My first foray into the literature forum
This is a bit of fluff I wrote in the timescale just following the battle with the orks of Waaagh! Rekkfist. It is written from the point of view of a Warlock, who will probably serve as my protagonist in future stories. This is a complete bit of "flash" fiction.
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Anantael staggered through the desolation, helmet under her arm, the fire of Khaine long since washed through with tides of grief. Her witchblade, still clasped in her right hand, sang to her songs of destruction but she paid it no heed. Here and there she picked out a gleaming spirit stone from the rubble and placed it delicately within her upturned helmet. No matter what fate befell her home, her Craftworld, she would not leave the honoured dead in the clutches of Her. Not while she could do anything about it.
Only a couple of hours had passed since the beleaguered Iyanden escaped from the very brink of annihilation. Search and rescue parties dotted the landscape hunting for the living, whilst those more sensitive to psychic pulses scoured the ruins for the souls of those long passed, who were nonetheless critical to the Craftworld’s defences. Anantael hated that their elders must be disturbed for such purpose and hated even more that their service had amused their fallen cousins so, despite the fact that their home was saved in part by the raiders from the Dark City.
The warlock faltered, her knees weakened by battle and caught her already tattered and bloodied robe on a protruding rod. Enough, she told herself. Even now I must rest. She eased herself onto a flat block of marble, wincing as she did so. From the edge of her vision she could see a yellow scrap from her garments dancing merrily in the wind as it clung to the rod. That was as far as she dared look.
Even for a trained warrior the conflict had been hard. Once the spark of the mighty Avatar had ebbed there was little to keep this staunch defender from collapsing totally on the ground. Composure, however, was necessary, a barrier against the horrors that bubbled up in her mind and swam in front of her closed eyes. She settled for slumping, head bowed, dark hair covering her face in the gentle breeze. It carried the stench of battle but she blocked it out, blocked out all that threatened to overwhelm.
A voice startled Anantael from her repose. How long, she wondered as she reached for her helmet with a stab of guilt, how long had she sat here whilst her ancestors lay in peril? She sprang up, wheeled around and ran headlong into a tall figure dressed impeccably in black.
“Stay, child. Your wits have not yet returned.”
Indeed, she thought as she stepped back to appraise her company. If she even failed to feel a Farseer’s presence, her old mentor at that, then she was in sore need of rest. Rest and isolation from the rising tide of emotion that threatened to engulf Iyanden.
“I am sorry, Irthanien,” she addressed him, “I did not sense you.”
“You did, for you awoke,” he replied with a strained smile, tempered by recent events, “I did not announce myself.”
Anantael accepted this and inspected her tutor for signs of wear. He had redressed, obviously, as the last time she saw him his ornate, embroidered robes were awash with filth, dust and Ork blood. He was now dressed simply in form-fitting black which hid any injury underneath, although he had a new gash across his cheek and a graze on his forehead.
“I am fine. Physically,” the Farseer added, noting her scrutiny, “but in my mind I am reeling, buzzing, tearing myself apart.” He moved towards her and sat heavily on her previous perch. She echoed his feelings entirely.
“I wish I could scream” Anantael said, her voice quiet despite her statement.
“Please do, don’t hold back on my account.”
The warlock scoffed, unsure whether he was mocking her or not. She looked down at her feet and toed the small pieces of stone that littered the pavement. Stones that had once been homes or shrines. Stones that had housed life.
“Look around you” Irthanien’s voice seeped into her thoughts. She tried to raise her head but it was heavy, bent with the weight of grief, held back by the fear of what she would see. Instead she shook it and stood sullen, unmoving.
A hand floated into her vision, pale and adorned with many rings and painted runes. It reached for her own; it was warm and charged with a fierce, fortifying energy. The younger Eldar grasped it and breathed deeply. The owner of this hand was asking her to do something she had managed to avoid ever since the enemy was finally blasted into the fathomless darkness from whence it came. This was her home, her life, her everything. Every moment where she could avoid acknowledging the truth was precious to her. But now it was time.
Ruin everywhere. Buildings smote by Orks, streamers of smoke from heavy weapons fire, Eldar and wraithbone bodies in the brightly assorted colours of Iyanden and the Aspects strewn over rubble. Even the artificial sky was rent, and the cold expanses of space could be seen beyond, unfeeling starts winking down at them. As she cast her head back, a single tear fell down Anantael’s cheek followed closely by another, her face glistening with the expression of her despair. Irthanien was now by her side, the fingers of his left hand lightly touching her elbow.
“Now you have seen,” he said “but now is not the time for grief.”
Anantael shook her head, a bitter gesture of hopelessness rather than disagreeing with her old mentor.
“We have suffered so,” she said, her voice cracking like the pillars of stone around them.
“And more will suffer still if we give in to our sadness.” He eyed her evenly and they stood for a while, lost in each other’s thoughts.
Finally, the older man stooped to pick up her helmet, which rattled gently and caught the early morning light.
“Accept,” he said as he handed it to her, “It has happened and it was devastating, but for once there is only one direction worth looking to.”
Curious words for a Farseer, Anantael thought, but she knew exactly what he was hinting at. She took the proffered helmet and its precious cargo and steered her considerable mental focus to that one fragile gift they had left – a future.
Sylvaneth A forest
III Legion 5000pts
XIII Legion 9000pts
Hive Fleet Khadrim 5000pts
) since Vect forbids any psykers from existing in Commoragh for obvious reasons...
