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Any Trolls lurking about, please don't flame. Seriously, this is just a bit of fun, creative writing. (Nag Over)
Any comments very helpful, more chapters released soon, if feedback is good enough. (Sayshh=Warp Spider, Saiman=Warp Spider)

Chapter 1: Rhen-Zai

On the Craftworld Rhen-Zei, a fairly young Eldar child of a hundred and twelve years was sitting in his father's jetbike, wondering when he would next let him ride on it properly. His brother, Sayshh was taken from the house a year ago, to defend a small exodite world from destruction. He wondered two things; what 'Orks' were, and why the Autarch was suddenly so intereted in this particular Exodite world- after all, he was normally a very self-centered person, who only came from the dome to fight alongside the army. His father, Saiman had told him of the many Paths he could take, and the child asked whether he had to choose a Path. His father did not answer.

When Sayshh was taken, the guards told Saiman that he must fight too, sporting the armour his father, his fathers father and so on wore. It was still pristine, the only, tiny mark on it was the small, not entirely fixed hole caused by the bullet that penetrated it's red sheen. The boy's mother used to fight too, but her bone-coloured armour was no match for the two, collosal scythes sported by the Hive Tyrant of Moloch. The armour was taken home by his father, and it is still as clean as it ever was, save by the gash across the gut area. His father had said "I'll avenge her, you know. By Khaine, I'll stop that whole Hive Fleet if I had to!". He then took Sayshh roughly by his shoulders and shook him roughly: "You'll help me boy. You know you will."

However, at the moment, the boy was sitting, listening to the occasional whirr of a vehicle as it glided past, pondering his relatives, away for his birthday, where he turned 12, the traditional age when children would pick their path. The child wanted to be a Striking Scorpion, as he liked the colour green. So much, he painted over his father's jetbike's sleek, orange carapace. He was not happy. The child murmered a small prayer to his relatives, so far away, and went to sleep on his father's jetbike, coloured bright green. (Feedback, please, NEXT CHAPTER: )

Slight correction: Eldar age and mature much slower than humans, so their equivalent of 12 would probably be 100 years or so.

Orkeosaurus wrote:Slight correction: Eldar age and mature much slower than humans, so their equivalent of 12 would probably be 100 years or so.

Hehe... My mistake!

Nice story! I haven't readed many Eldar stories before

Thanks, I'll try to write chapter 2 tomorrow.

Chapter 2: Clthwai

Sayshh and his father Saiman were sitting in the troop carrier of a sleek, orange Vampire Hunter. Near the rear door, there was a bright lance on a pivot, in case any enemies were to approach from the rear. They could here the fighting going on miles away, when suddenly, Saiman got up, and hurried to the viewing window. Fifteen Ork Deffkoptas were rattling toward them, slowly, but surely, belching out streams of pitch black smoke. Sayshh then got up, and opened the rear access door without speaking. A rush of freezing air filled the section. He then pulled the bright lance support gun to the cold, blood red sky. He took careful aim, waited for the right opportunity, then he pulled the trigger. A beam of brilliant white energy erupted from the tip of the weapon's smooth barrel. Three unlucky Deffkoptas were eviscerated by the beam of death. Sayshh saw the ragtag squad all ready their rokkit launchas, so he quickly put the lance back. He then attempted to pull the door back up, but the strong winds had ripped it off. He heard a voice: "Shut the door, NOW!". It was a Dire Avenger. His blue armour was chipped and damaged, while the Eldar sitting next to him had bright, gleaming blue armour. Sayshh pondered this for a second, but then fell to the floor, knocked down by the sound of 24 rokkit launchas screaming from the hull of the Deffkoptas. His eye twitched. Most of the white and black-patterned rokkits veered off course, but one screeched into the hull of the sleek vehicle. Another hit, this time on the engines. Saiman screamed "JUMP SAYSHH!", then leaped from the open door.
Most of the Dire Avengers were killed in the blasts, but one remained breathing. The Eldar with the scratched, broken armour. Sayshh ran to him, picked him up and ran for the door, now letting in huge waves of freezing cold atmosphere. Sayshh looked back, then jumped from the Vampire Hunter's door, leaving it to a certain doom.

Sayshh crashed into the scorched land, the broken-armoured Dire Avenger still in his arms, thanks to some unforseen miracle. Sayshh coughed, and saw that the small power icon at the top of his helmet screen (the one that showed how long his armour would continue to protect him before it became as useless as wood), and frowned. It was almost at zero. He looked slowly up, and saw huge dustclouds gathering in the horizon. He shook the Dire Avenger until he woke, and he immediately thanked him, then telling him his name: Sai'dan. They then looked at the gathering dustcloud getting closer every second. It is impossible for me to even begin to describe what they saw, so I'll use these:

Orks. Thousands of them. Sayshh looked around, and saw no mountains, no rocks, not one scrap of cover for the oncoming horde. However, the two Eldar warriors then recieved a saving grace: A sleek Scorpion glided toward them, then the three-man cockpit opened. Inside was the pilot, and Sayshh's father. "Get in!", Said Saiman, and Sai'dan hobbled in. The pilot then said: " You should get into the main turret you know, there's no more room here!" Sayshh shouted: "You mean you've been gliding through here with no turret pilot!?" "Yeah!". Sayshh leapt into the other cock pit with ease, and marvelled at the two huge cannons, ready to 'Boom some Orkies!'.

Next Chapter (sorry about this chapter, it's kind of short):

As usual... Feedback please!

Chapter 3: Hive Fleet Moloch

The boy awoke. He could have sworn he heard a small chattering noise in the distance- maybe it was just his imagination. He got up, stretched, and noticed the eerie silence surrounding him. He began to walk. The boy saw the jetbikes gliding effortlessly through the Craftworld's many sleek, flowing buildings. He sat down on the floor, and started watching them. The chattering noise startled him again. This time it was definately real. To make matters worse, the jetbikes had stopped coming past as soon as the chattering started. The boy rose quickly, and looked around. The atmosphere was almost gone; it was almost unreal. Then, the boy heard an explosion, and swiftly ran. A single Genestealer had gibbered onto the building, and a Spore Mine cracked into a jetbike, causing the explosion, and killing three Eldar. Hive Fleet Moloch had arrived.

The boy ran, and suddenly stopped: he had suddenly thought of his father's jetbike. He glanced around, then moved quickly and silently back toward the house. He sat on the bright green jetbike, and tried to figure out the controls. He managed to get it started, and soon he was getting used to the steering. The jetbike flew effortlessly through the shaped domes, occasionaly passing a Genestealer lurking in the shadows, but the boy did not notice these. He reached the dome where the Farseer slept, and walked in, getting to a brisk run by the time he was halfway across. Finally, he stopped in front of the wraithbone case for the body of the Farseer. The boy wondered what was going on, when suddenly, a Lictor crept into the dome, still unnoticed by the boy. It slowly clicked, massaging the wraithbone walls of the dome, absorbing, wondering with it's sleek red tendrils. The Farseer did not like this infiltrator. Not one bit.

The wraithbone coffin burst open, and the Farseer leapt out of it, landing on the floor. A gentle dust cloud erupted from the floor under him, and he stood, a formidable eight foot tall. His orange robes flowed as he walked to the Lictor, almost sentient in it's movement. Three Warlocks walked into the room, not quite as tall as the Farseer, but challenging nonetheless. The boy watched as the Lictor chattered towards the four defenders, when suddenly, the Farseer raised his hand. The Lictor stopped, as if it was turned into a statue. The Farseer's golden helmet made no movement, and showed no emotion. Suddenly, twelve clean bolts of lightning eruptede from his fingers, engulfing the Lictor in a howl of terrible pain. It shrieked, and writhed uncontrollably from the sudden attack from the previously placid Farseer. It dropped, dead to the floor. The boy followed the four psykers out of the elegant dome.

Ultra super mega times a gazillabillion job. You should think of being a sci-fi writer.

Thanks, Eldar Savior- Much appreciated!

Chapter 4: The Scorpion's Bite

The Scorpion Grav-Tank hovered for a few seconds, the pilot and Saiman watching the approaching Ork horde, willing Sayshh to start firing the huge cannon on top at the Ork ranks. Sayshh just sat there; the warp pack on his back made him feel very... cosy in the cockpit. Finally, he shuffled to a more comfortable position, and found his helmet pushing up against the clear cockpit. He gripped the handle of the cannon, and began to charge it. A small, rotating red dot appeared in the mouth of the cannon, and it began to grow larger as he pushed the handle forward. It was now fairly big, probably the size of an Avatar of Khaine. Sayshh then pushed a small glowing button to his left, and a huge, crimson laser erupted from the cannon's mouth. It pierced into the Ork mob, sending it into even more chaos than it was before: Suddenly one Ork noticed where the beam of death came from. It yelled at its comrades to chase after it, and a small sinking feeling came about in Sayshh's gut. The pilot's voice crackled through the radio, telling him to begin charging again. He did.

Another three lasers smashed into the Ork horde, at least a hundred collapsing, blown away, or just plain ripped to shreds by the Scorpion's almost daemonic beam cannon, when a single Ork Boy jumped onto the Scorpion, surprising itself in its agility. It stood up carefully as the pilot executed all sorts of difficult manoeuvres, just to shake off the stray Ork. It still hung on, as four more Boys blundered onto the Scorpion. They started hitting the cockpits with their crude axes, until the main cockpit split open with a crack. Luckily, a piece of clear material sliced into the Boy's heart, sending it staggering onto the desert floor, bleeding foul blood. One of the Orks grabbed the pilot, and threw him out; it seemed they had figured out who could actually drive the sleek Grav-tank. The Boy then proceeded to leap back off, and rip the pilot's helmet off, exposing his face. The Ork twirled his axe slightly, and raised it high above his head, ready to decapitate the Eldar pilot. He raised his hands feebly in an attempt to stop him, and a cruel grin slowly emerged through the Orks's pockmarked face. Suddenly, Sai'dan rose, his cracked armour daring the Orks to hit it. He pulled out a long, sharp spear, and aimed carefully, a single drop of sweat running down his face. He threw the spear at the Ork trying to kill the pilot.

Saiman watched in horror. Almost in slow motion, the Ork swung down his screaming axe. The pilot lay there, a small, but fatal chunk out of his neck seeping blood. His vision was fading, but he saw the spear's ever-bright glint piercing the Orks chest, and coming out the other way, returning to Sai'dan instantly. For a few seconds, everything was silent. The pilot looked up at the sky, now littered with crude, Orkish explosions. His vision faded completely, and he lay there, an almost serene beauty surrounding the spot where he died. Then, something very strange happened. His spirit rose out of him. The glowing, silver spirit started gliding, noticing the muffled sounds of battle, and the Orks moving slowly. The pilot's spirit sat on the spot, unaffected by anything. The still, cold body still carried the spirit stone, designed to capture the owner's spirit as it came out. It had lost it's familiar sheen, instead a dark, crimson bead embedded into the chestplate. This was very strange indeed.

The spirit felt an unbearably cruel pain. It shrieked silently, vision going red. A huge tear in the sky above alerted not just the spirit, but the Orks and the Eldar too. However, they did not notice the jet-black banshee screaming down upon the defenceless spirit, sweeping the silver spirit up, and bringing it up to the planet's atmosphere. This was not a normal, silver, noble spirit.

This was a spirit of chaos.

Yeah finnaly a do it yourself craftworld! Finnaly a equal : D. I have a craft world but i haven't named it. Love the story.

Chapter 5: The Pawn

The Autarch of Rhen-Zei sat in the dome, watching the Tyranids overcome the Guardians of Rhen-Zei. His plan had worked perfectly. All of the citizens thought he was at Clthwai, fighting off the vicious Orks. However, he had no intention of going there any time soon. His interest increased as a young boy, three Warlocks and the Farseer walked quickly ahead, dispelling any Tyranids with almost little effort. Suddenly, a Gargoyle smashed into the dome, and grabbed the Autarch, flinging him out onto the small, winding paths below. A lone Guardian saw him. The Autarch wanted no Eldar to see him. He moved, a tiny detail in a background of chaos. A small pool of corrosive liquid melted a nearby Guardian alive, his screams heard only by the Autarch, who proceeded to creep into the shadows, convincing the Guardian he was a simple hallucination. He pulled an elegant Shuriken Pistol out of his cloak, and took carefull aim at the Guardian's head. He pulled the trigger, and the Eldar dropped, without a word to say. The Autarch felt no regret.

Meanwhile the Farseer looked around. The gigantic Wraithbone chamber remained close. His subconcious told him that the Avatar of Khaine inside had not been awoken. He looked at the boy, and began to twist his mind. He moved silently to the entrance of the Wraithbone fortress, ignoring the chaos around him. A Termagent tried to grab him, but it fell down, paralyzed by a mind war. The boy stood before the chamber, his silence creeping around the screams surrounding him. Unknowingly, the Farseer began to paint burning runes of Khaine on his head. He had no time to commit the entire ritual. He simply hoped that the sacrifice would be enough to bring the Avatar about. He finished, and the boy looked forward without speaking. He gave away no signs of pain as the psychic runes burned into his skull. He pulled at the chamber, and, filled with unnatural strength, managed to open it slightly, but enough. A single tear dropped down the Farseers eye as his assistant Warlocks fought around him. The boy entered the chamber, and a tiny flicker of fire appeared in the Avatar's statue-esque eyes.

The boy walked, an eerie silence surrounding him. The Farseer's bond to the boy was beginning to grow weak, and a single pillar of flame ended it entirely, Khaine burning it. However, the boy was unfazed by the sudden activity as he reached the Avatar. The giant rose, creaking. Molten flames started to course through it's veins. It reached its full height, and a sword appeared in its hands. It crept silently. The boy looked, feeling no fear, no sadness, but a feeling of shame. He was duped into this by the Farseer's unending will. He had become the Young King. The embodiment of Khaine raised its mighty blade, and brought it down upon the boy. He fell down, and the blade penetrated his skin, the pain burning through his body. His spirit rose as an eagle, and glided effortlessly into the vast emptyness of space, his spirit being immediately captured by Slaanesh. He had not even been given a spirit stone.

The Pawn had been taken.