Chronicle of Isha, the Goddess of Life (Warhammer 40,000)

[SuperPulp2789]

They are wasted on Slaanesh, hell I gotta say they may as well have already "died" post-corruption as all those new cruel and bizarre "interests" and "enjoyments" took over the rest of their personalities

 

[Nidhog153]

A/N: Apologies for the two month hiatus. I've been trying to create a backlog of chapters, so I don't have to feel like I'm being hounded by upload dates. Real life has been busy as well, so I'll probably be switching to a monthly upload schedule. This Apocrypha was written on June 23rd, and it's mostly here because I was worried people didn't know who Rylanor was or what he is most famous for in 40K. The events are a re-telling of the latter part of Isstvan III from Rylanor's perspective.

A few Dramatis Personae might also be necessary.

Saul Tarvitz : Depending on the novel, he is a captain, first-captain, or simple line-officer within the Emperor's Children. When the loyalists were betrayed on Isstvan III, Sault Tarvitz (Emperor's Children), Garviel Loken (Sons of Horus) and Tarik Torgaddon (Sons of Horus) managed to reorganize the scattered loyalists into a cohesive fighting force. Their objective was to hold back the traitors, and find some way to report Horus's treachery to the Imperium. After three months of ruthless fighting, Horus was forced to orbitally bombard the loyalists, as their position within the Precentor's Palace had stymied every ground assault the traitors launched against it.

Vistario, Akhtar, and Murshid: The trio of Thousand Sons sent to investigate a cryptic message in the short story "The Ancient Awaits". They find Rylanor in the ruins of Isstvan III.

—-------------------------------------------------
"Hold!" Rylanor's voice boomed through the Dreadnought's speakers. Bolter shells and Volkite beams bounced off his thick adamantium carapace as he returned fire with his auto-cannon.

The Venerable Dreadnought and the dozen or so Space Marines that followed him traded fire with men using the same Mark IV Power Armor. They ducked in and out of cover, dashing out only when their brothers managed to give sufficient suppressive fire for them. Beams, bolt shells, and balls of plasma flew back and forth between both parties. Yet, Rylanor and the other loyalists were forced back, bit by bit. It was not that they were lacking in terms of armaments, protection, or tactics. They were evenly matched against their enemy in those regards. They were simply outnumbered.

Dust and rubble fell down upon them as the basement shook violently.

"They're trying to bury us with orbital bombardments!" One of the loyalists spat angrily.

Rylanor grimaced as he let loose another stream of explosive shells, forcing the traitors to hide, and allowing one of his brothers to fall back safely.

Things were much worse than they seemed.

The basement of the Precentor's Palace was well over a kilometer underground. Only the dorsally mounted Bombardment cannons of their Battle Barges could shake this place. But, that was not the worst problem. If the Precentor's Palace was being bombarded, it meant there was a hostile warship within firing range above them. A warship that might shoot down the only hope they had left here.

"Fallback to the hangar!" Rylanor ordered. "I will hold the entrance! The rest of you activate the remaining anti-orbital defenses! Stealth is no longer an option! We'll launch while the warship above us is distracted!"

The loyalists sent back their affirmations via the tactical display on their helmets, and began to retreat deeper into the facility. Rylanor stood between them and the traitors, using his Dreadnought as a moving shield as he waddled backwards. The thick adamantium blocked the bolter shells and Volkite beams fired their way, while the occasional armor piercing balls of plasma were smashed apart by his power fist's disruptive fields.

Even after his internment into a Dreadnought, Rylanor's eyes and reflexes remained largely intact. Swatting away the glowing balls of plasma, and dispersing the superheated matter before it could touch him was difficult, but not impossible.

As the Ancient retreated with the other survivors, he reflected as to how exactly they had gotten here.

Rylanor had become separated from Saul Tarvitz and the other loyalists during the initial Virus bombing. He had been outside when it happened, atop the roof of the Precentor's Palace. The civilian populace of Choral City melted away before his eyes as the Life-eater virus did its work.

The Venerable Dreadnought he had been interred in was thankfully able to withstand the virus's penetrative capabilities. Ordinary Power Armor filters only slowed the virus, and did not offer full protection. He retreated back into the Palace, after committing the atrocities of his gene-father to memory. The firestorm was coming, and even his Dreadnought would not survive it.

After that, he managed to regroup with a few other loyalists who had evaded the Life-eater virus, as well as a few unexpected individuals.

'Ironic, that we were saved by our original enemy.' Rylanor thought bitterly as he laid down another stream of suppressive fire.

The original mission on Isstvan III was the suppression of a rebellion. That mission was still underway when they had been betrayed, and there were still enemy Warsingers fighting on the planet. Rylanor and his loyalists had run into one such group of survivors as they searched for Saul Tarvitz. A battle ensued, and the Warsingers were eliminated. However, their actions puzzled Rylanor.

Soldiers who could continue fighting, even as their entire planet died around them, did not move without purpose. The Warsingers were an empathetic group of fighters. Rylanor had seen them attempt to comfort or shepherd survivors, even as the Life-eater virus ate away at their skin. A few of the other loyalists shared Rylanor's confusion, and used their enhancements to recover the last memories of their enemies. That was how they had learned of this underground hangar, and the ship that lay within it. It was this ship that had given those Warsingers the hope to keep fighting during the Virus bombing. Now, it was the hope of Rylanor and the remaining loyalists.

'One ship…' Rylanor thought as he retreated backwards into the hangar. 'If we can get one ship off this planet, we can warn the other Legions of what happened here…'

The entire underground hangar shook again as another magma bomb detonated above them. There was the scream of shearing metal, and the roof buckled. Support beams and jagged chunks of ferrocrete fell down upon them.

Rylanor smashed an incoming piece of debris with his powerfist, turning it into dust before its weight could crush him. "Take off!" he roared.

There was no more time. They had hoped to launch in secret, but the waves of traitor troops deployed after the Virus bombing forced them to fight. Now, with this orbital bombardment, they would have to put all their faith in the skills of the pilot, and dumb luck to evade the warship hovering directly overhead.

The sleek ship rose off the ground. It had no weapons, nor shields. All it had to protect itself was its speed and relatively small signal profile.

There was another quake, and the roof collapsed. Tons of rock rained down on the rising ship, slamming it back into the ground and cracking its hull. A falling support beam cut through its starboard wing. The engines of the starship flared, as the last inputs of the now dead pilot were registered. Vitrifying flames bathed the loyalists behind Rylanor, vaporizing their flesh and melting their armor in an instant.

Pure hate roared through the Dreadnought's speakers as Rylanor laid into the remaining traitors before him.

They had failed.

The traitors' deeds would go unreported and unpunished. Even as he pulverized traitors with his power fist, and tore them apart with unrelenting streams of auto-cannon fire, he had failed.

—-------------------------------------------------

Rylanor was left alone in the dark, half-collapsed hangar. For some reason the stream of traitor Space Marines had petered out.

'Did a hallway or staircase collapse? Surely, I have not killed all of them.' Rylanor mused to himself. His internal tactical display showed that several days had passed since he had killed the last traitor he could find.

The Dreadnought squatted down, de-powering its servos and hydraulics as Rylanor reduced the output of his generator.

If the passage to the surface had collapsed, then Rylanor was trapped here. He was interred in a Dreadnought with only one arm. Digging himself out of here was impossible.

'Nothing to do but wait.' The Ancient thought grimly, as his consciousness slowly dropped into a stasis coma.

Whether it was rescue or the chance for further retribution, the Ancient would wait.

—-------------------------------------------------

It was a sound that awoke Rylanor; a base thrumming that rippled through the very ground, sending a prickling sensation through his skin as it passed through him. His Dreadnought reactivated as a gout of dust and debris blew out of the old passageway. Rylanor kept his Dreadnought still. He was currently hidden behind the remains of the crushed starship, out of direct line of sight from the hangar doors. The allegiance of these new intruders was unknown to him, so he kept silent as they walked into the hangar.

Rylanor's concern grew as he heard the new intruders entering the hangar. Their footfalls were heavy, a clear indication of Power Armor of some sort. Yet, it was not that sound that set his nerves on edge.

It was their voices.

He could hear them talking to each other, clearly and without the tell-tale sound of vox-muffling. That meant they were walking around without their helmets on, but he could still not understand what they were saying to each other.

The Ancient looked at his tactical auspex. Only a few decades had passed since he entered his stasis-coma. If this was a few hundred, or a few thousand he might have been able to accept linguistic drift as the reason for why standard-gothic was no longer recognizable.

He heard the clatter of something being kicked across the hangar floor, followed by a series or repeated noises.

Laughter. It was laughter he was hearing. Someone was laughing in this unmarked tomb of his brothers, pissing on their graves with their mirth.

Rylanor remained still, even as fury boiled within him.

He had no idea as to the allegiance of the intruders, nor their armaments or number for that matter. Now was not the time to give in to rage. Better to let the enemy come to him.

The armored footsteps approached the starship he was hidden behind. Rylanor readied his assault-cannon. The power fist was too noisy and too bright to use for an ambush.

The foot of one of the intruders peeked out from behind the corner. Rylanor recognized the colors of the IIIrd Legion, his colors, on the boot.

The next step brought the bottom of the intruder's weapon into view. It was unlike anything Rylanor had ever seen before. Vibrantly painted, it had sinewy organic looking harp strings and echo chambers built into it. Spines and curved blades jutted out from what looked to be an almost phallic barrel with a speaker where the muzzle should have been.

The 3rd step brought the intruder's face into view, and Rylanor struck at it with his unpowered power fist the moment he saw it.

Where there had been a man's head once, was a sickening pile of wrinkled skin covered in spines and glistening lubricant. Whoever this had been, they had replaced their eyes and mouth with black diaphragms that constantly vibrated, allowing the twisted thing to see with sound.

It was a mockery that Rylanor could not allow to exist.

Rylanor stepped out of the shadows, as his former brother's headless body fell to the ground. His auto-cannon was already roaring, obliterating two more traitors as his power fist crackled to life.

More IIIrd Legion traitors were around the ruined hangar, digging through its remains. An unexploded Virus bomb lay on the ground, most likely recovered from the surface by the band of scavengers. All of them had the same or similar enhancements applied to their flesh, and held sadistic weapons in their hands. Twisted sound came from the speakers that replaced their mouths, barking orders in the form of hideous melodies.

Fire was traded between them. Pulses of sound shook the weakened hangar as Rylanor's auto-cannon shredded the traitors, causing their flailing bodies to fire up towards the ceiling. Several shots grazed the Dreadnought, sending spin-chilling vibrations throughout the metal, threatening to liquify Rylanor's flesh as cavitation bubbles formed inside the amniotic fluid around him.

The fight only lasted a few minutes. Even with their new weapons, the traitors could not kill the occupant of the Venerable Dreadnought. However, the Ancient was not uninjured.

Rylanor limped around the remains of the starship. Several of his internal systems were destroyed, and his feet were barely functional. The tactical auspex had shattered from the vibrations, and he could taste blood in the fluid around him.

'One… more…' Rylanor thought as he dragged his Dreadnought around the corner of the ship. A trail of blood and gore led to the last surviving traitor. His bisected upper torso lay there, seemingly dead.

Slowly, Rylanor approached the traitor.

Even this seemingly dead corpse could not be trusted. He was still trapped in this hangar, and that meant he would have to enter a stasis-coma again. No traitor could be left alive; either to harm him directly, or call for help.

Suddenly, the traitor flipped over. In his hands was the weapon of the first traitor Rylanor had killed.

The Dreadnought's waist and left ankle rotated in opposite directions, swiveling Rylanor's body out of the way of the traitor's weapon. The auto-cannon lowered, preparing to fire.

Then the traitor laughed. A repeated buzzing and humming sound came from the diaphragms that replaced his eyes and mouth, then he fired up into the ceiling.

Rylanor's auto-cannon obliterated the traitor's body, but the damage had been done. Ferrocrete and metal began to rain down upon him once again.

The Ancient ducked under the remains of the starship, trying to use it as cover from the debris. Metal supports punched right through the starship's hull, denting the adamantium armor and tearing off one of his legs.

Finally, the shaking stopped, and Rylanor was left alone once more.

—-------------------------------------------------

'How many years has it been?' Rylanor thought idly to himself as he worked with the one hand his Dreadnought had.

Decades, at the least, although he would not have been surprised if someone told him it had been centuries. Working with only one oversized hand meant progress was infinitesimally slow.

He was currently tinkering with the twisted machine the traitor had left behind. Cables connected both him and it to the reactor of the ship. Its internal powerlines had miraculously survived both the first and second collapses, allowing Rylanor to keep both himself and the twisted contraption powered. The Dreadnought's own generator had died on him shortly after his reunion with his twisted brothers.

The contraption finally activated, letting out a constant hum of bone-tingling noise. Rylanor grabbed it and placed it in the depression he had dug behind him, on top of the other parting gift the traitors had left him. The Virus bomb they had found would be put to good use.

'Now I wait.' He thought to himself as he leaned back, allowing his weapons to point upwards, pretending to be dead.

Rylanor could not move, and he was not going to die. However, he would not spend an eternity waiting for another band of miscreants to discover him.

'Fulgrim…' Rylanor's thoughts uttered the name with thermonuclear hate. 'I will kill you for what you have done to us.' His thoughts did not stop with the compatriots who had died here. The things the IIIrd Legion had been transformed into… that was an unforgivable insult to those who had been transformed, those who remembered what they once were, and to the Emperor who originally made them.

'Come, Fulgrim.' Rylanor thought as he stared up at the ruined ceiling, scarred by the blasphemous sounds the traitors had unleashed.

'Come.'

—-------------------------------------------------

Rylanor glared up at the serpentine creature that had once been his gene-father. The Primarch's lower right arm had impaled his Dreadnought's power fist with a curvaceous alien sword. Another hand had dug itself through a crack in his armor, and was currently wrapping around what remained of his body.

"Do. Not. Do. This!" He barked through the Dreadnought's speakers.

"Why not?" Fulgrim hummed, "I am your master. I can do whatever I like. I can crush you or I can raise you up." The Primarch leaned down, as if to kiss the Dreadnought's helm covering Rylanor's face. "Return to the Legion. Accept the gifts of the Dark Prince, and you will walk at my side, clad once again in flesh. You can be anything, old friend! I will sculpt you into something beautiful - a god to these mortals!"

"All we have left between us is that we will die together!" Rylanor roared.

Blue flames had begun to burn the upper carapace of the Dreadnought. The Life-eater Virus of the bomb Rylanor had just detonated was spreading across the metal, igniting the residual organic material in the dust that was on it. Everything happened in slow motion, courtesy of the psychic sorcery of the Thousand Sons.

"I am Rylanor of the Emperor's Children, Ancient of Rites, Venerable of the Palatine Host, and proud servant of the Emperor of Mankind. Beloved by all! I reject you now and always!" He shouted back in his Primarch's leering face.

Fulgrim threw his head back and laughed.

"I'm sorry, did it sound like I was offering you a choice?"

Fulgrim pulled his hand from the hole in the Dreadnought, dragging Rylanor from his sarcophagus. Nutrient tubes and umbilicals tore as his skin was exposed to the dry dusty air, spilling amniotic fluid that had expired long ago.

"I will remake you, brother." Fulgrim's elongated tongue licked his lips, sensuously wetting them before parting them to reveal the serpentine fangs beneath them. "You will be my crowning achievement." The daemon Primarch crooned as he caressed the sickly pale remains of Rylanor; holding him to his breast like a new mother would her first babe.

Cold dread filled Rylanor's thoughts. He could sense the creature Fulgrim had given himself to. He could smell its intoxicating musk and hear its melodious laughter. His Primarch had not always been like this. He had been a man of virtue once. When and how this transformation had taken place he did not know, but it had happened.

Rylanor was not arrogant enough to imagine himself to be greater than his Primarch. His gene-seed came from the being before him, after all. Unable to escape, fight, or even die he could see the inevitable fate that lay before him. He would succumb, eventually. If a demi-god couldn't resist, what chance did a mortal have?

'But, that is no reason to stop fighting.' Rylanor thought to himself as he glared up at Fulgrim. 'I have waited for over 10,000 years, buried in the rubble you and the other traitors brought down upon us. For 10,000 years I have resisted rot and blinding rage in the butchered remains of humanity's dream. For 10,000 years I have sat with the corpses of my brothers, dreaming of the day I would bring your death. This will not go easily, Fulgrim. I shall not fall to one who has forgotten what honor means.'

'Primarch Fulgrim!' A sudden psychic message sounded out, sent by the Thousand Son Vistario. 'Rylanor deserves better than you.'

The Primarch's eyes flicked upwards towards the traitor. The ecstatic glimmer within them darkened at the interruption and insult, turning his eyes into black pools filled with the most sadistic poison.

'He deserves better than all of us.' The Thousand Son thought-spoke, then he raised his bolt pistol and fired into the back of his brother's skull. Akhtar's head exploded, and the psychic spell slowing the Virus bomb's explosion lifted.

Fire spread across all of them in an instant.

Fulgrim disappeared from Rylanor's eyes, replaced only with pitch blackness.

—-------------------------------------------------

The first thing Rylanor noticed when he woke was he had his hands back. He opened and closed them dumbly for a moment, unable to understand why they were there. He had lost all his limbs to a long-eared Xeno early on in the Great Crusade. The fiendish creature was quick with a blade, and had dismembered both him and his squad before being brought down by concentrated bolter fire. What's more, the Xeno's weapon had been coated in some sort of poison or virus that prevented his body from being repaired by replacement organs. Internment into a Dreadnought was the only option left for him after that.

Rylanor looked at his hands again, the first time in over 10,000 years.

'Is this the beginning?' He wondered to himself. 'The beginning of their attempts to break me?'

Fulgrim had promised to return his flesh, and here he was returned to his original body.

'But where is Fulgrim?' Rylanor thought. The place he was in was eerily quiet. He heard no melodious laughter, nor spine-chilling chuckles. He couldn't even hear the slightest hint of wind.

Slowly, Rylanor stood up, and looked around him.

He was in the land of the dead. That was the only way he could describe it. Mountains of corpses stretched for as far as the eye could see. Yet, his nostrils detected nothing. The smell of rotting flesh and voided bowels was absent, as if even the bacteria that would have started decay had died.

'So, I am dead.' Rylanor thought to himself as he sat down on the mound of bodies he had awoken upon. He looked around to see if Fulgrim was also here, but saw neither the idealized man nor the serpentine monster.

'Perhaps it is for the better…' Rylanor thought to himself. Hate still burned in his chest. Even if this were truly the afterlife, he could easily see himself trying to kill the Primarch a second time.

But that would be pointless.' He sighed to himself.

For a while, the Ancient of Rites sat there, staring out blankly at the mountainous ridges composed of corpses around him. Then he stood up, and began walking. He had no idea where to go, nor whether there was any point, but sitting here and doing nothing didn't sit well with him.

'I have done enough sitting already.' Rylanor thought to himself. 'It feels good to stretch my own legs after 10,000 years.'

For a while, Rylanor did nothing but walk up mountains of bodies, and down valleys filled with corpses. He had no idea where to go, or what to do, but he walked on regardless. After a while, he realized the scenery had changed. Instead of the land of the dead, he was walking through pitch blackness. He looked down at himself, and found him wearing his old Power Armor; complete with bolter and chainsword connected to his belt. He paused for a moment, then continued on forwards. He had no idea what this meant, but it felt good to be back in his old Power Armor. Bitter sweet nostalgia tightened the two hearts in his chest as memories of the Unification Wars and the early victories of the Great Crusade came back.

'Things were simpler back then.' Rylanor reminisced. 'The battles were costly, and the sacrifices were great. Yet, we still restored more than we ruined.'

They still fought for a dream back then. A dream of a new golden age for humanity.

As Rylanor continued walking, he realized there were others around him. Dark figures hidden in shadow walked endlessly through the darkness beside him. Some did so with obvious signs of fear; backs bent and knees shaking. Others marched stoically, like trained soldiers trekking across a plain.

Suddenly, the darkness lifted as golden light shined from behind him. It drew a sparkling line across the ground, illuminating his path in the darkness.

A familiar presence came from Rylanor's back. The Ancient of Rites turned, and his eyes widened as he saw a familiar face.

"You are-"

—-------------------------------------------------

A/N: So, Rylanor gets some closure after his canon death in 40K in this-verse.

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[Nidhog153]

A/N: Character Reminder

Lorien: A girl rescued from the Vindicare Temple. She struggles with the mental conditioning of the training there, and has an almost psychotic hatred of weakness instilled in her.

Elalindra: One of Isha's simulacra. She takes the form of an Aeldari woman with gray eyes and red hair.

—-------------------------------------------------

Isha watched the children rescued from the Assassin Temples through the eyes of her simulacra. The two weeks she had spent reassuring them of their safety with her, and nurturing the bond of trust had born fruit. The emotions of the children had largely returned, and they could talk with both her and each other normally. Jokes, pranks, playtime, and laughter were slowly returning to their behavior patterns. However, they were far from fine.

Their mental conditioning still remained, which had led to a couple incidents. One child almost dislocated another child's shoulder due a triggered combat reflex. Another struck her friend's solar plexus hard enough to paralyze their diaphragm during a game of tag.

'They didn't mean to.' Isha sighed to herself, remembering the look of shock on their faces when they realized what they had done.

Thankfully, her simulacras' talents in biomancy ensured no lasting harm was done. However, she could sense fear building up inside them.

'They fear their lack of control…' Isha thought to herself as one of her simulacra hugged another of the children who had acted out accidentally. 'So I must give it to them.'

—-------------------------------------------------

"Sparring practice?" Lorien repeated Elalindra's words dumbly.

"Your body moves without your mind." Elalindra replied cryptically. "The weapons you have been given must be made yours, otherwise they will wield you."

Lorien stifled a sigh. Elalindra was kind to her, and the other children. However, there were times when she was extremely vague in her answers.

Currently, Lorien and the other children rescued from the Master were sitting at a circular table eating breakfast. The menu was a simple but filling combination of flatbread and various hummus.

The other children looked at each other worriedly. Sparring was not something they had fond memories of, and although they knew Elalindra and the other long-eared women meant them no harm, they couldn't stop the chill they felt at the word.

"I don't want to." Lorien said glumly, looking down at her half eaten flatbread.

"I know." Elalindra nodded. "I know you fear hurting others and being hurt yourself." She reached down, cupping Lorien's cheek. "What you fear shall not come to pass, for you will not be facing each other. You will all be facing me."

The long-eared red haired women smiled as surprise widened Lorien's eyes. "I will allow you to face your fear through me. Master the monster you see inside yourself, and make peace with what you are."

—-------------------------------------------------

Lorien and the other children walked out into the gymnasium they all used for daily exercise. White springy curls now covered the floor. Several other long-eared women were walking around the gymnasium, singing softly. The white material grew where they stepped, covering the hard floor with a carpet that felt like soft grass beneath Lorien's feet. Other groups of children walked with their caretakers, spreading out across the gymnasium.

"Don't worry." Elalindra said with a smile. "You won't be sparring against each other. I will teach you how to use what you have been given. Now, gather around me."

Lorien and the others encircled Elalindra, faces slightly tense.

The moment they completed the circle, Elalindra's form blurred. She lunged like a fencer, swiftly approaching one of the boys in the circle. The sudden movement triggered his killing reflex. His center of balance dropped, and he jabbed at where he thought her throat would be. But, instead of soft cartilage, his fist slapped into Elalindra's open hand. With a pull and a twist, the boy was sent rolling past the long-eared woman.

"Stand up." Elalindra said as she extended a hand towards the fallen child. He shook his head, dizzy but unhurt. "All you have are reflexes." She said as she pulled the boy back onto his feet. "There is no thought, no control, only speed, and action in your movements. Hence, it is easy to use your own movements against you." Her back straightened as the boy returned to his earlier position. "You have all been given weapons, but you do not know how to use them. That is dangerous, for you hold something that can harm others, but cannot wield it well enough to defend yourself." Her eyes met theirs as she turned to each child. "Make those weapons your own. Wield them willingly, and with purpose."

—-------------------------------------------------

- Lorien

My knees collapsed under me as I panted breathlessly. All the others were in a similar state, either lying back or sitting down covered in sweat.

Elalindra's sparring session had gone on for hours, and not once had we been able to hit her. It was as if she knew what we would do before we did it, twisting and twirling out of the way at the last moment. Even when we surrounded her, she remained untouchable. All that could be seen was a blinding flash of red hair, trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.

I glared up at the gray eyed woman. She smiled back, a patronizing expression mixed with bored amusement.

A spark of anger flared in my brain, sending electrical impulses that forced my lactic-acid laden muscles to stand up again.

"Weakness." Elalindra said as she sidestepped my punch. "That is what you fear." Her tone remained unmoved, even as she twirled out of reach of my follow-up chop. "Even the perception of being looked down upon is enough to send adrenaline through your brain."

I grit my teeth as I spun to follow her. The instincts beaten into me by the Master and his assistants fired one after the other, sending punches, kicks, elbow strikes, and knees after her.

"But, it is not only that." Elalindra chuckled as she danced around me. "You hate losing. You hate being weak. You hate being looked down upon."

Hot. My body felt like it was burning. A bloody red was staining everything I saw.

'Losing means death. I cannot lose.'

My mind went back to the dark training grounds; to the last day I was there. We were all paired up, and then ordered to kill our opponent.

We were evenly matched. Both of us had survived there for years.

But I lost.

I stumbled, tripping on nothing and collapsed onto the soft white grass.

"That is why you lost." Elalindra crouched down, kneeling before me.

My arms and legs shook as I tried to get back up.

I was back in the Master's training grounds, on the hard floor with my arms and legs shaking. The other child was still standing; fists raised, knees bent. I forced my body to stand again, and lunged.

"You refused to lose." Elalindra murmured as she watched me struggle, slipping on the white ground beneath us.

The floor of the training grounds was gray. I observed that as I fell down onto it again. My blood was the only thing that colored it, a dark sticky red that splattered onto the dull background. One more time, I rose. I couldn't lose. I needed to…

"That's not true, is it?" Elalindra asked me, bringing me back to the gymnasium. "You didn't lose when you were beaten and broken. You lost much earlier than that."

I glared up at the red-haired woman. The lights above her cast a shadow over me.

I was back in the training grounds again, thrown back onto the hard stones after my lunge, staring up at my opponent.

We were supposed to be evenly matched, but every time we traded blows I was the one who ended up on the ground. He stood back, feet apart and arms raised.

'Losing means death. I cannot lose.'

My teeth ground together as I rose. We were ordered to fight to the death by the master, but all he did was stand back and wait as I got up.

"You didn't stop." Elalindra's voice brought me back out of the memory. "You kept on attacking, even though your body couldn't keep up."

"He was weak." I spat back, dazed and delirious from exertion. My vision swam in and out of focus as the white carpet of the gymnasium was replaced with the gray stones of the training grounds. "He wouldn't finish me off. He let me get up."

"Because that was the easiest way to kill you." Elalindra said softly. "You could have used the time he gave you to catch your breath, or observe your opponent. Instead, you attacked again and again until your stamina ran out. He used your own aggression against you, letting you waste your energy while allowing you to slam yourself into the hard ground when you fell."

My mind replayed the entire fight back in the training grounds. We were evenly matched, and at first neither of us had the advantage. Then a jab went under my guard, and hit me in the ribs. It was not a painful blow, but it was strong enough to make me lose a single breath. I countered, trying to inflict an equal amount of damage, but I was a second too slow. He guarded my blow, and from then on I was a single breath behind him. That small disadvantage began to build up as more and more jabs and blows slipped under or through my guard. What was one missed breath became two, then three.

He hopped backwards after grazing my jaw with a left hook. I charged after him, trying to tackle him to the ground. I couldn't keep up with him using punches and kicks, so I tried to wrestle him to the ground. But, my hands never touched him. He threw me over his shoulder, letting me slam into the hard ground.

After that, I was stuck in a loop. I'd get thrown to the ground, stand up and charge, then get thrown to the ground again. Every time a new bruise bloomed across my skin, brought on by gravity and the hard ground.

Finally, it was all I could do to stand, and it was only then he moved in. I endured another half-hour of punches and kicks, but eventually I collapsed in a bloody mess.

Then, I was swallowed by the black beast.

"Your aggression almost got you killed." Elalindra said softly. "Although important, aggression alone will not keep you alive. I will teach you the other things you need." She reached down and picked me up. "The first thing you will need to learn is that not all battles can be won." She said softly.

"Come now. Today's bodily exercise is over." Elalindra said to the other children, helping them to their feet as well. "After lunch, we will be exercising your mind next."

—-------------------------------------------------

The afternoon lessons were something Elalindra and the others had begun a few days after Lorien and the other children had arrived here. They covered arithmetics, geography, gothic-linguistics, and history. Despite their inhuman appearance, they were quite well versed in those topics.

However, instead of allowing the children to disperse and spend a little free time before dinner, Elalindra began another lesson.

"What do you think the key is to achieving victory throughout history?" Elalindra asked at the end of their history lesson. "Is it economics, military strength, social policy, tactics, or technology?"

Lorien and the others pondered over the question for a moment. There were several case studies Elalindra had spoken to them about where one or more of these factors had been important. Economics ensured supplies for a prolonged campaign. Military strength provided the raw power to brute force a win. Social policies that cultivated loyalty towards a state could create a unity that could withstand great adversity. Tactics and technology both created asymmetries in ability that could change the tide of a critical battle.

All of them seemed probable answers, but since there was an example for each one, it was a hard choice to make.

"Good." Elalindra nodded as the children pondered in silence. "You have listened to me well over these past few weeks. Well enough to know that the answer was not one of the examples I gave."

Lorien frowned slightly. It was a sly trick to list various options, as if they were valid choices, while hiding the true answer in silence. Then again, Elalindra and the other women were never quite forthright about anything.

"The answer I was looking for was diplomacy." Elalindra said. "When faced with an adversary, the easiest way to overcome them is to face them with a friend. Why is this?"

It sounded like a simple question, but none of the children came up with the same answer.

"Having a friend means you outnumber them." One answered.

"That can be true. For individuals, we are rarely more than ourselves. Hence, having more friends means having more numbers. Yet, for countries or factions that can vary in size, having an ally could still mean you are still lesser even when combined. What other reasons might diplomacy have been the greatest factor in achieving victory?"

"They could be in a different place to where you are." Another child piped up. "That could allow for a pincer movement or a surround."

"Indeed." Elalindra nodded. "Having an ally far away could be far more valuable than having one next to you."

"Elalindra?" One of the children suddenly asked. "When you say victory, are you talking only about battles?"

"Well noticed." The red-haired woman smiled. "You have good ears. Victory can be achieved in many ways. Battle is but one of them. Trade embargos, treaties, creating co-dependent economies… All of these are ways to achieve victory through economic means."

"You can't win by just making money." Lorien grumbled.

"That is true." Elalindra nodded. "However, economics is an important factor for victory. It can both win battles and prevent them from happening in the first place."

"But, how do you make allies Elalindra?" Another boy asked.

"There are many ways. But, the one I will teach you from today is called diplomacy."

"Isn't that just talking with someone?"

"At face value, it is. Yet, convincing someone with mostly words is a difficult task. Successful diplomats need to use everything around them in order to gain the outcome they want. Today's case study begins in the city of Muntinlupa. There was a war there. A dreadful one, with atrocities committed by all parties involved. However, this is not the part to discuss for today. At the end of the war, hundreds of former soldiers were captured as prisoners of war, and incarcerated in the jail of Muntinlupa. The president of the country Muntinlupa was in wished to execute them all. He personally had lost his wife, children, and siblings to the invaders. Retributionist sentiments amongst the populace were high, and many were against the idea of continuing to feed and imprison the prisoners of war. Killing them would have increased his popularity greatly. However, all of the prisoners of war were eventually set free, and sent back to their homeland. This was brought about by several years of diplomacy that appealed to both the economic and emotional sentiments of all parties."

—-------------------------------------------------

Lorien listened to Elalindra's story of the song "Night Goes on in Muntinlupa".

It was a song written by two men held in prison, sent to fight in a war they didn't want to. That captured their feelings of sorrow and homesick, and managed to get it back to their homeland. This song soon found itself in the streets of their defeated homeland, and rekindled efforts to see them repatriated. Yet, the stance of the president remained strongly opposed to pardoning the prisoners of war, even with future promises of economic aid and assistance.

That was, until a music box containing the song "Night Goes on in Muntinlupa" was sent to him as a gift. It contained none of the lyrics, but the song itself drew the president's interest. When he was told where the song had come from, as well as the lyrics, the president remained silent for a time.

A few days later, the surviving prisoners of war were all pardoned by the president.

To his people, he gave a speech explaining his actions with the following quote.

"I should be the last one to pardon them as they killed my wife and three children and five other members of the family. I am doing this because I do not want my children and my people to inherit from me hate for people who might yet be our friends for the permanent interest of the country. After all, destiny has made us neighbors."

"Diplomacy does not take place only at the conference table, or only with carrots and sticks." Elalindra said as she began to end the lesson. "It is not an art form that is devoid of soul, and made to be purely materialistic. At times, one must implore to another's mercy, and trust in the goodness of their soul and their desire for a better future."

Lorien stared up at the red haired woman. Although it was a pleasant story with a happy ending, it scared her. Believing in the good will of another did not come easy for her. Even now she was distant from the other children, not even bothering to remember their names. They were all still competitors in the struggle for survival to her, even if the environment they were in was kinder than the Master's.

"Now, stand up, all of you." Elalindra said. "Bring out the tables and help me with the plates. It is dinner time now."

Lorien stood up and began to do her bit with the others in silence.

—-------------------------------------------------

A/N: The story of Muntinlupa is a real-life one, and a good example of how diplomacy can turn bitter enemies into begrudging neighbors and eventually into friends. The fact that it was a song that changed everything is also something quite Aeldari. I have changed the quote a little-bit to remove mentions of countries so it is not inherently obvious which ones are being spoken of (plus it is another reference from over 28,000 years ago in-story). However, I felt it was not right to convert that story into a fictional futuristic one that was similar to it, so I have once again used a real-life example from our history.

 

[Nidhog153]

Neoth watched the exit ramp of his Stormbird open onto one of the landing pads of the Sanctum Imperialis. The flight had been otherwise uneventful, with the miniature Isha having fallen silent in her impromptu prison.

'The tri-weekly meeting in the Chamber of Lords. Appointing the new Grand Provost Marshal. Preparing additional envoys and messages to Merica and Hy Brasil. Discussing the new messages for my Iterators regarding religion. Codifying all of it into law… And of course, finding time to talk with the Paternova of the Navigators.'

He stifled a sigh as he listed out his schedule for the day.

'And on top of that, I have that soul-transfer device I need to work on with Isha.'

And he would have to do all of it by himself.

Neoth cast a slightly envious look at the metal box Isha's simulacra was locked in.

As a 'mortal', he was always only himself. In other words, although he could create an illusion to replace himself, he couldn't actually create multiple copies of himself to split up his workload. The Emperor was only a great man, and that mythology needed to be preserved to keep himself in the materium.

Isha, on the other hand, could exist in multiple states at once. While he was the Emperor and only the Emperor, all of Isha's simulacra and herself were 'normal' life-forms that 'coincidentally' acted in accordance with what Isha would do.

'Then again…' He thought to himself as he got off the Stormbird. 'It would be a nightmare to keep all of the simulacra's memories in coherence.'

Time was relative, and each simulacra had its own individual perception of time. Hence, there was no true way to keep the events each simulacra experienced in an unquestionable timeline. She could use references, such as clocks or events that her simulacra experienced from different perspectives to arrange what she saw or heard in a manageable order, but it would still be a mental nightmare to organize all the experiences into one coherent memory.

Although, perhaps she didn't bother to organize the events at all. Time was meaningless in the immaterium, and that was what she was used to. Therefore, the order of events was probably less important to beings such as her.

Neoth pondered on the oddities of a being with very little concept of time as he walked back to his office. It was a useful distraction to temporarily ignore the jam packed status of his schedule. His Custodes followed behind him. One of them carried the metal box Isha's simulacra was in.

The doors to his office opened, moved by his psychic strength. He felt a certain silver pair of eyes watching him from one of the alcoves above, and let out an internal sigh. Motioning for his Custodes to place the metal box on his desk, he then sent them out and shut the door telekinetically behind them.

"I would hope you are here for something constructive, for I have no interest in continuing our argument." He said irritably in the direction he felt the alien goddess was.

"I am not here to waste your time." Isha replied with a slight pout. "You only have another twenty or so minutes before you have to sit above your Lords and watch them bicker."

"Then I will get straight to the point." Neoth said as he pulled a data tablet from his pocket dimension. "I have designs for the soul transfer machine you spoke of once, and I want to run them by you."

"Fine." Isha said as she approached the metal box on his desk and unlocked it. "Show me your designs."

Neoth moved to hand the device to Isha, then stopped. The doll sized Isha he had expected to pop out of the box never came. Instead, an ivory white arachnid shaped creature crawled out of it onto Isha's arm. The closest thing it resembled was a spider, but only in the fact that it had two main body parts and many legs. In fact, it was impossible to say how many legs it had at one time at all. Instead of walking, it moved by growing new quadruple jointed legs from its carapaced front half. Then, it would suck the outstretched leg back into itself, pulling itself forwards, like the pseudopodia of some sort of protozoa.

"What's wrong?" Isha said as she stroked the hand-sized spider-like thing on the back.

"Nothing." Neoth stated calmly, although he didn't step any closer towards Isha. Both eyes remained fixed cautiously on the many legged creature that had reached Isha's shoulder.

"Ah, you've met the White Guardians before." Isha said with a chuckle, stroking the rounded beetle like carapace that covered its top half.

"I have." Neoth replied tersely.

The thing on Isha's shoulder was a Warp Spider, one of the many natural denizens of the Webway. They did not populate every region of it, thankfully. The regions that they did inhabit were off limits to all but the Aeldari. Neoth had several encounters with them. None of them were pleasant.

"Do not worry." Isha chuckled again, amused by Neoth's discomfort. "I have merely transformed the simulacra into something else. It is easier to stay in the materium when there is only one of you."

'Then… what shape did you take while the simulacra was talking to me?' Neoth thought to himself. An unpleasant image of a human-sized Warp Spider taking Isha's place flitted through Neoth's mind, and he quickly dismissed it. Hopefully it was a plant or something else less dangerous she had transformed into.

"Are they a species incorporated into your cycle of life?" Neoth said as he finally approached Isha and handed her the data tablet.

"They are. Although, they existed before my children." Isha said as she began to browse through the various designs. "They are natural inhabitants of the Webway, and the source of some of my children's technology. Bonesinging was developed by observing their unique biology. A sort of biomimesis, if you will. It is why they can flow from the Webway to Wraithbone constructs so fluidly."

"What are they?" Neoth asked as Isha scrolled through pages of design documentation and notes in a couple of seconds.

"A form of life that is no longer capable of surviving in this galaxy." Isha sighed. "Before the War in Heaven, the Sea of Souls was easier to access. Its resources were not inherently dangerous to use, and many species were able to thrive with the power it provided. The Warp Spiders are one of those species, and used to be able to survive outside of the Webway and certain Wraithbone constructs. Now, they cannot survive in the materium." She scratched the Warp Spider's carapace again. "Although, that is probably preferable to you."

"I have seen these things feed. It was not a pleasant sight." Neoth muttered.

The Warp Spiders, or White Guardians as the Aeldari called them, inhabited certain sections of the Webway. Sections Neoth gave a wide berth during his initial travels through the Webway. He had watched what happened to any mortal or immortal that entered their domain unprepared.

'They eat existence.' Neoth remembered as he kept a wary eye on the Warp Spider.

Through some freak coincidence, the Warp Spider shared two features with terrestrial spiders. They could eject a stringy silk-like substance, and they digested their prey outside their body.

Their 'silk' was ejected from the tips of the leg-like appendages they could grow at will. However, unlike terrestrial spiders, their 'silk' was not a chemical polymer chain. It was actually a part of their body, elongated and narrowed to the point they appeared like strands of silky filaments. These would cling to their prey, and begin to digest it.

Warp Spiders didn't just eat the physical body, but devoured everything that composed their victims. Thoughts, emotions, memories. All of it. The most recent thoughts were eaten first, often causing their prey to forget how they wandered into the Warp Spiders' feeding ground in the first place. They would become confused, lost, and surrounded by swarms of Warp Spiders pouring out of the very fabric of the Webway.

It was an insidious way of feeding. Their victims would be unable to form coherent thoughts in order to escape their situation. Such thoughts would be consumed as they were being made by the Warp Spiders. This effectively paralyzed their victims with confusion, as more and more of them was eaten. Eventually, they wouldn't even remember why they even attempted to enter the Webway. It would feel as if they were transported from their home, possibly even their childhood, into the midst of thousands upon thousands of white, long-limbed, carapaced creatures.

'A live lobotomization.' Neoth thought grimly, remembering the thrashing daemons he had once seen being fed upon by the Warp Spiders. They covered it from head to toe, eating even the Warp flames it ejected in self-defense.

"Do you fear them?" Isha asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I do not have pleasant memories of them." Neoth said grimly. "I ran afoul of them once, when I was first exploring the Webway. It was not a pleasant experience."

"I am not surprised." Isha chuckled. "As a species that is part of my cycle of life, they are quite hostile to anything not of my blood. However, there is no reason to fear them now. You are far wiser, and more powerful now than you were then."

"I may be able to deal with a few thousand, but even then killing them is pointless." Neoth muttered. "At best, it is a waste of my power. At worst, it could allow daemons to infiltrate the portions that I purge."

"Yes, there is a reason the Webway remains free from daemonic incursion, despite the damage it sustained during the War in Heaven. Although…" Isha sighed. "They have not acclimatized to the newer portions of the Webway."

"Can you not order them to move into those regions?" Neoth asked.

"Just because a species becomes part of my cycle of life does not mean I can control them." Isha snorted as the Warp Spider sank through her skin, returning the small portion she had cast off to watch the Emperor's speech to his Thunder Warriors. "They merely see my children in a favorable light, for all species that are part of my cycle can be reborn through my tears. As my continued existence is dependent on the wellbeing of my children, the species that are part of my cycle instinctively know it is counterproductive for them to hurt them."

'Symbiosis…' Neoth thought to himself. That was the relation between the Aeldari and the other species within Isha's cycle of life. The Tear of Isha was a terraforming miracle in the form of a psychic data matrix that would reformat a planet and seed it with species from the goddess's cycle of life. Isha's and the Aeldari's existence essentially served as a backup for any species that went extinct. Hence, the instinctual favoritism said creatures felt towards the Aeldari. Of course, it was just an instinct. Individual organisms could still learn to hate the Aeldari if given enough reason to.

Isha finished reviewing the information on the data tablet and returned it to Neoth.

"The core concepts you have here are correct, but the methodology is both abrasive and limited." Isha gave her conclusion. "Using materials that can transfer psychic energy, such as the alloys you use to make force weapons, as a restrictive medium for the soul to travel will prevent the psychic energy that forms the soul from dissipating. However, your alloys do not have the ability to transfer or store detailed information. This will cause many memories and their personality to be lost during the transfer. You may achieve a sort of reincarnation with this, but the result would be an incoherent wreck at best. They would be the lucky ones. At least they would still be able to move and possibly recover with an entirely new personality. Most will not retain even their basic survival instincts. Catatonia or coma is all that awaits them in their new life."

Neoth grimmaced. This was, quite frankly, his own assessment of his designs. Souls were a form of organized psychic energy that contained all the information that composed a person's personality and memories. His design sought to exploit that feature by using psychic conductive materials as a sort of piping or wiring to carry the soul from one physical form to another.

Most human souls dissipated upon entering the immaterium, releasing all of their energy and information into the Warp. Those that didn't either had control of psychic energy during their life, or their psychic energy was 'colored' by their information to the point it retained their identity even when freed from the body.

His solution isolated the soul from the immaterium, giving it nothing to dissipate into in the first place.

The only problem was that force weapon alloys were only meant to conduct psychic energy, and redirect it into the weapon's emitters or storage units. Naturally, this meant there was very little consideration for the information within that psychic energy. It was a bit like forcing a boiled egg through a sieve. The amount of egg wouldn't change, but its shape and texture would.

That was the core issue with his design, although it was not the only issue.

"I can see that you've tried to reduce the damage to the target's soul by widening the channels for psychic energy within the alloys, and by cutting apart the individual's soul before the transfer process. By partitioning the soul in an organized manner, you hoped to reduce the amount of information lost during transit." Isha said as she crossed her arms. "However, transferring a soul in this manner is a bit like using an uninsulated wire. I would say that only half of the psychic energy that composes a soul will end at its destination, and that's the optimistic assumption."

That was the other issue. Force metal alloys were not the most efficient material to transfer psychic energy.

Neoth had considered using the limited supplies of Blackstone, or Noctilith as it was called during the Dark Age of Technology, but that in itself was a self-contradiction. Blackstone could act as an insulative material for the soul transfer process, but it would also prevent him from assisting or observing the process. As this was a psychic procedure, using something that would block his own psychic abilities was paradoxical at best, self-defeating at worst. The target's soul could end up trapped in the device, with no way to get it out except destroying it. Of course, if he destroyed the device while the soul was stuck in it, it would dissipate into the immaterium. Hence, it would be an immense waste of time and resources for everyone involved.

"I understand my design has failings." Neoth replied. "I was hoping for solutions, rather than criticisms."

"What solutions can I offer with materials such as these?" Isha sighed. "It would be like attempting to build a void ship out of sand and spit."

"These are the materials mankind can reproduce on its own." Neoth grumbled. "I know the psycho-plastic nature of Wraithbone is the ideal material for my purposes. However, this device must be reproducible on a galactic scale. Making it out of Wraithbone would make that impossible."

"You wish for a final scalable version in two years? For what? Surely, a serviceable prototype will be enough for your Thunder Warriors."

"Creating a proto-type predicated on Wraithbone would cause all other versions to be dependent on it."

"Your Imperium already intends to use the materials of my children." Isha huffed. "That relic you call the Golden Throne is wrought from Wraithbone and Aeldari runes covered in a shell of auramite and adamantium."

Neoth narrowed his eyes at the accusation. The Golden Throne was a relic from the Dark Age of Technology. He had discovered it under the deserts of Asia, and was currently assembling the parts to reconstruct it within the Sanctum Imperialis. Its innards were Aeldari in origin, but to describe it as an entirely Aeldari creation rankled his pride.

"It is a human invention." Neoth retorted. "When a hunter carves a statue out of an ivory tusk, the elephant is not attributed as its creator."

He saw Isha's ears twitch irritably at the comparison but she remained silent. There was a strange look in her eyes, somewhere between pity and frustration.

"Regardless, the Golden Throne only has to be made once." He continued, unable to decipher the look he received, but taking her silence to be an acquiescence to his argument. "This is different. It needs to eventually be replicated enmasse, and adopted as a part of the recruitment method of my legions."

"And you are afraid of this process becoming reliant on the Aeldari?"

"My caution is two fold." Neoth shrugged. "Yes, I do not want my Imperium to be reliant on aliens. However, this is also to protect your children from my citizens."

"Oh?" Isha exclaimed with a raised eyebrow. "Do explain."

"There will be many who will be tempted by the idea of true reincarnation." Neoth stated calmly. "Some may attempt to replicate what we create here. If they came to the conclusion that Wraithbone was all they needed, they would be motivated to take those materials from your children. Some may do this peacefully. Others will not."

Isha shrugged at that.

"If you are worried about what your people might do to the Aeldari, then do not. I am confident my children can deal with those who would attempt to steal from them. Additionally, although irreplaceable for you, Wraithbone is not as precious to my children. They have provided tools and gifts made of Wraithbone to the client races and other aliens in the past. They may do so for you, should you make the appropriate alliances."

"And what would they ask for in return?"

"That would depend on the time, place, and individuals involved." Isha shrugged. "Of course, you do not have the time to go searching for my children. So, I will provide you with the materials you need to create the device."

"That is rather generous of you." Neoth said with narrowed eyes, questioning her nonverbally what she wanted in return for the Wraithbone.

"We are working together, for the time being." Isha replied with a coy smile. "Besides, it would be less irritating for me to work with what I know instead of using your alloys."

Neoth frowned for a moment, then sighed. Perhaps this was her way of returning his previous gesture, when he said he was going to include greater aspects of mercy and fairness into the social structure of the Imperium.

"Do as you wish then." He said as he stepped past her towards the doors. "I have a meeting to watch over. Feel free to add any notes or comments to the designs in that data tablet. I will review them at the end of the day."

Isha watched him leave before turning back to the data tablet.

She had sown the first seeds of cooperation. Hopefully they would sprout further on. The soul transfer machine was not a critical part of the Imperium, but it was a slightly useful one. Having her children become necessary to this one small aspect of the Imperium's future recruitment process would allow some trade connections to be created. That alone would make it easier for future relations to be made, and reduce the chance of war breaking out between them.

'And it will hopefully allow me to convince him to assist him with his other projects.' She thought to herself.

The Golden Throne, and its sister device, the Dark Glass were replications of Soul Engines. The Old Ones had used them to create deities like herself and the Webway. The versions the humans had taken inspiration from were most likely later versions the Old Ones had made the Aeldari create, but that did not make the designs Aeldari.

'You believe it will be the crowning achievement of your Imperium.' She thought to herself ruefully, staring out of the window and across the surface of Terra. Her Warpsight penetrated the desert sands of the Asiatic plate, allowing her eyes to inspect the mountainous pyramidal construct buried deep beneath the surface.

'You believe it will allow you to take my children's inheritance, the Webway, and claim it for yourself. Yet, you do not see the true danger you invite into the heart of your Imperium.'

She let out a soft sigh, remembering the great deed of Shaimesh, and his port city of Commorragh.

The Warp Spiders did not inhabit that section of the Webway, and that left it vulnerable to the horrors of the Warp. No doubt it was under siege by the Ruinous Powers and other psychic predators at this very moment.

Dysjunction.

It was a phenomenon only seen near the Webway cities of the Aeldari that were made with Shaimesh's knowledge. In these regions of non-space, the unreality of the Warp could penetrate the Webway and spill daemons and madness into it.

The Golden Throne invited the same danger to this planet. Neoth may think his immaterial hating touch would be enough to hold the daemons back, but the Webway was not a structure made of physical parts. A breach within it could not be patched up like a leaky pipe. Once broken, that fact would be impossible to change.

Isha turned back to the data tablet.

There was still time. Neoth would only attempt to complete the Golden Throne after recovering the Dark Glass. That meant she had at least until the beginning of his Great Crusade to find a solution for that particular problem.

'We do what we can when we can.' She said to herself as she began to add to Neoth's designs.
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