The Shaman was dead, his Rangers and lost Ulthwéans avenged and the dreams of Rishaeron Wayfinder were still for the first time in a decade. Despite all this, Rishaeron was still restless, so the Ranger did as he had every other time he needed his head setting right. He took a pilgrimage to the Isle of Corsairs.
By the time he reached the emerald Isles of Neni'Shelwe, Rishaeron had removed his armour, helmet and Wraithbone prosthetic that he had yet to show mastery over. When he would see his friends again, it would be as a man and not a warrior.
On a cliffside path that had wound for some miles, a figure was rendered a silhouette by the setting sun. Rishaeron raised his palm, his ruined arm hidden beneath his cloak.
"Greetings." He called, unable to discern who the figure was. "I am looking for the Corsair Princess."
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Ash stared blankly up at the commissar that had been trying to get information out of him for well over an hour now. Ash had just dissociated listening to the sound of the chimera driving over the rocky terrain. The heat was unbearable, and his arms were starting to hurt from being bound behind his back for so long.
An explosion shook the vehicle, and tossed him from where he had been sat bringing him back to reality. He watched as several of the guardsmen left the chimera. Though Ash didn't have the attention to give what happened to them, as he was dragged back to the same position he'd be in since he'd been arrested and stuck back here.
He barely had time to register the Eldar that had entered the vehicle, before blood splattered across his face, and his own vision went black.
Commission for the super cool @tearofisha of his ranger oc Rishaeron, thanks again! Really liked working on this one, I think it got me back into my groove 😌
Life for the self-styled Outcast had taken on an oddly comforting routine of late. Rishaeron would adventure, explore, and bear witness to the beauty of the galaxy, with the occasional burst of violence and adrenaline to keep things interested in the meantime.
Between his missions, he would return to Neni'shelwe or wherever Y'pollea could be found and spend the valuable time he could in her company.
As he had done almost a dozen times now, he threw down a bag containing trophies from his latest kill, in this instant teeth from a monstrous Ork Warboss, but was concerned by the lack of faux-swooning from his paramour.
"My stars, is something troubling you?" He asked with an edge of suspicion to his voice.
His gear together and goodbyes said, Rishaeron returned to the nondescript Agri-world he left Ana on and took to waiting.
For days, he existed as a gargoyle meditating in the canopy of trees, an utter stranger to the planet, people, and even Jenny, who continued her labours in Ana's absence. On the 4th day of waiting, his quarry arrived. Landing silently on the underbrush of leaves like an ambush predator, he spoke the first words he had since he left Neni'Shelwe.
The Rangers' very presence was difficult to describe, as though the very act of perceiving him was being rendered difficult both physically and psychically. He was like ephemeral smoke trapped in glass, billowing, swirling, and never still.
"I've had some success in my mission." One hand jostled the hilt of Anaris in its scabbard while the other tapped the Shadowfield generator at his hip.
"A gift from our mutual friends on the Corsairs Isle." Finally, he took Fatethreader from his back and threw it into Ana's hands. He knew that the null technology would cause no shortage of discomfort for his companion, but it was necessary.
"Finally, the adjustments to my rifle should keep our presence hidden. At least for a while." The sapphires blue lenses of his war mask eyed Ana up and down with measured focus.
"Do you have everything you need before we depart? Goodbyes to give or regrets to confess?"
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"Do you remember the intervention on Maxentious IV?" Aelinor snapped the twig she had been fiddling, throwing it into the roaring campfire quite idly as she reminisced.
"Hmm?" Rishaeron looked up from his task, his brow furrowed and head shaking. "I can't say that I do." The rasp of the whetstone against metal began again.
Aelinor drew her knees closer to her chest and held them close as Virtute snored by the warmth of the fire beside her.
"It was one of my first commands. Of course, I had been in battle before and on the Seer Council for many years, but I had never truly led a battle as its sole commander."
Rishaerons uncomprehending face urged her to be less coy about the memory. The even glide of the stone against his dagger was the only noise besides the fire and had a meditative, measured quality to it. Rasp. Rasp. Rasp.
"For goodness sake, Ranger. A tzeentchian cult had influenced the leading Imperial household, and they had intentions to summon Daemons..."
"Oh. Yes. I do remember." Rishaerons' memory was not perfect, but he remembered well enough the light fighting that he and his Rangers had committed to in Ulthwés defence. He resumed sharpening his dagger.
"Do you remember how the Governor died?"
"Well, yes. I shot him." The Ranger said obtusely. Aelinor tutted and rolled her eyes, Gods could he be foolish.
"I recall you doing more than that, Rishaeron." Aelinor scoffed softly. "If I remember correctly, you delivered the killing shot from that same Rifle while cartwheeling from one rooftop to another." She gently tapped Fatethreader with her index finger, and the myriad charms and knick-knacks rattled against the Wraithbone.
Rishaeron's eyes lit up in sudden remembrance.
"Oh! Yes! Indeed, I do remember." He had forgotten the finer details of the kill, but Aelinor's recollection brought it back to the fore. "Why do you bring it up?"
Aelinor leant back, resting her weight on her palms she petted Virtute who chirped happily in response.
"I would very much like to see it again. Tomorrow, we will try."
Rishaeron knew better than to argue when Aelinor Fatereader told him the plans for the future. She might not be a Farseer in name anymore, but the Aeldari had a wonderful talent for predicting their immediate future.
"Very well, at first light, then." Rasp. Rasp. Rasp.
"Rishaeron?" She gazed into the crackling fire, her voice pensive. The whetstone stopped as the Ranger looked up, at last.
"I am sorry I was not good to you. To Eldrin. I wish to be better, to be the...friend you deserve. Thank you, for being my companion."
The dagger slid back into the sheath on his Wraithbone arm and Rishaeron moved to join Aelinor on her log. He wrapped his remaining arm over her shoulder like a shawl and Aelinor stiffened at the touch, unused as she was to any kind of physical contact from others. Gently, affectionately, he squeezed.
"Aelinor, you are one of the wisest, kindest and most patient people I have ever had the luxury of knowing." He playfully shoved his former commander hard enough to throw her off balance and disturb the Gyrinx.
"But you are impressively foolish, with regards to friendship. We've been friends for many years, you just won't allow yourself to see what you bring to the table. Myself, Eldrin, the Corsair Princess. We all see you, and we all consider you a friend." The words were a balm to the constant anxiety Aelinor felt, and words she needed to hear. Despite the particular emphasis that Rishaeron put on Corsair Princess sent pin pricks of tingling nerves to her cheeks.
"Even if you wish you were more than friends with one of us." Aelinor gasped, shocked at the implication as her cheeks and ears burned red with embarrassment.The Ranger laughed the shit-eating cackle of little brothers spilling secrets all over the universe, before he turned over and feigned going to sleep. Leaving Aelinor to mortify before the fire until it was naught but embers.
She had never truly thought of it, but Rishaerons observation shone a light on something she had never acknowledged before. Too stunned to speak and too dumbfounded to sleep, a vortex of repressed feeling buzzed inside her until morning came at last.
Her and Rishaeron must be good friends, she reasoned at last. Because she had never been more annoyed at a person for being so right. The little bastard.
There were few things Rishaeron Wayfinder knew to be true. Astartes armoured was weakest at the neck joint, Plasma weaponry exploded violently when the coils were shot, and when called upon, he could find Anastasia Mr'ez wherever she was in the universe within a solar month.
Therefore, it was no surprise when the Ranger stood before the perpetual like an apparition, his body tense like a coiled spring and an intensity that penetrated his helmets lenses.
"I need to talk to you. " He stated, his tone the same as it was in combat scenarios. Between the body language and the coldness in his voice, it was obvious something serious was on his mind.
"I've found trace of the Ork Psyker, and am making plans for the kill at last. You saw the battlefield, you saw the dead, and now is the time for the beast to die." He nodded over Ana's shoulder. "Somewhere more private, perhaps."
In the infinite void, a planet ship drifted. Debris floated idly in space, the remnants of ships and cracked crystal domes that shone in the starlight like scattered jewels lost in the midst of a theft gone wrong. For over 300 years, the Craftworld drifted, alone and in the dark,another casualty of the galaxies genocide against itself until one day a portal flickered and a living Aeldari walked upon the Craftworld once more.
Rishaeron walked through the streets with equal numbness and reverence, clutching his rifle in tense hands and straining not to make a sound lest the ghosts of his people hear the footsteps of the lowly scavenger walking through their streets.
Despite his efforts to not look, he saw the casual horrors of war on a planetary scale in montage. The blown out ruins of support batteries with their crews scattered around them like broken teeth from a bar brawl. Wave Serpent and Falcon Grav tanks scorched with their killing blows still visible like an accusation toward their destroyer. A Wraithlord surrounded by a glut of humanity, the venerable Wraith construct with Ghostglaive skewered through the ground so that it remained kneeling even after death. So many others. But no pulse, no thrum that lay at the heart of living Craftworlds because both the Infinity Circuit and Avatar of Khaine were destroyed.
He descended further.
Passed now where only Exarchs and Farseers tread, Rishaeron saw the prize he was here to reclaim. Near the centre of the world, lay the remains of the Seer Council, Court of the Young King, and the fossilised ruin of the Avatar of Khaine, its roiling boiling visage still one of such deep and purposeful hate that Rishaeron could feel the blood in his own veins begin to simmer.
Kneeling before the now-statue of a once living God to his people, he removed his helmet, weapons and gazed up into the screaming face of death as if in prayer.
"Bloody Handed." He said evenly, aware that these were the first words spoken without his war mask on in weeks. "To thee my bloody undertakings are dedicated and with your gifts will your enemies be struck down."
The Ranger brushed some of the ash from the base of the slain Avatar onto his fingertips and drew them over his forehead before swiftly placing his war mask back on, the dread oath to the God of war and murder now made in the presence of a thousand thousand ghosts. He rose, and found the body of the Autarch nearest the chamber to the Infinity Circuit and in its hand was his quarry.
No words were spoken, and no judgement was given, but still a moments hesitation faded over Rishaeron. Of an entire destroyed Craftworld, every Spiritstone and refugee claimed that could be saved, this was the only treasure to be left behind. Deep in his bones, in the very soul that was Rishaeron Wayfinder, he knew that to take the sword was to cross a boundary he could never return to. He thought of Prince Yriel taking the Spear of Twilight, how Yriel knew such an action would condemn him but doing so to save his Craftworld. He was making no such valiant sacrifice. His sacrifice was to claim this blade in the name of vengeance and vengeance alone.
Rishaeron took a deep breath, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the blade, and the Shard of Anaris was bequeathed from the hands of one dead warrior to another, sure to join them.
