"A village stands alone, its defenders spread along their lines.

Facing them are five men, there

When the last slaughter is complete, the ritual will begin. When that is done this world will ever be part
of chaos.

What force can stand before such blackness? Who can crush such vile usurpers of Khaine's might?
Anaris rise to his call! Anaris we bring the dawn to this shadow! We will slaughter these infidels. TO
BATTLE!!!!”, Malhier's call to battle rang out to his fellow Eldar. The forest clearing they emerged from,
flames bursting behind them, was a picture from right out of hell. The Marine’s, unfazed, continued
their culling of the natives. The shuriken of the Guardian’s weaponry pinged off their armour leaving
deeper and deeper nicks.

Then they were into them, and no longer were they ignored. Malheir’s sword claimed one as Durla fell
before one of the madmen’s bolts. The other Chaos Marines blocked in a smooth motion, practiced for
millennia tempered with superhuman grace. It was catastrophic, a battle of attrition that neither side
could afford. Three more Guardians, their names flashing through Malheir’s name like a silent whisper,
Kara, Enlar, Esh-ty, the names were repeated on their last track, their final existence. Two more marines
fell, Veli’s shurikens creating enough dents for Alsini to stab her blade through both of the creatures
infernal hearts. Alas she lost a chunk of her shoulder as the marine attempted to take his slayer with
him. Malheir, the second kill claimed, his witchblade burning the no doubt miniscule remains of the
man’s soul. The final duo of blasphemous ones pulled back, perhaps afraid of their own mortality,
perhaps calculating a devastating counterstrike, whatever the answer it would remain unknown. A cry
of, “We are the spear of Kurnous, nothing escapes our reach!” sounded as jaws like steel clamped unto
one marine, wrenching his torso off, dangling internal organs. Four spears slammed into the second
almost a second later, three breaking on impact the final burying itself into the autosensing helm
causing the body to drop slowly to the ground.

Malheir slowly drew himself out of his fencer’s stance, his sword held loosely ready to be pulled back up
at a moment’s hesitation as an eldar with a headdress of feathers centered around a glimmering yellow
stone rode up on a hissy scaled creature, a dragon. Anaris had fought its share of wars with Exodite clans
as it sought to bring enlightenment to them. Druzhina, was already a protectorate and this clan was well
on its way to enlightenment, but still you never knew whom the locals would blame for catastrophe. The
Exodite looked pointedly down at the warlock, his face betraying no emotion other then the radiance of
sorrow his soul gave, hinting at a caring leader who could feel his world dying as war raged around
them. “Tell me, warlock, shall we expect many more attacks this day?”

Malheir lifted his face to stare into the chieftain’s eyes, projecting his own sadness past the angered
mask of the Warlock, “You should expect more attacks, and more deaths until Anaris can reclaim this
world. That is the way of this cruel galaxy we find ourselves in now.”
The Exodite gave the slightest of nods, “So it has been, since the ancestors of the darkest black came to
be, so it has been since my forefather’s came here. Since the Fall we have had no peace…”

“… till the Rhana Dhandra we shall expect none. Elder, I have need of information.”

“I know what you seek. The sword was nestled in the Grove of Isha, until it’s theft that is. Oddly enough
that was what heralded these disgusting Mon Keigh’s arrival.”, the Elder’s tone conveyed some blame, a
subtle insult to the glory of Anaris.

“I have found, elder that the Mon Keigh, particularly those of the breed we hunt, tend to believe the
Great Enemy is a force to be used, not simply a foe to be overcome.”

“Then they deserve nothing less than our utter disdain and their ignominious fate. Regardless, I believe
it your intention to visit the shrine where the sword was to obtain a phantom of its abductor’s trail?”

“That would be the ideal. Whether it is to happen, well that is up to The Laughing One’s sense of
humour that day, blessed by his name. “

“I had worried about that for you see, the first location our enemy landed was that very Grove. Its
beautiful wraithbone trees have no doubt been thoroughly defiled by their loathsome hands. Decades
will pass before it is restored to its true sight.”

“Thank you kinsman I will take this information to our high command. It will no doubt prove useful in
our campaign, and indeed essential to my journey.”

“Isha lighten your burdens, for I fear your path to be long yet.” The Exodite’s aura was still sad, but
before that was wisdom, a true glimpse of the future.

“Khaine guide your blades, Asuryan your mind, thank you.” Malhier spoke before turning around, the
psychic mask around his thoughts tightening at the thought of blood, Khaine’s roar running up his spine.

Today, today would be red.

The Tech Magus scooted around once more, gibbering excitedly to itself. Yes this sword had power… he
could feel the brass bolts holding his brain in place shiver with the ozone tang around it. Yes, yes it
would do.

It calculated the sword’s worth on the antique market as well over the value of a sub system, yet the
arrogant Eldar had left it to rot on some pathetic primitive world! No wonder such a race was dying out.
It had already performed eight circles around the device when its logical brain concluded another fact
about the blade. It was emitting a psychic cry that was escaping the not inconsiderable dampers. A
whirring sound emanated from rusted eye sockets as the focal lenses of the Magus switched to view the
electrical impulses that made up the energy of the warp in the materiel realm. It was very proud of its
eyes, designed long ago back when it was still whole, back when it had a name. It knew that old name,
and cared not for it. The name no longer suited the creature therefore it no longer had the name. It was
simply the Tech Magus. It had other names, but those were given to it, not possessed by it.
It leaned closer, eyes darting over the surface of the blade as weird runes appeared on the sword’s
surface. The Magus pulled a file through its data server, a private version of its compatriots noospheric
interface, a translation device it had sculpted. The runes appeared side by side on his display, as gothic
lettering defined each one. Then the letters danced and rearranged, the context defined by the presence
and absence, by the way they danced over the surface of the blade.

It smiled as the sentence setteled, the Inquisitor would be pleased…