The Aeldari, masters of the art of abandoning their allies, were well-practiced in the maneuver. Yvraine led the entire Ynnari host in a swift withdrawal through the Webway, vanishing from the hold-fortress. This act of desertion so incensed Snorri that he promptly recorded the Aeldari into the Great Book of Grudges.
One must admit, the Webway is the ultimate plot device. Looking back at the history of the Ynnari, from Yvraine's flight from Commorragh to the gathering of her forces, these perfectly placed Webway gates, tucked away in the most convenient corners of the galaxy, had saved the Reborn countless times. Today was no exception.
"Was this your doing?" Isha asked. She was clad in a slip of thin white silk, her radiant, porcelain-fair form leaning against a figure who seemed her polar opposite: a presence draped in black robes, so utterly devoid of aesthetic appreciation that it defied reason.
"I merely gave them an opportunity. If they cannot grasp it, then the game ends here," Lucius replied. His left hand, still gripping a bolter, reached up to pinch Isha's petite, jade-smooth chin. He had cast that blade toward the Shattered Star precisely because it served as a vital, albeit derelict, node of the Webway.
"I am deeply grateful. Whatever your designs may be, you are truly helping me," Isha murmured. Her slender arms coiled around Lucius's neck, her face, perfumed with the scent of life itself, approaching his. Then, the Mother Goddess took the somewhat disheveled head of the Lord of Distortion into her broad, maternal embrace.
"You've become much more proactive. Hmm. I like it," Lucius grinned, nipping gently at her soft skin, eliciting a playful protest followed by total acceptance.
"Wait a moment, I want to record this. Sneek! Have your lot deliver this to the Palace of Slaanesh later. Yes, swap out whatever 'entertainment' She-Who-Thirsts was planning to watch with this." Lucius tightened his grip on Isha's snow-white waist, so slender it looked as though it might snap, yet deceptively strong, and barked orders into the shadows. He then turned back to Isha: "Come now, say hello. Tell them you've already lost to the Great Horned Rat... hehehehe!"
"Mm... what are you saying?" Isha teased, feeling Lucius's restless hands upon her. Instead of pulling away, she pressed closer, her expression a mix of dignity and bashfulness as she spoke: "I... huff... Isha has lost to the Great Horned Rat~ Yay~"
"Excellent! Now, let's see what new positions you have for me today!" Lucius laughed boisterously, tossing Isha onto the cloud-bed. A group of Skryre Verminherders stood by with their pict-capturers, faithfully executing the Great Horned Rat's command.
…
"Isha above... protect us!"
Yvraine prayed fervently. Mere seconds after emerging from the Webway, they had transitioned from the solemn halls of the Kin hold to a battlefield drenched in the copper stench of blood.
The Visarch stepped out, his boots immediately sinking into a nauseating, gelatinous carpet composed of Tyranid, Ork, and Skaven corpses.
"Pointy-eared things! There-there!"
"YES-YES! Kill-slay them!"
This sector had already been claimed by Clan Mors. The moment the Aeldari appeared, the Skaven spotted them, shrieking and scurrying into a frenzied charge.
"The objective is ahead! Move!" The Visarch wasted no words. He swung the Cronesword Asu-var, cleaving through the vermin. Behind him, Dire Avengers, Howling Banshees, and Wyches followed in a sharp phalanx, some trailing Yvraine while others joined the Visarch to hold the rear.
"Good! Eldrad, find me an opening! I will reclaim the final Cronesword at any cost!"
Yvraine was possessed by a cold desperation. Led by legendary heroes—Yvraine, the Visarch, Eldrad, Lelith, and Prince Yriel—the Ynnari carved a path through the Mors rearguard. Ahead, Queek Headtaker was locked in a savage, bloody struggle against the Freebooter King Bogg and a terrifying Tyranid Hive Tyrant.
None of the three combatants were to be trifled with. Any warrior, no matter how elite, was reduced to unidentifiable slurry the moment they strayed too close to the epicenter of that violence.
"Come on din! Come on! Bogg's gonna krush ya!" Bogg, a five-meter-tall Ork Freebooter King, was a literal war machine bedecked in trophies. His hydraulic power klaw was the largest of its kind, and his "Snazzy Big Shoota" rivaled a battle cannon in caliber.
He was, without a doubt, the strongest and most Waaagh!-infused Warboss in the Southern Galactic Core.
Yet his opponents were no less formidable. The Hive Tyrant was even larger than Bogg, its mutated chitinous hide capable of deflecting railgun slugs. Its four psychic bone-swords could rend Auramite, and it possessed the cold, calculating intellect of the Hive Mind. Any flicker of weakness would result in instant dismemberment.
Finally, there was the smallest and seemingly most insignificant: Queek Headtaker. Every crevice of his power armor was choked with gore from his frenzied slaughter, but by the grace of the Great Horned Rat, this only seemed to make the plate more fluid and lethal. Armed with Darkstar glaive and the slender Cronesword Pale Wound, he could pierce any substance in the cosmos.
The Hive Tyrant slammed forward like a freight train, its massive bulk acting as a steamroller that obliterated the last vestiges of artificial structures in the area.
Bogg hoisted his Snazzy Big Shoota, unleashing a chaotic storm of high-caliber bullets and rockets in an indiscriminate sweep. Queek, however, whirled his blades with impossible speed, literally slicing the incoming projectiles out of the air.
The Hive Tyrant hissed, spewing a gout of acidic ichor at the Warboss. It melted Bogg's beloved Shoota instantly before following up with a volley of Fleshborer beetles, though the parasites merely shriveled into husks against Bogg's thick armor.
Queek seized the opening. He sprinted toward Bogg's hydraulic klaw and performed a low slide, drawing the blade of Pale Wound across the Warboss's massive thigh.
The mighty Ork let out his first roar of genuine agony. Snarling, he clamped his hydraulic klaw shut, snagging Queek's tail.
Queek twisted mid-air, his sword shearing through the klaw's pincers with surgical precision. With a backflip, he followed through, severing one of the Ork's entire hands!
"Hahaha! No one—none can defeat Queek! YES-YES!" Queek shrieked with triumphant laughter, gloating over the wounded Warboss and the terrified Orks. But just as he moved in for the kill, a blinding torrent of white light enveloped him and the immediate battlefield.
"Hand over the sword!"
A voice, melodic as a song, rang out. Several figures materialized beside Queek, reaching for Pale Wound. The Headtaker never relinquished his steel; he kicked the reaching hand away with a snarl.
Looking up, he saw several tall, lithe figures with pointed ears.
"My psychic shield will only hold for a few minutes. Our warriors are buying us that time with their lives. End this quickly!" the male Aeldari, dressed in the garb of a Farseer, commanded.
"It won't take that long!" Lelith Hesperax, clad in her minimalist combat-mesh, lunged at Queek, her barbed whip lashing out like a work of lethal art.
Queek didn't care what the "pointy-ears" wanted. He only knew he was going to kill them.
Lelith moved with the grace of a Wych Queen—elegant, swift, and impossible to pin down. Her whips snaked through the air like sentient seaweed. She was exactly the kind of enemy Queek loathed most.
So, Queek decided to go all out. He picked a direction, locked his joints, and began to spin his blades in a frantic, wide arc, a shrieking "Whirlwind of Death" charging straight at her.
"What is this? A toddler's tantrum?" Lelith smirked. She lashed her whip at Queek's feet, but the weapon was instantly shredded by the mechanical fury of his blades. Queek's relentless, spinning advance forced Lelith to leap and tumble back repeatedly.
"Hahaha! It seems your skills have dulled, Lelith!" Eldrad laughed.
"Shut it! You're next on the list!"
——————
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