in this ss?
Impossible.
The Warlock's mind fractured as he struggled feebly in that iron grip, his fingers clawing uselessly at Enkidu's vambraces.
How could a Mon-keigh know this? That conflict ended sixty million years ago! The most comprehensive records vanished during the Fall; only the mysterious "Black Library" holds the truth. How could this ragged, impoverished beast know of it? Does the "Mysterious Presence" from the prophecy truly concern him?
In the rising bubbles of his fading mory, Kaelah Saeryn saw the vision that had plagued him most recently.
Just before the Isovin Craftworld had committed to the final annihilation of this Chaos warband, the notorious Eldrad Ulthran had unceremoniously crashed their war council. He had demanded they abort the attack, warning that should they strike these specific Mon-keigh, the Craftworld's extinction would be sealed.
The council had erupted in mockery. The Seers and Autarchs had dismissed Ulthran's warnings as the latest ramblings of a ddling fool. After centuries of mutual slaughter, the hatred was too deep to bridge. Besides, even if they stayed their hand, would the lapdogs of the Thirsty Lady show them the sa rcy?
And so, Chief Seer Drucari had cast Ulthran out and proceeded with the war.
Yet Ulthran had not departed. He had remained, shalessly loitering on the Craftworld under the pretext of "recording Isovin's cultural heritage." Though the guarded crystals of the Seer Council remained untouched, rumors had inevitably begun to spread.
"Kaelah Saeryn, my far-sighted kinsman."
Inside a lush bio-do, Ulthran—who had been wandering the Craftworld like a ghost—intercepted him and offered a friendly invitation to share tea.
A chill had run down Kaelah's spine. He had instinctively settled into a defensive posture. Even among the Aeldari, Ulthran's reputation was polarizing—partly due to his endless "Grand Sches," and partly because the man had a notorious habit of "liberating" Soulstones and crystalline ancestors.
"Farseer Ulthran. What is your business? If you are here to lecture on your theories again, I am not interested."
He rembered clearly how "unhinged" Ulthran's speech to the council had been: talk of a Great Storm in the Immaterium, a mysterious, formless, and distorted entity, the hysterical shrieks of the Youngest Goddess, and... the ultimate liberation of the Aeldari soul.
After hearing such claims, Kaelah felt that the Chief Seer's decision to rely eject Ulthran rather than exile him was an act of extre restraint.
"Oh, Kaelah, do not be so harsh. Maintaining politeness will be of great benefit to you—both now and in the future," Ulthran said with a smile, as if being loathed by his own kind was a trivial inconvenience. "Besides, I am not here to discuss the matters that got thrown out by Drucari. I am simply here to see you."
"What are you trying to tell ? I don't believe you seek out for idle chatter."
"Well, you've seen through my facade," Ulthran said with a helpless smile, his eyes turning mournful as he looked at Kaelah. "During my ti here, I have seen your thread of fate. It is burning. Soon, you shall fall into silence."
"I already know this," Kaelah said calmly. As a Warlock, he walked both the Path of the Warrior and the Path of the Seer. Though his foresight did not match the masters, he had felt the shadow of his own end. "I go to battle in days, and the Mon-keigh of the Thirsty Lady are not without teeth. My personal safety is secondary to the purge of the warband. I only care that my kin bring my Soulstone ho."
"I fear they cannot."
Ulthran's answer made Kaelah's heart plumt. His fists clenched.
"Though I cannot see the exact sequence of events, I did not see your Soulstone being recovered," the old Farseer said solemnly. "It is not even the Thirsty Lady who claims you. I saw you fall into darkness, and then... I saw nothing. It may an you have a unique destiny."
"A unique destiny..." Kaelah repeated the words with a bitter irony. "What destiny remains for one about to die? Or will I find no peace even in death?"
"It is quite likely."
Ulthran's face began to blur in the darkness of Kaelah's fading consciousness, accompanied by the wet crack of his own neck vertebrae. Kaelah exhausted his final embers of will to look upon him, hoping for one last shred of revelation.
...Re... Rember...
The elder Farseer's face was as thin as mist, seconds away from vanishing entirely.
...Stay... polite...
With a final, violent wrench, the Warlock's head ca away. Enkidu picked up the now-compliant Witchblade and carefully carved the Soulstone from the Aeldari's armor.
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