Elathrandiir lowered his long rifle.
There was an eerie sound carried on the wind off the plains. It howled like the wind blowing through a ravine, yet there was naught but a gentle breeze.
“Ceiba-ny-shak,” he swore under his breath and raised it again, using the scope to survey the approaching Enemy. Pawns and children of She Who Must Not Be Named, their very presence here upon the maidenworld of Viarphia was an insult to Elathrandiir’s race. A slight the Eldar would see righted, or die in the attempt.
To the fore was a sea of cultists: Mon Keigh devotees in the majority but there was also a large number of mutants, their taint written in their very flesh: cloven hooves for feet, horns sprouting from bestial faces. Skin various unnatural hues of pink with pitch black tattoos curving and winding across muscles and limbs. Chains rattled, linking weapons to bellies, to lips, noses, nipples and loins. Logic and decency was anathema to these mad beings.
For decades now autarch Qarasion of craftworld Carth-Lar had led the fight against the Psychopomps: a chapter of Mankind’s angels of death who had fallen to the worship of She Who Must Not Be Named. Her comrade and companion, farseer Emrana had foreseen the chapter’s fall and Qarasion had attempted to intervene, to change the Mon Keigh’s course, but the Eldar had been too late. By a cruel twist of fate or by the design of the Infernal Powers, they had arrived after the corruption of the Astartes. Since then the craftworld had spied on the renegades, directing Imperial forces to discover their heresy where possible and combating the pawns of the Great Serpent directly where necessary.
Carth-Lar still wept for the loss over a decade ago of Mesusid, a sister planet to Viarphia. The Psychopomps had descended upon its emerald swards like furies and had reaped that world and its caretakers of all that was good.
And now somehow they had discovered Viarphia.
Elathrandiir, an Eldar pathfinder, was perched high atop a tower in Viarphia’s sole settlement. The Eldar sought to cultivate the world into a natural paradise - natural, yes, for how else could the ancient, noble race’s tender, nurturing ministrations be described? It was not the brutal chem-forging that the Mon Keigh forced upon barren rocks in the void - and prayed that one day they would be able to inhabit it as they had their own worlds before the birth of She Who Must Not Be Named.
As a pathfinder, one who had walked the Path of the Outcast for centuries, he felt kinship with autarch Qarasion and her defiance of Carth-Lar’s more pacifist Seer Council. Having been absent from the craftworld for so long he was unaware of the details of the feud betwixt the autarch-who-refused-to-abdicate and the seers but he had swiftly answered her call to arms and now found himself, along with the entirety of the craftworld’s able aspect warriors (but none of their guardians or spirit warriors for the Council had forbade them to sally forth), awaiting the Enemy’s assault. A part of him was grateful for the Council’s judgement, for while the maiden worlds were dear to them, the craftworld was their home now, and within it was held the Infinity Circuit and the Avatar’s chamber: that final guardian of the craftworld.
The sniper shook himself from his reverie and shifted his aim once again, the audio pickups of his rifle sensing the wailing sound once again, for his weapon enabled him to both spy upon foes visually and audibly from a distance and to strike them down.
The cultists and beastmen were naught but chaff to him. They would be sliced up by the shurikens of the Avengers and the webs of the Spiders soon enough. It was the sniper’s duty to observe the enemy and spot for the rest of the Eldar forces (a duty he shared with the flocks of Hawks currently roosting atop other buildings about the city’s perimeter) and to take out key enemy targets with his rifle.
The keening grew as he settled the crosshairs of his rifle upon an enemy Astarte, adjusting his aim according to the hololithic data projected by the scope. Air temperature and humidity, wind direction and strength. Elathandiir had no love for the post-human space marines; theirs was a brutal, inelegant approach to war and their armour, their weapons and their very bodies reflected this. But he respected them. However these renegade Astartes had taken their genenhanced bodies and let the powers of the Sea of Souls twist them. They were no better than the cultists and mutants they drove before them. The one in his sights lacked a left arm, rather an unarmoured, snaking tentacle of reddy-pink flesh protruded from under its shoulder pad. It was neither scaly like a serpent nor covered in suckers like the limb of an octopod, but was a boneless length of undulating muscle webbed with veins. The very look of the appendage was repulsive. That it firmly gripped the fore of the marine’s firearm attested to its control and strength.
His sights drifted over the armour the marine was clad in. Though the leg armour with the knees protected by high greeves was indicative of mark-six, it appeared to be made up mainly of mark-seven plate;: the arms, the shoulders, helm and torso - Elathrandiir was familiar with the armour of the Astartes and could recognize the different marks; it was essential for him to know the weaknesses of his potential foes - but one of the most immediate differences was that it lacked that element which gave mark seven the appellation “Eagle Armour”: the Aquila was absent from the chest plate, replaced with a pale, embossed skull. Another skull was set upon the renegade’s left pauldron, framed by a design he could not be sure was a mane of black hair, or the damned halo of a lost star but as his scope focused on the design he saw that tentacles of darkness extended out from the halo to form the icon of She Who Must Not Be Named. Elathrandiir resisted the urge to fire upon the symbol with all the hatred of his race, his training and centuries of experience telling him that his shot would fall impotent against that great curve of armoured ceramite.
The renegade’s armour bore decorative trim that one did not see on that of Astartes still loyal to the Mon Keigh’s rotting empire. Bolts, arrows, skulls, spikes and horns complimented the trim but as the Eldar sniper calmed his spirit once more he noted that many of these were not mere decorations. The curved spike upon the right knee was stained ruddy. He could imagine how it would be used as a weapon; thrust upwards into the groin or gut of a held foe, piercing the armour there, softer as was necessary for mobility. Aye, while the marine’s armour was painted such ridiculous, contrasting shades of pink, purple and blue, its form was honed for deadliness.
A holster of cured skin hung from the left shin holding a bolt gun, and a belt sheath - likely of some other unfortunate’s own flesh - held an asymmetrical, waving blade if the shape of the scabbard itself was any guide. Unlike the bolt gun, this was no combat weapon but a tool of rituals.
The wailing lament grew again as he continued his observance of the enemy champion, tracking up the foe’s body to that most common of sniper targets.
The head.
While a great deal of Astartes - devotees of that archaic gilt contraption and the corpselike god-being it held, and those who danced to the wills of the Primordial Annihilator alike - both went into combat unhelmed much to the delight of opposing snipers, this one wore a helmet. Modified from a standard mark seven, the vent which ran from the back up over the scalp to finish above the forehead had been reshaped into an arrow. Elathrandiir’s attention was drawn to the eyes. That the eyes were windows to one’s soul was an idea shared by Eldar and Mon Keigh alike. The lenses of the Astarte’s helm were curious in that they were different colours, one red and the other green. Never had the pathfinder, in his centuries of combat, seen the likes before. That the wearer of that helmet was insane Elathrandiir was already sure, but how might those lenses distort reality further? Bathing one half of his mind and indeed his world in a baleful, melancholic green whilst the other was tinted pink or perhaps even a bloody red? Or perhaps his vision was clearer than that of the falcon Faolchu as some whispered that the mad saw the universe the clearest and could hear the music of the spheres?
Such pondering was naught but B’fheidir: the sickening swirl of `maybe` and `perhaps` that only a farseer sifted and fathomed.
The marine’s helm was crowned with a pair of horns - as were those of the rest of the renegade’s squad - rising high over his head. While those of the other marines in the unit terminated in points, the leader’s met and were joined in what appeared to be a small bronze skull. The Eldar spent little time pondering the significance of this for the wailing had become fierce and he searched for its source: the Astartes’ backpack.
The power-plant of the marine’s armour was not the Anvilus type he had observed on the backs of many other Astarte servants of Chaos, though it was similar in silhouette. The two globular vents had been extended out on arms, taking them above and away from the shoulders. They had been rotated, too, so that the grills pointed forwards. A blink changed his own helmet’s perception to infra-red and he saw the heat pouring out of the vents though what was curious was that while the intensity of the heat was standard for Astartes powered armour, the haze rippled rhythmically, for here he found the source of the banshee-like wailing. Somehow the back had been engineered to spout this horrendous noise through its exhausts! But to what end other than the irritation of one’s foes? It was not of sufficient intensity to cause physical damage, though the more he focused on it, the more he felt his nerves shaken. And the closer he realized the damned horde, those slaves to darkness, had advanced as his eye had wandered endlessly over this single champion of Chaos.

The shot!
He shook himself from the trance, his eyes being pulled into twisting, swirling patterns of icy blue upon the breast and shoulder of that marine.
The shot!
He slowed and steadied his breathing despite his pulse now racing in his ears, all but drowning out the commentary from the Hawks as they swooped overhead and the Eldar prepared to engage the Enemy’s lead forces.
That keening wail reverberated through his ears and his years of experience were as naught for he could not steady his aim and with a curse he cut the rifle’s audio pickups, bitter at how he had been bewitched so. He cut too the comm from his own forces and took a moment to center himself within the silence of his own helmet, the image of the enemy’s own headgear fixed in his mind. And the keening...it echoed still within his mind.
He gritted his teeth, trying to force the sound from his mind, and found his target once more...
Fires burned within the temple and Elathrandiir swept his rifle back and forth as he picked up way through the rubble. What manner of weapons could have cracked the sturdy wraithbone walls so? Chunks of the psychoplastic stone lay scattered about, fallen from arches overhead, pillars and the intricate friezes which had decorated the walls. He crouched and risked his life, taking his left hand from steadying the barrel of his rifle to pass a hand over a fallen statue of Isha, mother of his race. Her face was gone and the sides of the statue’s head showed vicious chipping as if her visage had been forcefully removed. The heathen bastards knew no limits!
He advanced further into the smoke-choked darkness, peering round corners but it seemed that the Enemy had fled, or withdrawn. He had been busy sniping the enemy as they ransacked the city, providing overwatch and initiating ambushes with the Aspect warriors below, finally hearing that the enemy were leaving the city, and not stopping his work until the last was out of sight; to him the back of an enemy was as valid a target as the front.
He had then descended to the streets and observed the devastation the enemy had wrought, which he had been unable to fully realise from his lofty perch. Bodies; Mon Keigh cultists, beastmen, twisted spawn which sickened his guts to gaze upon, pools of ichor: the remains of daemons...and a terrible number of fallen Eldar. He had raised his chin and held back tears as he wove between the bodies toward the temple, knowing that there he would find whether all had been in vain or not.
He raised his hand from the statue of Isha at the sound of coughing from within the central chamber. There was a lingering heat, like that of a recently-dead forge and he carefully moved into the smoke-filled room, sweeping his rifle about, checking all the corners, alcoves and the deeper shadows cast by the great columns. Banners lay scattered about, soot-stained, torn and some even burning as he watched. The pillars themselves were cracked and pitted, seemingly by the blows of great melee weapons. The twilight coming in through the shattered upper windows provided little illumination and what glow-globes there were within were dead. He trod carefully over broken crystals as he searched but could find no trace of the Enemy.
Following the occasional pained cough he found the body of autarch Qarasion upon the steps to the dias. Lowering his rifle and dashed toward her, relief flooding his system as he discovered it was her coughing: she still lived, though only barely. She was badly bruised, with lacerations across her chest and forearms which had penetrated the weave of her armour and if the pained coughs were any guide, ribs were broken. Blood crusted her ears - she must have been assaulted by one of the Enemy’s sonic weapons - but no other liquids which would indicate damage to her skull.
He hastily called for aid via his helmet, before noticing another form prone atop the dias, swathed in rising smoke. A large figure.
The Enemy?
Had Qarasion felled the enemy leader, almost giving her life in the bargain?
He raised his rifle once more as he ascended the steps, cycling through filters until he could see the form better.
It was no suit of terminator armour, for this thing was far larger. Its surface was black, like the crust of slow-flowing lava, a dying red heat showing in cracks and crevices. And there were a great many cracks, for its form was heavily damaged. Irreparably. For who could repair a god incarnate?
Elathrandiir wept as he looked down upon the broken, dying form of the avatar of Kaela Mensha Khaine and he realized what Qarasion had done: stealing the avatar’s tomb-chamber from under the Council’s noses in an attempt to awaken it without their blessing. One of the Exarchs must have given their life, volunteered rather than being chosen by the Farseers, to animate it. What heresy was this?!
He watched as the heat bled out of the prone, broken god, and his fists shook.
Born unblessed and slain here, unable to return to Carth-Lar, their avatar would perish, never to rise again.
The pathfinder took shaky, unsteady steps as he descended the stairs toward autarch Qarasion once more.
And rested the muzzle of his rifle upon her temple.
Epilogue
The corridors and halls of Charon were filled with a deafening clamour. The victory roars of the renegades, the screams of their victims. Whilst they had not riven the maiden world of Viarphia as they had Mesusid, they had succeeded in taking a great number of the Eldar captive and now, intoxicants flowing freely, they celebrated their victory.
Captain Dophesia, master of the furies, swaggered, laughing bellicosely and accompanied by a coterie of his raptors. He came to a halt before the portal which lead to lord Sophusar’s quarters, finding master of sanctity Angra and chief librarian Holusiax stood before it, as if guards.
“Brothers, where this fine evening is our good lord?” he laughed as he hailed them, giving a flourishing bow, wine sloshing from the upturned helm of an aspect warrior he was using as a cup. “Cares he not to celebrate this fine victory with his men?”
Angra shared a glance with the sorcerer at his side before he regarded the captain coldly, “our lord is incommunicado.”
“He who delivered us this feast of blood, flesh and torment? Can he not sample of the delicacies himself? Was it not he who felled the xenos god?” he voice rose, “His men would hear of his prowess!” Dophesia pushed, quaffing what potent brew remained in his makeshift chalice.
“Then tell them of it,” Holusiax answered, rising up on his serpentine body to tower over all present, his forked tongue flickering, “You, Dophesia, are as good a tale-teller as you are a warrior, we all know.”
Dophesia dropped his drunken façade before continuing, voice even and grim, “Then would I tell them he still lives, or that he was felled as he slew that alien deity?”