Child of Man (40K) +15: Harlequinade

[Ford Prefect]

The power of an exploding tree should never be underestimated.

[PeZook]

Just one remark - it's awfully cliche when the cast is ambushed by a sniper, who's been lining up his shot very carefully for some time, and then misses when firing at a basically stationary target. The Interrogator should be dead or grievously wounded, especially since he had no idea about the ambush.

It's a very good story otherwise, this little detail above just grated me real bad when I read it

[Singular Quartet]

Just one remark - it's awfully cliche when the cast is ambushed by a sniper, who's been lining up his shot very carefully for some time, and then misses when firing at a basically stationary target. The Interrogator should be dead or grievously wounded, especially since he had no idea about the ambush.

It's a very good story otherwise, this little detail above just grated me real bad when I read it

Check the post above yours, my friend. He meant to miss.

[PeZook]

Check the post above yours, my friend. He meant to miss.

Snowman wanted to miss. The Eldar wanted to kill all the mon-keigh.

[LadyTevar]

Yes, the Eldar who was lining up on the Inquisator should have taken him out... or at least wounded him.

[Elheru Aran]

*pokes thread*

Just a short update, nothing much but might help elaborate on the last episode...

+++++++++++++++
Kindred city under the mountain

The tall, slender form of the wraith-noble Rhaedgar stood outside the farseer's residence, his hand resting upon a second-floor windowsill as his blank visage appeared to peer within. Slowly, he spoke, My lady Anath? Was this necessary?

<Rhaedgar, do not presume to question me. Taernaeth required cleansing. It will take some time before the mon-keigh taint is purified,> Anath responded harshly, turning to look sharply at him. Behind her, Taernaeth laid on a low bed, her back uncovered; handmaidens gently sponged away blood from needle pricks paralleling her spine. Her eyes were closed; but even with his dim wraith-sight, Rhaedgar could tell her features were already sharpening slightly.

His massive head shook slowly, and letting his hand drop from the windowsill he turned and strode away across the city. Anath stared after him for a moment, dark eyes implacable; her hood fell back slightly as she turned, revealing a sharp but not unattractive visage, half her face covered by a golden mask. She looked at her newly reborn daughter, sighed gently and with a wave of her hand dismissed the handmaidens. Kneeling beside Taernaeth, she reached out her hand to the girl's head, closed her eyes and began murmuring with her cracked voice.

From outside, a glow came through the window, as did the swirl of psychic runes. Rhaedgar shook his head again, and turned away to march back to his shrine. Normally his wraith-sight was poor indeed, requiring a nearby Spiritseer to sharpen it; but here in the eldar place of power, he could see adequately enough to spot the rangers slipping through the shadows in their camouflage cloaks. Holding out his hand, he called, Ho! How goes it, Dhaembras?

The seer pulled back the hood of his cloak and responded sharply, "Rhaedgar, we were sent on this mission by the Farseer. Do not question us!"

He strode off holding a long object of some sort wrapped in cloth, leaving the wraith-noble staring after him; Rhaedgar then turned to the others, who had the grace to be abashed after the disrespect shown their former war-leader. He coldly spoke, Explain.

One of the rangers, a female with shaven pate and braided topknot, responded hastily, "Lord autarch, we apologize. The Seer has been most... secretive. We were ordered to drive off any mon-keigh we found at the settlement, but not to bother killing them. We put down a few of their soldiers, but I do not know if we hurt more than that. When they had left, he ordered us to stay in the woods and see to our injured. He went into the mon-keigh house, came out with whatever that is wrapped up in cloth from inside, and told us to return here."

Rhaedgar frowned, though his wraithbone shell changed not; with a slow nod and wave of his hand, the rangers were dismissed, and his thoughts as he strode back to the shrine were dark, wraith-sight wavering and swirling...

Londonium
Meirax's temporary headquarters

"Right, Barjudahissen. You're here. Explain why!" Meirax shouted at the psyker, who grimaced in pain as one of the Guardsmen yanked upon the psi-suppressing collar. They stood outside the Thunderhawk, having just recently debarked; other Guardsmen prodded Tomas and Mari out with their lasguns. They returned to help out two wounded, and dragged a dead soldier behind them.

Dauvit grinned humourlessly and murmured, "If you'd thought to check the house more thoroughly, you might have some idea. As it is, check my pockets..."

Father Gale strode slowly out of the Thunderhawk, and Barjudahissen saw him; his eyes widened in recognition, and then a grin spread across his face. He inquired as Buchar began patting him down, "Jonath? Do you really know who the cleric is?"

Meirax frowned at him as he turned to the savant who had trundled up, and shrugged in response. Barjudahissen nodded slowly. His head came up, and he snapped out, "Lavr-nine! Ident friend-foe zero-five-six-nine-five-Grund! Terminate all units!"

The cleric gave him a cold look and walked over; reaching his hand out, he gripped Barjudahissen's jaw and lifted him up to his toes. Opening his mouth, he coldly responded-- but it was not his voice; rather, it was Inquisitor Nachtmann Grund speaking-- "-rk. Ah, miscreant. You will note that this ident-friend-foe sequence no longer works. You have been removed from Lavr-nine's registry and denoted as a unit to terminate with extreme prejudice unless orders given by supervising Interrogator or Inquisitior countermand. He will no longer respond to any orders given by you. I shall expect to see you before my court soon, in which only one verdict remains for you. End message."

Barjudahissen stared; so did Meirax. The interrogator spoke first, "Lavr-nine? What in the-- keep him quiet, Buchar!"

The sergeant clamped a gloved hand over Barjudahissen's mouth, as the cleric released him and coldly turned to Meirax, stating firmly, "Further details classified, Interrogator. Submit authorization from Master Grund or regional High Ecclesiarch. I shall see to proper disposal of the heretic Kaldens."

He strode off; for a moment Meirax almost fancied he saw a flare of red light in the cleric's eyes. He turned, disturbed, and snapped, "What are you waiting for? Get this witch into the cells!"

[Vehrec]

*Scoots further away from the priest* Thats' suitably creepy. Wheels within Wheels and all that. Why is it that the bad inquisitors are the ones with these really mysterious agendas that they don't tell their own subordinates. And why are we being distracted by the heratic when we have a bunch of Xenos running around out there? We're Xenos, not Hereticus, so what if he used to be one of our agents?

[Ford Prefect]

An Inquisitor never turns away frm the darkness, regardless of its source, Vehrec.

[Elheru Aran]

*cha-ching!*

++++++++++++++++++

Weeks later
The hidden Exodite city under the mountain

Runes swirled thick through the air as lightning crackled from slim fingers. Hands moving faster than any human eye could follow, the seer in his black robes and bulbous helmet thrust out his hands and traced a rune through the air. With an explosion of thunder, the arcane death-spell was deflected by a light gesture of Taernaeth’s hand. Her arms crossed, and with a whisper, they uncrossed to blast searing light at her opponent.

He bowed and weathered the storm of her anger, as it crackled off the shield-field hastily projected between them; and Ilishaen, the Master of the Temples , curtly indicated the end of the training session with a chop of his hand. They parted, and a handmaiden silently handed her a cloth with which to wipe her face. Though it had been a fair while since she had been readopted by the kindred, still the eldar hid their faces from her.

Ilishaen approached, and silkily noted, “Your technique is most… unfortunate. You have learned much, but without precision, without refinement, it shall be for nothing. It is only by command of my lady Anath I have continued teaching you; you were among the mon-keigh for far too long, and I fear the majority of your skills have atrophied. Begone, child!”

Taernaeth glowered angrily at him, but spoke not; she knew it would be futile. Instead she turned back to the handmaiden and handed the cloth back to the female eldar, striding off with her robes swaying in the wind.

Left alone with her mood, the other eldar in the small community beneath the mountain avoiding her with downcast eyes, she strode up the narrow avenue. Reaching the intersection where she normally turned to return to her chambers in Anath’s pavilion, she strode through uncaring of where she headed.

The slim buttresses of a shrine caught her attention, and distracted, she looked at it as she stopped before the low building. Unlike all the others buildings crafted of wraithbone, this was stone. Curious, she probed forth with her mind, and found only one… Hmm. Not a person, but alive nonetheless. No animals were within; the Exodites kept their community scrupulously clean. Intrigued, she ventured through the massive arched doorway, down a flight of broad stairs, into the darkness.

The scent of alien incense reached her nostrils, faintly tinged with cinnamon. She lifted up her hands before her chest and murmured a few words, and an orb of light flicked to life, floating above her hands. She sent it orbiting around herself and created a few more; with them slowly revolving around her, she cautiously stepped further into the darkness.

Glyphs covered the walls thickly, as did the occasional relief carving in the stone walls. The reliefs seemed to depict great acts; from what she had picked up of the eldar alphabet, she pieced together a confirmation from the glyphs. A glitter of light upon metal caught her eye, and she looked closer.

A massive curved sword, almost as tall as herself, leaned against the wall. She looked further, and started when the darkness seemed to part for a moment, showing the tall wraithbone figure of Rhaedgar, seated upon a great stone-carved throne, head stooped upon his chest. Firmly putting her hands upon her hips, she remarked, “You know, I never knew you had a place like this all to yourself…”

The wraithbone figure didn’t move, nor was there any answer. But the incense braziers flanking its throne began glowing. And her head jerked around in surprise as a voice quietly sounded from behind her, “I fear I do not reside within that body right now, milady Taernaeth. How may I serve thee?”

She turned around, and saw only a niche in the wall. Within rested a chest, bound gently, crystals twinkling; she pointed at it and inquired suspiciously, “Rhaedgar? Are you in there?”

“Not as such, my lady. My soulstones rest within; when I am called to action, or I feel there may be action, I request that I be placed within that wraithbone husk behind you. But until then--”

A form slowly flickered to life before her, the dust in the chamber lifting and dancing about until she could discern a tall, male eldar figure, clad in draped robes, hair braided and falling down his back. The dust-form of Rhaedgar held his hands out to his sides and bowed deeply; its thin lips opened and murmured, “As I asked earlier, my lady. How may I serve thee, O Taernaeth aes Anath?”

“I know not, Rhaedgar,” she responded, feeling drained suddenly. She looked at the wavering, vaporous form before her and frowned, whispering, “Am I not of the kindreds, Rhaedgar? Am I not a child of the eldar, Mother Anath’s daughter? Why must they reject me so?”

The dead wraith crossed his arms and sat down upon the chest, regarding her intently; speaking louder, she went on, “Though I am once again one of the eldar, cleansed of the mon-keigh, why do they turn me away, believing I cannot be one of them? Am I so unclean, then, Rhaedgar?”

He murmured, “Not unclean, my lady. But different. The kindreds have never been good at accepting what they could not change. You were brought up as someone beside what they would have ye be, and thus they feel they must twist you, force you into their mold.

“Hear me, O Taernaeth!” he declared, voice growing stronger, “I was Autarch of Khalembrasil, leader of the kindreds of the city. Against the Yngir, the mon-keigh, and the greenskin did we fight, and succeed. My name blazed a line of flame across the stars. All feared the banner of the House of Matholyk, and the banner of Rhaedgar. Yet at the height of my glory I was struck down, my body burnt to ashes. And the seers would have merely buried me with the proper rites, rendering me unto the earth as appropriate.

“But I swore an oath, Taernaeth. I swore an oath that I would protect and serve you with my life, and that oath has not yet been fulfilled. I demanded they build a wraith-body for me, a soulless husk for me to inhabit. I walked once again among the kindreds, yet for having refused the gift of Ynnead, they look upon me with horror. No longer am I Rhaedgar Autarch; now I am Rhaedgar Wraith-Lord, a Ghost Warrior. Even your mother Anath sees no longer her old friend, though she speaks of me as such; but I know I am yet still Rhaedgar.”

She cast her dark eyes coldly upon him and uttered, “Yet that answers nothing, friend ghost…”

The dust-shape’s jaw tightened, ashy eyes narrowing at the jab. Coldly it spoke, “If you are not willing to draw the comparison, my lady…”

Taernaeth held up her hand placatorily; she murmured, “Forgive my anger, Rhaedgar. I am sorry. Pray continue…”

Rhaedgar slowly nodded, anger dissipating. Speaking on, “You are like unto my example, my lady. Except that where I stood in glory, you were taken by the mon-keigh and brought low. They made you one of their own. I stood behind the waterfall and watched, Taernaeth. Though the sight of a wraith-body is weak, I watched. The mon-keigh… They did not kill you. They did not reject you, or curse you as a witch. No. I have not seen mon-keigh do this in six thousands of their years—they took you in as one of their own. They raised you. You were almost one of their own. Is it any wonder, then, that the kindred hold you at but arm’s distance?”

She made no response, but stood and walked slowly out. Rhaedgar’s ghost-form stood in the shrine, alone, watching her exit. The dust dissipated, settling upon the cold stone once more, and within the sealed chest, soulstones glowed dimly in their settings.

Anath's quarters; underground catacomb

<You must not come like this again. I had to kill the maid who saw your arrival,> Anath whispered angrily.

With a scabrously slimy slobber, in a tongue unheard in untold millennia but understood by Anath solely due to the gift hidden under her mask, a voice responded from the darkness-- "Care not. Irrevelant beings all. In motion plan?"

Stifling a shudder, she slowly responded, <Yes. The child has been retrieved. Her training is proceeding but slowly. She has been among the mon-keigh for entirely too long, so reports Ilishaen. And the... artifact. From the farm. It is safe.>

"Dancers. Eliminate. Understand?"

<We cannot. Their temple is too well protected. The plan cannot be revealed before the time is due.>

"Fool. Do it. Laughing God stop cannot. Walk again must Avatar!"

Anath sagged against the hewn stone wall of the catacomb, bile rising in her throat as a sickening stench wafted through the air. Water gurgled dimly, and she knew it had departed. Shaking her head slowly, she turned and wearily climbed the steps, leaning heavily against the wall.

[Ford Prefect]

Exactly what are you up to Anath, you tricksy Eldar you? Whatever it is, I do believe it to be a nasty thing indeed.

[Elheru Aran]

Again... speculation invited!

[Vehrec]

An Old one? I do not know what else it could be. It would not be a Necron or one of the Chaos god's servants. What other race would dare dismiss a Eldar life as insignificant, and not be rebuked?

It would seem that the Eldar path of the Seer is not easily walked by our young Witch. Maybe like Helio Gracie, she should walk her own path . . . But that would merely emphasize how different she is from the others. And as we all know, the nail that stands up will be hammered down.

[Elheru Aran]

A small preview of what's to come...

++++++++++++++

Taernaeth turned slightly to the Jester beside her, and whispered urgently, "Whatever you have, do it!"

The black-coated Harlequin shrugged and dropped his shuriken cannon; it clattered upon the metal floor. Augmetics clicked and whirred as weapons were returned to their ready position, and the machine-man soldiers stepped back as the hulking figure of a mechno-chair stepped forward.

Upon it, light reflected off twin optic units, the circular lenses yellowed with age. Corroded augmetic hands, frozen with fingers intertwined before the face of the hooded figure seated within, shifted not even though the chair jerked and creaked with its age.

A voice clicked from underneath the hood, in the distinctive tones of a vox-generator, "Ah, the First Child returns to its birth place. Thus is it happening as was set forth in the Word. Come, Child; Skitarii, restrain the xenos. This is no sight for its eyes."

El'nsero swept his hands out, flexing his fingers; the all-too-familar cruel claws flashed forth from the tips of his gloves, and from underneath the skull mask a low hiss breathed forth. Taernaeth held up her hand and urgently whispered, "Submit! I will return for you, El. Thank you for bringing me here; I shall bring us out. But you need to live for me to do that, El..."

The empty eye sockets of the mask turned to stare at her; with a bare shrug, he stood straight, flexed his fingers and crossed his arms. She turned to the magos and retorted, "Magos-Genetor Veneratus Ikkare, I presume. Show me these abominations you are making to fulfil this preposterous 'new beginning' of yours. If I am entertained sufficiently, I may let you live."

The magos crackled a harsh mechanical chuckle; the mechno-chair slowly swiveled, and stepped through the slowly opening door in the wall. She followed when a mechadendrite dangling from the chair's base flicked impatiently at her. Standing by the chair, not looking at the desiccated figure within, she stared at the wall beyond, which seemed to be covered by glass.

The floor jerked, and she started as they began sinking, the wall beyond lifting upward; creakily, the chair turned to face her. Magos Ikkare murmured, "So. I suppose Barjudahissen never told you a thing. And then the Laughing God's whelps had to get involved. But I knew the Word would be fulfilled. And look at you, First Child. You have indeed achieved beyond my expectations..."

She stared at him with disgust, and turning away to look outward muttered, "My name is Taernaeth. I am no child, and especially not yours, machine worshipper."

A mechadendrite lifted from the base of the chair and hovered hear her face; others lifted and began sliding their tips against her robes, her arms, hands... Repulsed, she swatted at them, and they backed away. She glared at the magos and drove a blast of psychic force at him.

With a barely discernible crackle, it dissolved before it even touched him. Ikkare chuckled again electronically and turned to face the glass. He murmured, "O, so little you know, child. All has been written in the Word, and the beginning and the end are one and the same. Behold, First Child-- your mother!"

Taernaeth stared in horror as a mechadendrite pressed a rune upon the lift-platform's bulkhead; lights illuminated in the void beyond them as they departed the vertical tunnel, shining bright upon...

[Academia Nut]

Ahem, if I may be the first one to say it:

You bastard.

No fair teasing us with unexpected plot twists outside of full context! No fair I say!

Also, there's a small typo. "A mechadendrite lifted from the base of the chair and hovered hear her face" I presume you meant near.

[HSRTG]

OK, you're teasing us with tentacle rape, but I can't really glean much from an out-of-context chunk. It's like trying to predict the quality of a movie from its ads.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Elheru, I've just read the entire fic today, and...
You fucking ROCK, this is good! .

[Elheru Aran]

Updating after, I fear, a *quite* long hiatus. Do forgive me, I beg.

Let me know what you all think, yeah? Ta!

++++++++++++++++++++++++

In Rhaedgar’s shrine

“And this, where you are fighting these skeletons?” Tanith asked, dark eyes taking in the dusty relief upon the wall. The Wraithlord’s body sat silent in its throne; the dust-figure of Rhaedgar hovered beside Tanith, armour visible underneath his robes, as he responded, “Ah… yes. The Yngir upon tomb-world Hesiarcha. The seers had believed that the undead metal would walk again, and so we struck. Many were lost that day, but the Warlock declared it a victory—for apparently we drove back a C’tan’s plans that day.”

She cast perplexed eyes upon him and inquired, “C’tan? What is that? Their leader?”

“Indeed, my lady. They are star-gods of old, eaters of souls—ancient enemies of our creators, the Old Ones. But four remaining there are, yet each one could destroy this galaxy upon their own should they come into the fullest of their powers. Kaelis Ra the Night-Bringer, Mephet’ran, the Worm of the Void, and the Mad One Outside the Galaxy—they have existed for ever. And they hunger. Oh, yes, they hunger…”

“How nice. Yngir… I have never been told of that species. Is this another of those things which I am not advanced enough in the ways of the Farseer to know?” she asked sardonically. Rhaedgar’s ghost shrugged and responded, “I would not know, my lady. I took the path of the Warrior, following the Dire Avenger Aspect and becoming an Exarch, then I was a Fire Dragon and finally a Reaper. By the Seer Council, I was named Autarch of Khalembrasil. I have never been powerful enough in the ways of the mind to aspire to anything higher, and the way of the Warrior has achievements just as the path of the Seer does.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and rested her hand upon the carving of a Farseer just beside the throne of the massive wraithbone body; looking at it, taking in the profusion of detail, she asked slowly, “Rhaedgar? This Farseer… she is recent, but I know her not. I do not believe the seers have taught me of her in all the history of Khalembrasil…”

Pain etched itself across the swirling dust of Rhaedgar’s face, and he turned away from her for a moment. Slowly, speaking with his back to her, he replied, “Yui Shamaera Kardinallè. Anath Kilmaera is her successor, also her sister. Yui disappeared a little more than two decades ago. The older warriors would be able to tell you more of her. You may leave, Taernaeth. I am finished for today.”

The dust crumpled into its swirling patterns suddenly, and she called out, “Elder? What’s wrong? Have I offended you? I but desired to know more of our history…”

“No offence, Taernaeth. Old memories that I cannot share right now; that is all. I am sorry. I shall see you in a few days’ time, I trust.

“And one last thing?” the invisible voice interjected just as she turned away and began walking to the door, “Exarchs Valkarasen and Urayal. They were good friends of mine. If you wish to know more before then, speak with them. Good day, my lady.”

Pensively, she turned back towards the doors of the Wraithlord’s shrine. More mysteries; it seemed that that was all which faced her these days, in the eldar community which still shut her out for the most part. But she knew a few names, and Urayal was the Reapers’ leader. Valkarasen she hardly knew, but from a dim corner of her brain the recollection came that he might be a Swooping Hawk, one of their airborne warriors. And he had been a Scorpion too; then the full memory came to her, and she remembered that she had overheard the name when sitting in upon a Seer Council meeting. They had been talking about naming a future Autarch.

That had disturbed her. Rhaedgar was the Autarch, whether or not he was disembodied, living only in his soulstones and the Wraithlord body. She looked about, coming to the present suddenly, and realized she was among the shrines of the Aspects; apparently her feet had sensed her mind’s turmoil and had taken her here to find answers. Finding this evidence of her resolve to know more about what was going on here, she stepped forward to the shrine decorated with skulls and a mighty scythe emblazoned upon the front.

Entering within, she was struck by how much it looked like a simple armoury. Heavy weapons were racked carefully upon the walls; armour stood upon simple frames, forming an aisle up to a simple block of stone, upon which rested a massive shuriken cannon and a skull-faced helmet. She reached out to touch it, and then started as a voice whispered behind her ear, “Better not. The Exarch’s armour is sacred. We would regret having to kill you, daughter of the Farseer.”

Drawing herself up to her full height and narrowing her eyes coldly, she swept about to snap at the intruder and found herself staring at an extremely broad and heavily muscled bare chest. Stepping backward carefully, she looked upward and beheld an almost-human, heavily boned (for an eldar) face, lined with age but smiling slightly. He spoke again, “We are honoured by the heir of Khalembrasil visiting here. What service may the Aspect render?”

She looked carefully at his face, and discerned no guile. His powerful body rested lightly upon its toes, but something told her that if she were to try and push him over she would find no success; this was a male accustomed to wielding weapons better suited to mounting upon vehicles, taking brutal recoil yet keeping accurate aim. Finally, she replied, “I seek Urayal. I presume you are one of the Reapers. Bring him to me, or show me to him. Our business is personal.”

“Is that so. I am afraid I cannot take you to him,” he responded sardonically, “but you can be assured that any words you have for him shall reach him if you tell me. Child of mon-keigh you might have been, but the Aspects know you to be eldar. The Aspects know that you chafe under the Seers.”

Irritated, she snapped, “Enough of that. I am not interested in your disingenuousness. Once I ascend to the Seer Council I will take no sides; all will receive equal treatment, be I Farseer, Seer or mere warlock. Again, I ask, take me to Urayal. Do not make me command!”

From the shadows behind the Reaper materialized a dark, skull-faced figure, slight compared to the larger eldar. He was clad entirely in black armour, a white skull covering his head and a long ponytail hanging over one shoulder. He spoke in hollow tones, “You sought Urayal. Urayal is here. What business do you have with me, whelp of Anath?”

Whelp…The thought stung Taernaeth, and she growled, “Show respect to your mistress’s daughter! Do you wish to be punished?”

Her face snapped about suddenly, cheek stinging. She brought a hand up to her face, working her jaw about and feeling it pop slightly, as she stared at the Exarch in shock. The anonymous Reaper stood back, rubbing his hand, letting Urayal speak, “We respect nothing but death and a true leader. Anath is no leader; we only give her our service out of respect for Rhaedgar Autarch and his obedience to her and the Council. Nor have you proven yourself. Until then, all you are to us is a spark-spitting seer child. State your business, or Jairos shall show you out, on your feet or your behind; your manner shall determine which.”

She glowered at him; he stared back from empty eye sockets, implacable. She decided discretion was the better part of valour finally and replied, “My business concerns Rhaedgar and the late eminent Farseer, Yui Shamaera Kardinallè. He only told me her name and that she had vanished over two decades ago. He would say no more, and seemed moved, enough that he dismissed me for some time. Tell me, Exarch—what is the connection? What can I do to find out more? Did they have any kind of relationship?”

He looked at her, suddenly appraising rather than authoritative. Murmured words dismissed Jairos, and a gesture brought her closer to hear his whisper, “Lady Yui and Rhaedgar Autarch were… close. They were very circumspect about it, and to honour them the Aspects said nothing. The Seers were… suspicious. It was not proper for one of their kind to… consort with a warrior, though Rhaedgar ever conducted himself respectfully, acknowledging their stations in his manner, and she did likewise. As for her absence? We know nothing. We say nothing.”

Whispering in her turn, knowing full well that the Seers and Anath had their ears everywhere, Taernaeth responded, “Where can I go to find out more? How did Anath become Farseer if Yui just vanished and did not pass from our world? Yui was my aunt, if Anath is my mother and Yui Kardinallè’s sister. I must know more about this, Exarch.”

The Reaper looked at her and remained silent; though she could read nothing from his aspect, she sensed he was deep in thought. Finally, he looked up and whispered, “Seek the King in Yellow. Seek the Harlequinade. Pied’raut and Calymbane shall show you the way. Harlequin sees all, hears all, knows all. Harlequin shall have the answers you seek. But ware Anath and the Council! They have their own schemes, and we know nothing. They send us to kill mon-keigh, and we kill the humans and come back, but we know nothing of what they plan. Whispers come that they intend to name the Young King, and awaken Kaela Mensha Khaine. Perhaps we shall take Khalembrasil back. But if it is for them, I misdoubt greatly that we shall enjoy what they make of it.”

Disturbed, she stood back and looked dubiously at him. In his turn, he reached out and took her hand, pressing something hard but light into her palm. Closing her fingers over it, he whispered, “Go to the mountain’s peak, and look below the standing stones. Under the moons and stars, the Harlequinade is danced. But do not forget the names of Pied’raut and Calymbane, for without them you shall not find the King in Yellow. And above all, do not dance with the Black Librarian and the Harlequinade, Tanith yn Taernaeth aes Kardinallè!”

Before she knew it, she was standing outside the shrine, staring at the skulls. Their empty faces told her nothing. Knowing she could not look at what she had in her hand until she was by herself, she disappeared to her chambers.

[Jonen C]

Updates after a long time are Awesome. That is not dead which can eternal lie and all.

Anyway...
Surely I can not be the only one who is getting vibes of Evangelion?

[Elheru Aran]

Updates after a long time are Awesome. That is not dead which can eternal lie and all.

Anyway...
Surely I can not be the only one who is getting vibes of Evangelion?

Lovecraft quote. That's funny. Hmm...

[White Haven]

Yeah, I caught the King in Yellow reference. Of course now I've got the mental image of Cthulu and Tzeentch meeting up and spending a while examining each others' works. The jury's still out on which one says 'Daaamn, man...' first.

[Hawkwings]

An update! Excellent news!

But what is happening to that poor family? Certainly they can't be enjoying their lives right now...

[Elheru Aran]

Updating again!

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Under the night sky, stars glittered and the two moons of Praetorius Primaris shone bright. A small fragment of wraithbone, a simple blank circle with no symbol upon it, twinkled as it rotated at the end of a light chain held up by Taernaeth’s slim hand. Behind her towered the bulk of Rhaedgar’s Wraithlord body, from which came the murmur, “I must assert my objection, my lady Taernaeth. This is not a good place. The standing-stones have long been known as a dark place, one where eldar do not dare unless they are powerful. And the cultists of Cegorach are not to be trusted!”

“I know, Rhaedgar,” she responded, “but we must have answers. You were close to my aunt, and surely it must have hurt when she vanished…”

He was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly, replaying the scene in his mind, “Yes. She and Anath left together, neither saying why. Only Anath came back. I have long desired deeply to know what happened.” A slight warning note appeared in his voice as he continued, “Know you, I am saying nothing about the relationship between my lady Yui Shamaera and I. I was Autarch; she was Farseer. Things were as they should be.”

She gave Rhaedgar a sharp look and nodded slowly. Gesturing lightly for him to wait—he acquiesced grudgingly, saying nothing but the set of his shoulders spoke volumes—she advanced forward between the monoliths. To Rhaedgar’s wraith-sight, seeing beyond the radiations visible to human sight into that tremulous reflection of our world which is the spirit-dimension, Taernaeth stopped stock-still once she was within the circle. A solitary bird flitted across the stars; high in the atmosphere, a freighter departed orbit, its running lights blinking once and vanishing, smaller than even the most distant stars.

The world flashed completely negative to Taernaeth; the black night sky suddenly became white with flaring black pinpoints, and a tone humming louder almost than she could bear abruptly switched off. No stones surrounded her, rather the sung bone rafters of a lofty Eldar hall. Meticulous chanting, ranging higher and lower than Taernaeth’s ear could distinguish, droned, and the crowd before her milled as dancers spun in their midst.

She began to make out words in the chant, all run together—“hateloveredburnbloodjoy-deathlove”—and more than that, but as her foot moved over a rune embedded in the floor, the chanting stopped completely, even the echo disappearing instantly. As one, the dancers—she realized they were all masked, even those watching—turned to look at her, as did the crowd. They dispersed, never taking their gaze from her, and took up positions until they stood arrayed about the massive chamber. She could feel dark eyes looking sharply at her, and ere long she fancied she could feel them searching her very soul when she stood at the center of the chamber, looking around and upwards. Mysteriously garbed, all masked, the eldar stood upon several levels; it seemed, almost, that she was in some kind of courtroom, and she was the one being tried.

“O, a Female of the Kindreds stands before us!” and she flinched. Each single eldar had spoken, perfectly in unison; the voices combined boomed in the massive hall. Again—“And what does she seek?”

“Answers,” she blurted, slightly unnerved. Slowly… yet again in complete unison, at the exact same second, each eldar nodded, their masked faces moving up and down all about her. She frowned and asked cautiously, “Could you not do that?”

Total silence reigned in the hall, even deeper than when the chanting stopped. A blur of black motion flickered in the corner of her eye, and without thinking she flung herself backward. A jet-black scythe blade swept through the air where her chest was a moment ago; as soon as she glimpsed it, reflexively she sent a psychic shove in the direction it came from.

She grunted as her shoulder struck the flooring, and a foot hammered itself into her middle, folding her up as she flew backwards to skid across the floor, gasping for breath. Shock etched itself across her mind—her power had failed! She had tried to strike out with her mind, but nothing had happened, and now this!

Pulling herself up to hands and knees, panting, she felt more than saw the same black blur dash through the air again and spun her feet swiftly upward from the floor through the air at it. Rudely, a hand snatched the back of her belt and yanked her backwards. Gaining traction, she managed to spin around and her face ran right into a mesh-armoured chest under a black greatcoat.

A skull, its face distorted in an anatomically impossible bellow of laughter, stared at her, cold death in its eyes above the chest. Hands brutally shoved her backwards to slide across the floor upon her behind; she snarled, keeping her eyes upon this joker, and drew a thin-bladed but deadly knife from her soft boot.

Before she could blink, the eldar had closed with her, its skull face staring into her own, removing her blade with contemptuous ease. Before she could think, her knee hammered upward below his ribcage, and breath whooshed out of his body harshly. Hand jammed in her face, her fist in his chest and a swift following punch to the skull’s jawbone that swung his face about, and her neck popped as she left the floor yet again, flung by her face.

Coat flying wide like some monstrous bird’s wings, he leaped. All the masked eldar about them watched silently, and light glittered off his fingertips as he buried claws deep into the floor by her face, breathing, hissing into her face. Death stared into her eyes, and with a sudden, perfect calm, she refused to surrender. As though kicked in the stomach by Rhaedgar, he flew upward and arced across the hall, landing lightly upon his toes and stretching lithely into a stance she didn’t recognize. What she did recognize were the claws upon his fingertips, extending in and out slowly as he flexed his fingers, and the certainty that should she close with him, that would be a surrender to death. Yet she flowed to her feet and ripped away her heavy outer robe, flinging it away as her foot lifted and her arms opened, waiting…

“Enough.” The voice rang across the chamber, one voice instead of many and far more audible for all that. She froze and it went on, “El’nsero of the Death Jesters, she has passed the test of strength. For Harlequin, the sigil shall be placed upon her. Child Eldar, bear with us!”

The—Death Jester, she supposed he was—advanced and gripped her face. Before she could move, he placed a claw against her cheek and pain lanced forth. He let go, and she brought up a hand to her face, hissing as she felt blood; looking at it, she saw an unfamiliar rune upon her hand in her own blood. She turned around to look at the voice, and was confronted with a featureless mirror-mask covering the face of an eldar, ribbons and cloak fluttering around golden robes. The mirror-masked one reached out with a single finger and touched her forehead; a chill ran through her body, and she knew that the cuts upon her cheek would be gone.


With one voice, the masked audience spoke again, flinging their hands up high in unison, their robes and costumes fluttering, “O, a Female of the Kindreds stands before us! Questions she speaks of, questions that answers are sought for! But where is respect? Where is the gift to the Temple of the Harlequin Cult?”

The masked figure spoke deliberately, his voice standing forth once again, “Child, you are known as Taernaeth, daughter of Anath, of the House of Matholyk? Welcome to the Temple. I am the Shadowseer of this Cult. You have questions, child Taernaeth. Ask them!”

“I was told to seek Harlequin, to find Pied’raut and Calymbane, and that they would lead me to him. He could answer my questions, could he not?”

“Indeed. Harlequin knows all. Whether he desires to answer your questions is another matter, child.”

The throng of Harlequins spoke again, “Heed the words of the Shadowseer, O Taernaeth! Life and death hang upon thee, Child!”

Irritated, Taernaeth sharply replied, “Hear me, Harlequins! If Cegorach knows me, he knows where I come from and what I hold. I tell you, I shall not rest till I know what I have come for, and if this requires becoming one of your kindred, then so mote it be!”

“A dangerous pronouncement/But one that we shall remember” spoke the figures appearing from the darkness behind the Shadowseer. Their feet, like his, touched not the floor, but instead they hovered smoothly, without bob or dip. The one wearing a domino mask murmured, “The Harlequin” and the sentence was taken up by her companion who wore a monocular eyepiece and an elaborately checked outfit, “shall hear you himself/Child of Man!”

Taernaeth didn’t know what to make of these two. Confused, she looked at the Shadowseer, who calmly told her, “These are the King’s Heralds, the Lovers, lady Calymbane and stout Pied’raut. You are worthy indeed for them to appear. We apologise for the harsh reception, but we had to take your measure. Advance, and meet the King in Yellow. Heralds?”

“Yes/Shadow/seer?” responded the two, their voices never quite becoming one but each completing the other’s sentences, words even. Taernaeth would have given much to know how it was done; the effect was distinctly unsettling. The Shadowseer went on, “If I may. The Child may need an escort. Do remember, I beg, what happened the last time an unprepared mind encountered Harlequin? I would not have aught happen to this one.”

Pied’raut and Calymbane looked at each other with blank eyes, then back at the Shadowseer, “It shall/be done. Do thee/consent to this, /young lady Taernaeth?”

She nodded, her face set, and responded, “Be done with it, heralds. Take me to Harlequin. I will have my answers, and if the Shadowseer is at my side, I suppose it shall not hurt anything. Please…?”

Calymbane smiled; whether it was kind or cruel, she had no idea. Turning on their heels simultaneously, each lifted their hand and beckoned her onward. She looked at the Shadowseer; featureless behind his mirrormask, he nodded slowly and held out his hand. With great trepidation, she took it, and stepped forward, entering the chamber that the two had emerged from.

It seemed to extend a very long way. They stepped forward, the Shadowseer deactivating his hover-belt to walk beside her. Things moved within the wall, and all the fine hairs upon her arms stood up straight as a cold chill passed through her body; her body was suddenly, absolutely, simultaneously, stretched in absolutely all directions (and dimensions? she had no idea). Blinking, gulping, she blurted the random word, “ht’alk!”

Staring all about, Pied’raut and Calymbane stood flanking a huge throne carved of black stone. Loud clapping resounded about the absolutely massive chamber. “A most splendid result! Splendid! Pied’raut, record that one! It’s refreshing to get a change from ‘haddock’ and ‘cod’ for once! What’s the tally, man?”

Pied’raut calmly replied, without recourse to any form of record that she could see, “’Haddock’, 9,087,242; ‘Cod’, 9,069,227; ‘What the f-‘ in various languages and dialects, 7,324,841; ‘Fascinating’, 423,436; ‘ht’alk’, 1/Do you wish me to list the other single-numbered responses?/There are also a number of responses in binary and various tech-codes/And several in languages even we don’t have on file,” Calymbane finished.

The voice boomed, “Don’t bother, kids! Now, what have we here? An eldar child, hey? Welcome! Welcome! To! The! Black! Library! And, here’s your host tonight, the most gracious, the most immanent, and let’s not forget, the sexiest beast in eighty-two universes and counting, to name a few more titles, Harlequin, the King in Yellow, the Laughing God, Q, Cegorach, Mixed Pickles, Impossible Homo Sapiens Male, Trickster Lord, Loki, Damn Hellspawn, the Librarian, Master of Tales and Stories and Mysteries, the Creeper, Oz the Great and Terrible, the Joker-King, me!”

An absolutely incredible blast of thunder shattered the air, and flames lanced up from the floor to wreath the throne in a towering inferno that scorched her skin even though she was some hundred feet from the fire; smoke rose high to the roof of the courtroom, and she shut her eyes against the light and brought up an arm to protect her face. When she dared look again, everything was back to normal. And suddenly, a face thrust up right in front of her nose. She yelped reflexively and jerked back, stumbled, and fell backwards.

Somehow, the fall was turned into a perfect backflip, and she landed upon her feet, staggering. The Shadowseer grabbed her arm to help her regain her balance. Bellows of laughter—or was it, rather, maniac giggling?—resounded throughout the courtroom, and she stared at the figure before her, a tall apparently eldar, apparently male, apparently of rather decent appearance, apparent hair neatly groomed and apparent robes hanging deftly upon its frame. It looked directly at her, and its grin seemed to go about its face entirely as it slowly opened its arms and bowed smoothly, looking insouciantly at her.

Suddenly furious, she stepped forward, wound up, and punched him on the mouth, swinging his startled face around sharply. As the crack! resounded through the chamber, the Shadowseer, Pied’raut and Calymbane stood there, saying nothing, shock evident in their very attitude, the fibers of their being. Anger running through her voice, she shouted at him, “Have done with this farce! I will not be cowed! If this is you, if this is all you’re good for, Harlequin, I’m done! I’ll have my answers myself, and you, Laughing God; you may disport yourself at your pleasure, but not with me! Not anymore!”

Breast heaving, she stood staring at the god as it straightened up, bringing its hand to its lip where a silver dot of divine ichor emerged. The air throughout the edifice crackled with the moment’s tension. It looked directly at her and slowly nodded. It murmured, “You… young lady… have just about… the… most amazing, enormous, huge, monstrous balls, of anybody I’ve ever met,” and then he corrected himself, “any mortal I’ve ever met, that is. Well, Taernaeth, you’ve come looking for answers, have you? This is a Library, dear child. You have come to the right place.”

[Academia Nut]

That is all.

Although I do wonder how the Eldar feel about one of their deities moonlighting in the pantheons of other races? Although I suppose with the Laughing God there's not a whole lot they can do other than rolling their eyes.

[Vehrec]

Well, that's one way not to dance with the Harlequin.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

[Satori]

More deadly than the male?