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Made in ie
Fresh-Faced New User





Hi,
Below is my first pass at some 40K fiction. Any mistakes regarding lore inconsistencies or spelling are of course my own. Please feel free to reply with any constructive criticism, but as it's my first go, be gentle!
RhysH



The Things That Come After


The sweet, cloying stench of incense filled the room. Its smell might have worse than that rising from the field hospitals on the plains below, but if asked at that moment, Captain Alchion Vex wouldn’t have expressed a preference either way. One seemed to follow the other in a never-ending cycle, blurring together so that eventually they became the one memory.
The room was maybe twenty-foot square, pitted stone walls covered with trailing wires and irregularly placed pict screens. It lay at the top of a tower on the south-western wall of the city, above those rooms that had been appropriated in the wake of the invasion by the Imperial Guard as a command centre. Maps marked with hasty scribbles in red and blue were pinned to the walls, and on these his gaze lingered, watching them shuffle in the breeze coming in through the open windows. He had lit the candles he found on the table scarcely ten minutes before, but already the smoke stung his enhanced eyes, and he toyed with the idea of snuffing them out. The carrion stench from below the walls might well be the better option.
The Astartes Captain was the sole incumbent of the room. Through the floor, he could hear the levels below humming with noise as the intelligence staff of the Guard and the Planetary Defence Force updated maps with troop dispositions and compiled reports on the day’s fighting. Vex had taken the opportunity for a few moments of contemplation to reflect on what had occurred that day, and what would be needed for the next. He had not slept that night, and though it would be a few more days before he needed to, time to think was crucial. Already dawn was a flush of colour in the sky.
He put the dataslate he held onto the table at the centre of the room and rubbed his eyes with the finger and thumb of his right hand. When he lowered it, he saw the blood dried in to the creases of his palm, and where his finger joints bent. He rubbed his thumb over his fingers and frowned.
His gauntlet had been damaged in the fighting to the extent that the Chapter’s techmarines had regarded it as scrap the moment it had been recovered from the field of battle. A glancing blast from a flamer had been enough to reduce it to uselessness, and only his years of training has saved the rest of his armour, and by extension himself, from worse harm. He had cast the gauntlet aside and fought on with one hand bare, until it was drenched and slick with the blood of his enemies.
For a while Alchion sat at the table, his gaze nowhere in particular.
He heard the tread of boots in the stone stairs a long time before the knock came at the door.
“Come.”
A Marine entered. Like the Captain, he was still dressed in his armour, the recently painted dun yellow pitted and scratched like the walls of the room. A fire mark was scorched diagonally across his breastplate, and along the edges of the it, where the paint had bubbled away, Alchion could see navy blue traces of the chapter colours beneath.
“Apologies for disturbing you, Captain,” the Marine said. He was dark skinned, and his cheeks bore scars that were more than remnants of battle borne experience. A short beard decorated his chin in contrast to his shorn scalp. He was young, and only recently raised from neophyte into the full ranks of the Astartes. Alchion made the sign of the Aquila, the Marine following suit.
“No need for apologies, Brother Sengredd,” Alchion said. “Please, take the weight off your feet.” He gestured to a chair alongside the desk.
The marine hesitated, then took the offered seat. The chair had been constructed with the enhanced physique and mass of armoured Astartes in mind, but still let out a low groan as Sengredd sat down, awkwardly settling his weight into it.
“Captain, we couldn’t raise you on the vox. I bring a message….” He began.
Alchion raised a hand. “The vox is unreliable since we made planetfall. Do you require refreshment? There’s water over on that table there.”
The marine raised his eyebrows a fraction, then shook his head.
“How did your squad fare today?” asked Alchion. The marine took a moment to compose himself, and his Captain waited without comment.
The chapter was, by both nature and nurture, less ceremonious than many of the chapters that made up the legions of the Adeptus Astartes. The Chapter Master was of the firm belief that men fought for each other as much as they fought for ideals or distant figures, and he worked to instil the ethic into the men under his command that they were all, in more ways than one, equals. A bolter round would take the life of the Chapter Master just as swiftly as that of a novice. This in itself lead to a certain informality that sometimes bewildered more stringent followers of the codex. Newer recruits sometimes struggled too with the juxtaposition between the seriousness of their sacred duties and the espirit de corps of the chapter.
“The fight was difficult, Brother-Captain. The Eldar were nowhere to be found when we first advanced, and then…” Sengredd let out a long breath. “We took but a few casualties.” He traced the line of the scorch mark on his armour with his gauntleted fingers. “The Guard fared far worse than we did.”
Alchion nodded slowly, deliberately. It had indeed been a hard fight, and the advance had stalled within miles of their starting points. The Imperial Guard commander had been overconfident, made so by the lack of a visible enemy and incomplete intelligence reports. The Eldar had waited until the Imperial lines became stretched, then exploited the gaps their patience had created. The armoured bulk and firepower of the Astartes squads had stabilized the line, and without their tenacity the Guard regiments accompanying them might have folded under the sudden assault. Yet the Guardsmen had fought well once the shock had abated, bolstered by the unyielding solidity of the marines in their midst.
“Your squad fought well,” Alchion said. “Is Commander Sung still at the field hospital?”
“I believe so, Brother-Captain.”
“I must speak with him before we renew our advance. Do our brothers require anything?”
“Only the opportunity to take the fight to the Xenos, venerable Captain.”
Alchion felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, though he quickly supressed it.
“You are a credit to the Chapter, brother. Be assured that we will eradicate the aliens from this world. The battle may be over for today, but the war will still be fought tomorrow.”
“For the Emperor, Brother-Captain.”
“For the Emperor, Brother.”
They fell silent for a moment, and then Sengredd spoke again.
“Captain, the message. It came from the Xenos commander.”
Alchion’s eyebrows raised now. He leaned forward in his seat and rested an armoured arm on the desk. The wood, or whatever material it was made of, creaked under the weight.
“Go on.”
“Skirmishers received a vox message a little over an hour ago, in Imperial Gothic. Given the problems we’ve had with communications, that in itself was unusual. The message was from the Xenos commander, requesting a parley. It was ignored at first, but the message repeated itself at regular intervals until one of their warriors appeared at the front lines carrying a flag of truce.”
Alchion frowned, feeling the grit and dirt caked into the lines of his face.
“Where is this warrior now?”
“I have no idea, Captain. The guardsmen on the front line opened fire at the sight of the alien, and it disappeared.” Sengredd’s tone showed his prejudice. “A few minutes later the xenos appeared again. The guardsmen fired like they had done before, with the same result. By now, the message had been passed along the line, and I attended with a squad from fifth company. We were concerned it might signal another attack. When the alien appeared for the third time, we ordered the Guard to hold their fire. The alien vanished into the scrub, and the message stopped.”
“Whom did they want to speak with, exactly?”
“The commander of our forces. Brother-Sergeant Bryndal noted that it was likely yourself that the aliens wished to speak to, rather than the Imperial Guard Commander. I was dispatched here immediately, though I believe the Guardsmen at the front line may have notified Commander Sung as to the alien’s presence.”
Alchion leaned back in the chair and ran a hand across his chin. The faint rasping noise filled the space between the two Astartes.
“Well. That is interesting,” he said. He looked across the desk to where his Bolter lay, angles of steel reflecting the rising light creeping in through the window. The smell of incense was suddenly stronger than it had been before, drifting with lazy abandon through the room. He looked out of the window into the brightening skies. Dust from the arid plains, thrown up by the movements of men and machines and aliens squabbling over its uncaring dirt would soon blur the horizon.
“Very well, Brother. Let’s see what this alien wants with us.”



The Marines created their own clouds of dust as they marched through the scrub at the defacto front line, the full available strength of the fifth company advancing from the transports that had brought them this far. The Rhinos departed the drop off points with practiced ease, heading immediately for pre-determined positions in support of the infantry. Around the advancing squads of Astartes, Imperial Guardsmen came to, straightening and reaching for weapons only stowed at the close of the previous day. Basilisk crews, and further forward, Autocannon teams, set about their preparations with watchful eyes flickering towards the Marines.
Alchion lead the way through the whispering grass, his Bolter carried low at his side. Sergeants gave orders behind him and the Marines dispersed as the vehicles had done, seeking cover and advantageous firing positions in the undergrowth. Some settled in already occupied foxholes, forcing the Guardsmen there to dissipate around them like ripples in a pond after stones were thrown into it.
The line petered out and the final advanced placements of troops fell behind the remaining marines. The Captain, Sergeant Bryndal and Brother Sengredd continued on.
There were few tall plants on the savannah that dominated those parts of the continent containing the planetary capital, though a small copse of them lay ahead. The tallest parts of them were six times the height of the tallest Astartes, branches spread in wide despair at the sky above, while a mirror image of the upper branches perched with delicate grace on the yellow earth, creating strange lattice structures to the passing marines’ eyes. During certain seasons of the year they migrated with slow, pondering inevitability to fresh pastures before returning the following season, leaving Imperial xenobiologists divided as to whether the trees should be classified as animal or vegetable.
“This is the place the alien was last seen, Captain,” said Sengredd as the Marines came to a stop and scanned the emptiness in front of them.
“Are we certain the Guard didn’t kill it?” asked Alchion, squinting at the horizon
“It disappeared,” said Bryndal. “It could easily be hiding out there, but we haven’t seen it since.”
Alone of the Marines, the sergeant wore his helmet. He was tall even for an Astartes, and had he not shaved his head in the fashion the fifth company had chosen to adopt, he would have been blonde. His head was marked across the brow by an old wound he had patched himself on the battlefield of a half-remembered planet. The story went that, after he was wounded by a glancing blow from a greenskin axe, and with the Marines staging a fighting retreat around him, he refused the services of the company apothecary, instead stuffing the wound with clay and applying a synth skin graft all the while casually popping off advancing Orks with his Bolter. With his head freshly bandaged, he had charged the Ork horde alone. His brothers, suitably inspired by his example, had followed him and routed the enemy. Whether it had been courage or inspired madness, his actions that day had resulted in his promotion to sergeant.
Alchion studied the ground before him. The grass stretched tall and languid towards a low set of hills some ten miles distant that reconnaissance patrols had confirmed contained the aliens. The scouts cautious advance in the hours after the battle had been met with laser fire as the ground started to rise beneath them, and they had beat a hasty retreat, satisfied enough that the enemy had been located far enough away from their own lines.
He walked forward a few steps, his armoured boots crushing grass into the dust. A thin breeze rustled his hair. Bryndal and Sengredd joined him.
“This was the place the message referred to,” Bryndal said. “But there’s no sign of them. Another xenos trick.” He spat the words out.
“Do you think so?” asked Alchion. His eyes continued to scan the horizon
“Either that or the Guard killed it and scared any others off. I’ll detail a couple of scout patrols to search the immediate area for any bodies.”
“No need,” said Alchion.
“Captain? The aliens are gone.”
“No. They never left.”
The Captain reached behind him, his Bolter mag locking neatly into place on his thigh and raised his empty hands to shoulder height. He heard an intake of breath from behind him, and a clatter of metallic sounds as the marines raised their own weapons in compensation.
But evidently whatever gesture had been required was satisfied, as a few hundred yards to their front, the air began to shimmer and glisten, turning iridescent before coalescing slowly into solidity. Bryndal and Sengredd’s movements were echoed along the line behind them as the Marines and Guardsmen made themselves ready. Barked orders to hold fire rumbled like muted thunder.
The multi-coloured shimmering expanded, and before them a grav tank emerged as if from nothingness, the image of it coalescing until it was fully visible. Its colours were red and white, and the hull gleamed in the dull light as if appearing fresh from a rain shower. The tank had a split wing design and a single turret. Laser cannons protruded from its sides. The grass bent beneath the bottom of the vehicle, though Alchion knew from experience that meant nothing. If its pilots chose, it would be gone almost before the Imperials could react. He allowed himself a little relief that the fifth companies Devastator teams were present and even now training their weapons on the alien tank in front of him.
Alongside the tank, he could see two figures. One was dressed in brightly coloured robes adorned with runes and what seemed like bulbous jewels. Gold inlaid into the cloth glittered in the dawn light. Its helm was high and swept back above its head, lending it an insect like aspect, and it carried a long staff that tapered into an ornate spear shape. The other was clad in bone white armour, its helmet fringed with scarlet tresses that moved as if in defiance of the breeze that swept between the two opposing groups. This second figure held no weapons, though despite that it gave the impression of being not so much still, as momentarily contained. Alchion recognised the type of Aspect Warrior this was, and regretted not bringing his own helmet, though it would do little good if the Banshee chose to unleash the wail that was its particular harbinger of attack.
“That was the one the Guard first spotted,” said Bryndal. “That, or one like it.”
Alchion nodded. “Sengredd. You know what to do if things go badly. These won’t be the only ones out here. Sergeant, with me.”
Sengredd nodded, turned, and trotted back to the line.
The alien figures had started walking towards the Astartes. Alchion inclined his head and went to meet them, Bryndal at his side. They stopped in the dead ground between the line of Imperial troops and the grav tank, the branches of the alien trees moving gently within the grove to their right.
The Eldar with jewelled robes handed its spear staff to the Aspect Warrior and reached behind its head to release whatever mechanism held the helmet in place, removing it with a smooth motion. The features beneath were fine, tapered almost, and gave the creature a sharp, blade like appearance. Even this close up, the Eldar’s appearance was strangely disquieting in a way Alchion could not quite place, as if it were somehow indistinct. The effect was disturbing to someone used to the solid bulk of humanities arms and armour.
“I am Farseer Truosinian, of the Aeldari craftworld Auchintheltan.”
The alien’s voice was strange, ethereal and almost echoed itself. He spoke Low Gothic well however, which Alchion was grateful for if nothing else.
“Greetings, Farseer. I am Alchion Vex, captain of the fifth company of the Shade Reavers chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. This is Sergeant Bryndal, also of the fifth company.” Alchion inclined his hand to his deputy, though Bryndal remained still. Beneath his helmet, Alchion was certain the sergeant was scowling at the alien. “We received a message from you, and a request for parley.”
The Eldar acknowledged the introductions. “We find ourselves at odds, Captain.”
“Apparently so, Farseer. You are trespassing on an Imperial world. You have arrived here with force of arms and have confronted the rightful owners of this planet with those arms. The Imperium will not rest until you are expunged from the planet.”
A smile played at the alien’s lips; a tug at the upper reaches of his mouth, fleeting and gone.
“We might dispute that, Captain.”
“It seems we already did, Farseer.”
“The Eldar knew of this planet when your people scrabbled around in the dirt of your homeworld worshipping your single moon.”
“It belongs to the Imperium. We will not see its people in servitude to xenos such as you.” Bryndal’s voice crackled from his helm before Alchion could respond. He raised a hand.
“Sergeant Bryndal is blunt, but correct. You will leave this world, or we will make you. Those are our terms.”
The Eldar was silent. He looked over his shoulder at the Aspect Warrior behind him, and Alchion was caught for a moment at how graceful even the most mundane movements were to these aliens. The thought held as the other xenos stepped forward, its motion effortless, barely impacting the ground it trod. Part of him filed it away for later contemplation on how to better fight these aliens, while another part stared in wonder as it removed its own helmet.
“This is Kiniteer,” said the Farseer. “It is she that wished to speak with you, though I advised against it.”
Alchion frowned. Dealings with the Eldar were rarely straightforward in any respect, and maybe Bryndal had been right after all. Xenos such as these took a strange pleasure in wrapping tricks around ploys and covering the whole in subterfuge, confounding their enemies before exploiting their disorientation. He had witnessed those very tactics during the day just gone.
“We would request something of you,” said the Banshee.
Like the Farseer, her features were fine, though she lacked the blade like continence of her superior. Her skin was smooth, shimmering like light reflecting off silk, and she gave no inclination that she had, like the rest of them, fought a battle the day before. Alchion was suddenly aware of how rough and blocky he must look to these aliens. He wondered whether they struggled to understand humans as much as they themselves did the Eldar.
“Speak,” he said.
“We lost many of our kindred today,” she began.
“As did we,” Alchion said. “Though my men are ready to fight again if need be.”
“A number of the fallen Aeldari currently lie behind your lines,” she said, ignoring the implicit threat in his words. “We would recover their bodies, if we could.”
Alchion stared. That it was framed as a request, rather than as a demand, threw him for a second. He cleared his throat.
“Why would we allow that?”
“You have no reason not to.”
“This is why you wished to speak with us?” asked Bryndal. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides. He turned his head to Alchion. “This is a ridiculous thing that they ask. Why would we risk exposing our defences by having men gather the bodies of these xenos scum? Captain, it brings us no advantage.”
“No, it does not. We must deny your request, Banshee.”
Kiniteer nodded, as if she has expected to be denied. Beside her, the Farseer remained silent.
“There are prisoners we took today, during the fighting,” she said. Her voice shimmered. “We will make a trade. Your live bodies for our dead ones.”
Bryndal turned to him and spoke quietly, though if what he knew of Eldar hearing was true, he was wasting his time.
“Captain, any prisoners will be Guardsmen, not Astartes,” said Bryndal. “Our brothers would rather die than allow themselves to be captured by these xenos.”
The Eldar nodded. “It is true. We have Guardsmen, as you call them. None such as yourselves. We might have forced a quicker bargain if we had.”
Alchion considered this. He knew a little of the Eldar, knowledge garnered though interactions with Rogue Traders, occasional unscheduled meetings with members of the Ordo Xenos on scattered battlefields, and fleeting hours spent in the chapter’s libraries on their homeworld. They placed great importance on recovering the bodies of their fallen where they could, though for what purpose he did not know. He remembered hearing stories of Eldar infiltrating Imperial held battlefields in the wake of wars, appearing to salvage the bodies of their kin before vanishing into thin air. He wondered whether that might give him an advantage.
“We might consider your proposal, though we would wish for something more in return.”
“Your men are our prisoners,” said Kiniteer. Her voice betrayed a rising impatience. “You will agree to our demands or you will be tormented by their screams as they die.”
Alchion allowed himself a quick smile. There were certain Eldar that took perverse pleasure in butchering prisoners, but by their appearance, and their admission that they were from a craftworld, meant that these were not of that ilk. And, while it was not beyond the realms of possibility that the aliens would slaughter the prisoners out of spite, if they wanted the bodies of their kindred badly enough to request a parley, then he reasoned their position was not as strong as his own.
“No, we won’t.”
The Banshee’s face twisted in frustration, and he caught the minute movement as she reached involuntarily for her sidearm. The Farseer raised his fingers in what might have been a placating gesture, and she stilled, though there was rage building in her face that might not be easily dissipated. If she had gone for the weapon, a bloodbath would have ensued. Truosinian spoke.
“Tell us then, Captain Alchion Vex of the Adeptus Astartes. What is it you want in return for the bodies of our brothers and sisters?”
Alchion had the distinct impression the Eldar already knew what he was about to say, but he said it anyway.
“I want you gone. Off this planet, and out of this system. You will be allowed to depart unmolested, and the bodies of your people will be returned to you. The prisoners will be returned to us unharmed, and we will finish this war here and now. If you refuse, the servants of the Imperium will drive you from this world, and we will cast you living and dead into the void. There will not be another offer.”
Again, Truosinian’s mouth twitched as if with amusement, and Alchion half wanted him to refuse so he could tear the alien’s arrogant head from his shoulders.
“As you wish. We accept your terms.”
Alchion blinked.
“You did not expect so easy a victory, Mon’Keigh?”
“What trick is this?” said Alchion. His voice was a low growl. “All the killing today, all the death, and you just walk away?”
“We did not seek confrontation with you, and there is no trick. Your terms are fair, and we have the knowledge we came for,” he said. “There is more to this than you realise, Alchion Vex. Further dealing of death between us will bring no advantage to either, and there are greater enemies for us both to face. We consider our lives to be precious, even if your kind do not. Arrange for our kin to be brought to the foot of the hills, and we will exchange them for your men prior to our departure.”
The breeze rose again, whispering across the silence as the Marine and the Eldar stared at each other. After a long moment, Alchion nodded his assent.
“Captain….” said Bryndal. He did not finish what he had begun, as in front of them the air began to distort. The marines stepped backwards, reaching for weapons. Alchion’s hand went involuntarily to his bolter, though he stopped himself at the last moment, leaving it locked in place on his war plate. His brothers would not open fire until he gave the order or began shooting himself, but the Guard, spooked by the phenomena in front of them, might inadvertently start shooting.
Beyond the single grav tank, hundreds of metres back, the air shimmered once more, turning iridescent before solidifying as it had done when the Farseer and his Banshee escort revealed themselves. The scale of change this time was massive in comparison, as tanks and troops that had been standing hidden and silent throughout the conversation between the commanders glistened into view. Their numbers were significant, easily the equal of the Imperial troops that faced them.
It was a show of force, a reminder perhaps that the Eldar were far from powerless, even while the peace was being made. They must have prepared for this during the night, approaching the Imperial lines in darkness. There was no weakness here, and even as he stared in stunned silence, Alchion was impressed.
“We will respect your terms, Alchion Vex of the Shade Reavers. Until next time.”
Truosinian gave a final half smile, inclined his head, and turned away. The Banshee hesitated a moment longer before turning with him.
Alchion felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him as the Eldar moved away, tiny disturbances rising in the dust behind them. Here and there they began to board the vehicles than had brought them this far, the machines zipping away at faster speeds than Imperial tanks could have done in similar circumstances. If there was a chance to attack and take a heavy toll on the enemy, it was now.
He stood at ease and felt the wave of emotion behind him. Disappointment in the case of some of his more volatile battle brothers, relief in the exhaled breath of the guardsmen. Above it all there was an unspoken confusion as to what had happened between the two commanders that would circulate for days as the rumours and tales rippled over how the Marine Captain had talked down a war.
“We shouldn’t have let them leave,” said Bryndal. Alchion was certain he was scowling now, and not entirely at the rapidly departing xenos.
“In this case, a battle avoided is a battle won.”
Bryndal snorted. “Do you think they will keep their word?”
Alchion could feel the sergeant’s frustration at the way things had turned out, but that was one of the reasons Bryndal was not the Captain of the company. The Farseer had been right when he said that there were greater enemies for them both to face, and their resources were not infinite. He squinted after the Eldar and then into the sky. The grey light began its turn to yellow and orange as the sun ascended, and above, the stars drew back.
“We will maintain these positions until we are sure. Have the Guard collect the bodies of the Eldar. They are to be treated as we would treat our own. Then we will see whether they will keep their word.”
Alchion looked down at his bare hand. The blood was still there, in the creases of his fingers, brown stains yet to be washed away. The memory of them would stay a while yet, before fading as the others did, into the locked cages of his mind.
He turned his back and started towards the Imperial lines.



The starship glittered against the eternal backdrop of night. On the planet below, dawn was spreading inexorably across the fourth continent, bringing light, and with it hope that war that had indeed been averted. It was a false hope, Truosinian knew, but some was better than none.
“The last transport ships have docked, Farseer.”
He didn’t turn from the view, but nodded acknowledgement. Withdrawal had taken several days as transports landed and loaded personnel and material in a deliberately languid set of actions that indicated it was a choice rather than a necessity.
“Thank you, Kiniteer. Have the rangers departed?”
“They departed with the last transport. They have been directed to remain silent until an appropriate time, as the mon’keigh may be monitoring our transmissions.”
“They will, if they have any sense, and Captain Vex strikes me as someone with more sense than most. It is almost a pity we leave them in such a difficult situation.”
Kiniteer said nothing, but the Farseer could feel weight in her silence. He turned then, leaving the mottled yellow and green and blue pearl of the world hanging below them to face the Banshee. Except that she was no longer an Aspect Warrior. She might not have vocalised the thoughts yet, not even to herself, but Truosinian could see it in the set of her face and the way she moved. She would return her armour to the shrine on Auchintheltan and abandon the path of the Warrior to set her goals elsewhere. The path of grief beckoned to her now. For someone who had endured all she had on the planet below, it was not a bad thing, for the path of the Warrior would consume a mind willing to lose itself in the pursuit of vengeance.
“You have been busy since we returned, Kiniteer. I have not seen you.”
“There was much to be done before we departed.”
“Has the work brought you any…comfort?” he asked, searching for the right word, finding one that fit but at the same time did not.
“There was distraction in the work. I am lost without it.”
Truosinian breathed out heavily.
“Has everything been made ready?” he asked. He kept his voice low, and as gentle as he was able. Even so, her face tightened.
“Everything that can be done has been done, Farseer. He will receive the funeral rites when we return to the craftworld, and his soul will join with our ancestors.”
“I can help, perhaps. Speak with your children, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Farseer. Though there will be no need.”
Truosinian nodded. He was silent for moments before speaking again.
“You are wondering why we agreed to their terms and left the planet to them?”
“It is not my place to question the wisdom of the council.”
“But you wonder nonetheless.”
Truosinian considered her. She was worn, and there were lines in the creases of her skin where there had been none before. Perhaps she deserved something from this. She was not the only one to have lost someone on the battlefields below, and as word spread, perhaps it would bring some measure of succour to those others that had borne the losses of his decisions.
“Our presence here was not an accident. We were searching for something in this system, something we have long feared. It was our misfortune to find that which we sought.”
“What was it?”
The Farseer looked away then and lost himself in his own thoughts for a moment. His abilities were as much curse as they were blessing, and sometimes it was about choosing the lesser of the evils that were presented.
“An ancient enemy slumbers on this planet. They have been here so long they were all but forgotten. But they remain, as they remain elsewhere. We thought to destroy them before they awoke, but our misfortune was amplified when the humans responded as quickly as they did. A war with them risked disturbing that which sleeps.”
“That is why we withdrew?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What of the mon’keigh?”
“Their ways are strange, alien to us. They might never disturb the evil beneath the earth. If they do, they are as well positioned as we are to deal with the threat.”
“They will fight and die in our place.”
A frown passed fleetingly across his face. Kiniteer’s tone had changed when she had last spoken, and he wondered what that might signal.
“If need be.”
She matched his gaze for a few silent moments, then nodded and turned.
“Thank you, Farseer.”
He watched her leave, thinking about the strands of possibility that he had woven, not only with the craftworld’s future, but also with the humans on the planet below, ignorant of their danger as they celebrated a hollow victory. And he wondered too of the possibilities he had woven in the girl who had just taken her leave, and that was the thought that made him turn back to the world below, watching it slowly recede as the Eldar warships broke orbit, heading for the jump point, and eventually, home.

This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2018/03/10 12:48:46


 
   
Made in ca
Stormin' Stompa






Ottawa, ON

A good read. I'm terrible with dialogue so I am impressed. A good job setting up a miscommunication between parties without making either of them look foolish.

Ask yourself: have you rated a gallery image today? 
   
Made in gb
Eternally-Stimulated Slaanesh Dreadnought





 Mr Nobody wrote:
A good read. I'm terrible with dialogue so I am impressed. A good job setting up a miscommunication between parties without making either of them look foolish.


Yup I am personally working on flowing dialogue in my fan-fiction I am eager to read more rhysh! This story sounds great! Can't wait to see more!

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2018/03/06 03:07:55


 
   
Made in ie
Fresh-Faced New User





Thanks for the feedback (especially as it's positive!) More to come then, work and family allowing.....!
   
 
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