Well, not too many participants, so here is my submission, and I hope someone will like it. Elayeth is a 315 year old Eldar woman who was born on the Craftworld Alaitoc. She went through a couple of the Paths. At first, like many young Eldar Elayeth enjoyed life, but at heart she was always a dreamer. She always admired the great poets and creators, and following the Path of the Awakening learned to notice the smallest details that may seem insignificant or invisible.One fateful day, Arlimith, one of the greatest sculptors of Alaitoc, solemnly presented his masterwork, a statue of the Lileath the Maiden - Goddess of dreams and fortune. Seeing his magnificent creation, Elayeth realized that she wanted to take the Path of the Sculptor. The sculptor eagerly accepted her as a disciple, sending her enthusiasm and developing her talent as a crafter. Starting with small creations, Elayeth developed her talents, deeply imbued with the various schools of style. However, as she followed the Path of the Sculptor in the hopes of surpassing the greatest sculptors, she became conceited and narcissistic. To some, this was a sign that She Who Thirsts was making its way into the girl's heart. After the creation of a carving Elayeth considered her greatest yet, her mother bluntly warned her of her growing pride and suggested that her perfectionism would be her downfall. These harsh but well-meaning words offended Elayeth, and set the stage for the growth of a grudge that would only grow worse with time. After one impulsive fit, she left her family home and moved to an apartment on the opposite end of Alaitoc. She tried to calm down and to create a small statuette of Kurnous, but psycho-clay reacted to her unceasing anger and took a different, unexpected form. Horrified, Elayeth saw that she had createda perfect figurine of Khaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One. Struck she recoiled from her creation, and went out of her apartments, wandering aimlessly through the streets and parks of Alaitoc until she was unconsciously drawn to the gate of an Aspect Shrine of the Fire Dragons. When she came closer, the gates opened, letting her in, where warrior in the red armor and a golden helmet with a black facial part was waiting for her. "You came to the temple of Khaine, child. Why are you here?" His voice was like a roaring fire. "I ... I feel anger, it burns inside of me, I can not hold it back any longer. Even psycho-clay does not listen to me, turning statuette of Kurnous into... Khaine's" "The bloody hand of Khaine touched you, child, awakening in your heart his dark legacy, a gift which is at the heart of every Eldar. It brought you here, to the Shrine of the Sun Flame. I am Exarch Forlian, I will direct you on the Path in the crucible of war. You will go next to Khaine, will be the embodiment of his anger. We will help you find your war-mask, and teach to use your anger as your weapon, it will no longer enslave you, and you will attain freedom." "I'm afraid, Exarch,"said Elayeth in a trembling voice.Anger gave way to fear in the soul of the girl as she realized the change she would soon undergo. - It will be a bloody way. I'll be your mentor, will teach self-control. Forgive with guilt, fear and regrets. What is your name, child? "Elayeth." "Now you are Elayeth of the Shrine of the Sun Flame, a Fire Dragon." Elayeth crossed the threshold of the shrine and the massive doors closed behind her. There was no return path. ********** Elayeth began to train with the rest of the warriors of the shrine, which soon became her friends. She found her war mask and began to bear the death of the younger races and enemies of her people, she became the embodiment of the Bloody-Handed God's wrath. She knew no fear, pity or regret, and her anger fueled her war mask. Once she had made many beautiful things, but now her only creations were the burning wreckage and charred corpses of those who she fought against. However, not only the enemies died in battles. Many of Eldar also perished, fulfilling the will of the Seer Council of Alaitoc. Returning to her Craftworld after a battle with the orks on the Exodite's planet and went down from the ship Elayeth stoped before returning back to the Aspect Shrine. She saw as the from the ship began to unload the dead and wounded Eldar, heard the sobs of those who grieved for the dead, saw brilliant tears on the faces of others. Her fellow Aspect Warriors left the ship with grim faces, exuding only deep anger and hatred. It was as if they did not know fear or pity, and in a moment of clarity she realized she was no better than they were. But others of the Eldar were not like grim-faced anointed sovereigns of Khaine, and grief and sorrow permeated the crowd. Turning around, she saw warriors of her Shrine carrying the body of her fallen comrade. His name was Nairleteyr, he was always the witty prankster and soul of the company. And now he was dead and the soul left his body, warrior's soulstone was glowing red, concluding his soul in itself, protecting it from the avid grasp of the Great Enemy. Elayeth looked around at crowd, seeing as healers carried away moaning wounded. Elayeth took off her helmet and at the same moment warmask abandoned her, and she has once again become herself. She dropped the helmet and fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Help me..." she whispered, shuddering with sobs. As if in response to her plea someone put a hand on her shoulder. Elayeth raised her tear-stained eyes and saw in front of a healer with golden hair and violet eyes, wearing a white robe. "Please... I do not want to kill. I wanted to protect the lives of our people ... But my Path brings only death..." "Don't cry, child, I'll help you," - Healer said with a soft voice and gently clenched hand Elayeth. - "Rise up and dry your tears. I'll teach you to heal and help. Come with me." Elayeth got up and went behind healer. She ceased to be a Fire Dragon, she no longer carried the destruction and death. Now Elayeth knew that she would not shed more blood, taking the lives of others, and will be the salvation for those who wounded in body and soul.
Oh hi...I'z err...zogg'd sum 'ummi...er...munkie? Wiff my...err...uhh...point'ee kone 'at An...uhh...it waz grate! Yep, datz me...uhh...kanz you'z showz me da neerez Krapwurld to uz? ...no rezon reel'lee...jus...you knowz...gotz ta do sum...wutevah panzee fings you'z- I'z meen wez doo.
Wutz wiff you ya pointy ear'd git?! ...oh ro'ight fer gotz me git name- panzee nam- pointy ear na- L'dar name...yez...errrr....*looks at note* Ah! Dere it is Iza'gitan Nota'Nork Yep datz me I jus luv tall deerz an da Krapwurld
Well Nota'Nork come this way I'd like you to meet my friend... his name is The Avatar of Khaine. I'm sure you'll get alone wonderfully...
Here's my own entry for this. Whatever else I might choose, I know I will want to be a Warlock * * * * * * * Shuriken whirred past him in a metallic blur as he ducked under the falling masonry. He leaped across the crumbling battlements and vaulted over a body, stepping lightly off the edge and tumbling as he fell to land on his feet, shuriken catapult ready in two hands as he swept the plaza with a glance. He could feel the souls of his squad as they formed up around him, the short, urgent pulses of mind-vox as their Exarch relayed the next objective. Kherandis took his hand from the rune of the Dire Avenger and smiled, setting it down gently. So many memories of his old Path lingered in that simple stone, the stylised sword and shield glyph made into a single, plain sigil. Like all the runes of his calling, it symbolised many meanings, and some were purely his own. The Warlock took a deep breath and allowed his mind to slip further into the trance as he chose another rune. The ancient leather bag was soft and worn with use, the repairs he had made on the surface of the Exodite world of Tirathain rough under his slender fingers. The tear opened another in his memory, the scent of crude gunsmoke and the bitter reek of flares lighting the sky. He remembered tumbling down an embankment, lying still in the shallow water as the skimmer passed overhead, the dull sound of its droning engines covering the urgent thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears. The time he had served as a Guardian underscored the need he felt to get back to his assigned Storm unit, so that he scrabbled at the scattered runes, snatching them up quickly while he crouched, wary, eyes scanning the grey half-light in the wake of the rumbling transport. Rising like a black-clad ghost in the darkness he leaped up onto the rough road and sprinted along it, heedless of the scattered shots impacting on the field of his runic armour and ghosthelm. The shuriken pistol in his left hand spat silver stars in a wide arc, silencing some of the enemy fire as he dived into the cover of the ruins. His right was already seeking out the rune Anthralas-Isha, Protecting Arms of the Goddess, as he made at first mind-vox then visual contact. The thin membrane of Reality buckled a little as Kherandis drew on the power of the rune, but he was born of Ulthwe and knew well the ways of the Seer. The Song of Ulthanash skirted the edge of oblivion and damnation as it fled the Eye, and its children grew strong and potent in the shadow of its warp-tainted space even as they sought to outrun it. His psyche called up the dome-shaped shield easily, spreading the protective field over his Storm-Guardian squad as they waited in the darkness, half-seen to eyes less keen than his. Kherandis picked out the subtle markings on the black armour that denoted the squad leader easily, nodding in respect to the Eldar who sighted down the scope of her shuriken catapult towards the retreating skimmer. He sighed a little, drawing out the rune and holding it in his palm for a moment before setting it beside the first. The protection-rune skipped lightly into the air, spinning in an orbit around the rune of the Avenger. He would likely be called again to fight, but with the Aspects or the Guardian-squads? Would he stand with the Autarchs directing the battle, or with the Seer Council, protecting and enhancing the mightiest of the War-Seers? He could not tell. He needed clarity. Dipping again into the pouch he felt his pulse quicken until it hammered against his ribs. He lifted out the rune of Kaela Mensha Khaine, and his vision blurred in fire. He was standing in the Shrine of the Bloody-Handed God, forcing himself to look straight ahead as two Exarchs moved in a stylised pattern around a third, their companion in arms and now the Eldar elected to be the Young King. Many terms passed without Khaine being called to war, but now he was needed. The Seer Council had determined that the Avatar must be awoken, and the Eldar before him – Sheldras, called White-Bladed Shield in Darkness when the Exarch armour claimed him for his god, was being readied for sacrifice. The two officiating Exarchs painted his naked skin with runes of war, battle-sigils reflecting his martial nature and his gift to Khaine. Sheldras stood unmoving. Kherandis, no Exarch, had felt a growing weight of horror press down upon his own soul as each rune was completed and the surrounding Seer choir took up the chanting of the other Exarchs who filled the Shrine. At last the crown of wraithornes was placed on head, and Sheldras straightened, lifting up his head as the first Exarch lifted the great mantle and placed it around his shoulders. The second fastened it in place with a long pin, almost a dagger. Sheldras dropped to one knee and accepted a cup, brimming with red liquid. Kherandis felt a sickness clutch at him. Around him, the Exarchs fell silent. The drumbeat from the internal doors of the Shrine grew more rapid until it resembled a heart, beating a rapid tattoo as the god-fragment awakened. Out of the smoky darkness behind him, one of the Exarchs screamed, throwing back his head in a uluating howl. Another took up the cry. The Warlock felt his skin tingle in fear and anticipation. Sheldras rose and stepped forward, a pace or two, steady and determined, holding the offering-chalice before him as the bronze doors opened. The scent of blood and burning iron flowed out and the Young King walked in to his last communion. Back in his chamber, Kherandis swallowed hard, forcing himself to let go of the rune in his hand. Without prompting, it flew spear-straight into the orbiting pair, clashing with both in its eagerness to be read. War. The rune of Khaine. So he would be called to fight. Whether on the edges of the battle, with the Seers directing the flow of Fate, or with the Guardian squads in support of the main offence, or giving his guidance to the Aspects he did not know. In the five centuries of his life he had done each, and he knew he would do so again. All that remained was to search for the time and the place, to know when he must be ready and to seek the concurrence of the Council. Then he would go again to the Shrine of the Stalwart Shield, accept his ghosthelm from the hands of the Exarch and walk again in the red shadow of Khaine. Kherandis steeled his mind and reached into the bag, seeking out whatever rune Fate would guide him to. A small symbol pressed lightly against his hand. He drew it out, feeling the sigil of the Far-Wanderer almost slip through his fingers. He grasped it and brought it into the light. He had never taken the Path of the Ranger. Though he had travelled with them and saw the value of their Path, both as an early warning of danger to his Craftworld and as a safety valve against the strictures of life there when they became too taut, he did not feel the need to join them. From his earliest Path as a Crafter, through that of the Diplomat and the gentle ministrations of the Path of the Healer, he had never once felt the confinement that led some Rangers to seek the stars. But he felt no condemnation of them either. Had Asurmen not said that each Eldar’s Path must be freely chosen? He let the Rune of the Ranger slip free and it hung low in orbit, distant from the three yet connected in the skein. It hinted at advance warning. The counsel he sought would come with time to plan, if he could read the signs correctly. His glance slipped to his witchblade as it lay beside him, and his hands tingled. The psychic blade had no consciousness of its own but the resonance of countless battles lay heavily on the artefact, a seeping corona of memories and visions yet to come. He did not know, for a moment, whether the desire to fight came from the blade or his own need for righteous violence. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm as he took out a datacrystal and opened it with a flick of his mind. The spinning gem projected a three-dimensional vista, a map of realspace where the Eldar fought and sought conflicts according to the counsel of their Seers. Kherandis was not among the foremost of these; his place lay more often on the battlefield or accompanying far-flung missions to other Craftworlds. But he knew how to divine, and he knew how to seek clarification of the idea that was already pulling at his mind. He calmed his errant psyche and shielded the little group of hovering runes so that his preconceptions did not influence their pattern. He let them float into the semi-transparent vortex of the map, marking where they came to rest. As he did so, a small smile formed on his lips. He would go to Arkhona.
Poor little Warp Spider. Don't despair. Khaine will make it all go away. Some excellent stuff here, good to see fellow Eldar lore fans as well I appreciate the love. It's nice to be thought of
