The festive season is a great time to catch up with friends and acquaintances new and old. Being as gregarious a soul as he is – when he’s not stuffing bombs down chimneys – Da Red Gobbo has met all sorts of people in his travels across the galaxy.
In fact, he tells us that just last week he was having a good chat with an Aeldari admiral he’s had a few run-ins with. Our gift today is a story all about that same character. What a coincidence!
The Chamber of Starfall Sorrow was not a large hall by the standards of Craftworld Iyanden. Still, its lambent colonnades and sweeping tiers of balconies seemed to swallow the presence and voices of those few within. Its emptiness was a reminder of long-lost days when barely a fraction of the craftworld’s nobility could have gathered within its wraithbone walls. The dark alcoves gazed down upon Yriel like empty eye sockets; the hushed space stole any echo, leaving spoken words as cold and unfeeling as the void.
‘The Council thanks you for sharing your concerns, High Admiral,’ Iyanna Arienal spoke gently.
The Spiritseer’s head was inclined towards Yriel in a symbol of respect favoured by her House. Her measured words were full of the delicate intonations and subtle inflections his noble rank demanded.
‘They reaffirm, however, their commitment to the path laid by Ynnead’s prophet,’ she continued.
Yriel stiffened, but held his tongue. He had exhaustively laid his case before Iyanna and the others here: seers, warriors, several only present as an animating soul within a wraith construct. His own noble voice had been supported by his chief Void Dreamer, Kharseth, who remained in ritual position behind their prince. Despite the promises of Yvraine, Yriel had argued, the Ynnari had delivered little that benefitted Iyanden. Worse still, her followers’ actions had taken a disturbing turn into extremism and zealotry. Yriel did not want the craftworld's strength wielded purely in the name of a death cult. He had sought permission to redirect Iyanden’s warhosts towards more tangible threats – the rising tide of Chaos chief amongst them.
‘Permission is withheld,’ Iyanna concluded softly.
Prince Yriel suppressed any outward show of his frustration.
‘The Council’s will,’ he tersely responded. Yriel turned on his heel and strode from the Chamber of Starfall Sorrow, Kharseth his shadow.
‘Blind indolence! Parochial politicking!’
Yriel seethed as he stalked from one district of Iyanden to the next. Kharseth and a handful of Yriel’s senior Corsairs followed in silence. He had no destination in mind, and was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Wide promenades passed as though in a dream. Tree-like columns bordered plazas of starlit gardens. Semi-transparent domes showed vistas of spire-thronged precincts, hazy with distance. Such views were too wide and bare. It was a mausoleum, and the scars of the craftworld’s wounds haunted the edges of his gaze wherever it strayed, dark bruises of ruin upon the otherwise frigid sterility of Iyanden’s flesh.
Kharseth at last spoke up.
‘You have supporters, my lord,’ they said. ‘We may make another entreaty to the Council.’
Ahead, Yriel didn’t slow as he replied:
‘Their minds have pooled into a mire of inaction. They are stagnating.’ He flicked one graceful hand to his side, as if casting off some imagined grime clinging to his long fingers. ‘I am a spear, and a spear must be flung forth, my friend. It must not grow cold holding up a tomb’s lintel.’
‘What bold tide would the High Admiral seek to force his keel onto this time? And what will the Council have to say on the matter?’ Kharseth asked, a hint of amusement in their voice.
‘The High Admiral seeks nothing. But the lord of the Eldritch Raiders… I do not yet know. But I do need a keel beneath me, that is true. Starlight upon my sails, and opportunities awaiting my grasp.’
Yriel saw suddenly that he had made his way unknowingly to one of Iyanden’s dock districts. Ahead of him were the mooring spurs of the Gate of Dreams, one of the craftworld’s enormous Webway gates. Dozens of Corsair void craft – cruisers, frigates and destroyers of Yriel’s Eldritch Raiders – hung there in webs of glittering force that secured them to the craftworld.
From a balcony overlooking the port of the Gate of Dreams, Yriel brooded on his disillusionment. The jewel of his fleet, Flame of Asuryan, was in his eyeline. He could feel the vessel straining against its leash of psychic webbing, just as he strained against the yoke of responsibility.
Hurrying steps behind him made Yriel turn. One of his Corsair crew from Flame of Asuryan.
‘My lord, visitors. They await an audience.’
Yriel sat in his command throne in the centre of Flame of Asuryan’s bridge. Before him, a troupe of Harlequins from the Masque of the Midnight Sorrow performed a slow weave of movements. They circled and spun in a jarring spiral that was discomforting to witness. At their centre, the one who Yriel assumed was their leader. At least, it was she who had spoken, with words expertly weighted to snag the interest of any Corsair.
‘Treasures of our people,’ Yriel repeated.
‘Artefacts of ancient times,’ the Harlequin replied. ‘Weapons – if so crude a term may be used – that may change the fate of the Children of Asuryan. And more, much more for the bold.’
‘And where–’
An audible gasp from behind his throne made Yriel turn. Kharseth’s gaze was fixed upon the maddeningly circling Harlequins.
‘The Nightmare Gulf.’ Their voice was barely audible, but their unease was tangible as a chill swept through the bridge.
‘Just so,’ replied the Harlequin. ‘Danger is assured; aliens and cursed tides, betrayal and greed, reavers and tyrants. And upon every spume-crested ripple, in the depths of every sunken well, the waiting maw of She Who Thirsts. But for the bold…’
Yriel felt a spark of vigour, one he had not felt in a long time. He heard Kharseth draw breath, knowing they would voice some dire and justified warning. Yriel made a gesture and the omen died in Kharseth’s throat.
A chance to strike at his craftworld's enemies and to seize glory. A chance to tempt extinction and deny it.
‘Make all preparations for departure,’ Yriel called out to his Eldritch Raiders.
The Corsairs moved fluidly into action. Before the prince, the movements of the infernal gyre cycled ceaselessly.
Looks like old Prince Yriel has a lot on his plate. We’re sure we’ll be hearing from him again in the future. If you’re after some more mysterious Aeldari action, why not check out The Exodite on Warhammer TV, which sees the ancient race through the eyes of the upstart T’au?
Next up on the Grotmas Calendar we’re swinging back to the Mortal Realms to find out what happens when a hunter takes a long walk through some frozen woods…
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