Sanguinius watched the terrified Aeldar's flee. Only a few, gathered around the Warlocks of their shrines, retreated in an orderly fashion.
Most of the Aeldari fled like a lawless, panicked mob.
His gaze shifted, catching the black-armored Shadows of Order and the tall, top-knotted Sisters of Silence streaming past on either side.
He was about to issue the attack command when crimson armor entered his field of vision.
Raldoron, ever the planner of contingencies, had anticipated the possibility of pursuit.
As the unsettling Titans passed with their wreckage, he had rallied the re-formed Blood Angels and launched the attack before his Primarch could give the order.
Nareth's gaze lingered on the crimson-armored warriors for a moment, then shifted to the foremost figure, a Knight-Errant leading a dozen squads in the attack.
Close behind her was a standard five-woman Witch-Hunter squad, armed with boltguns and flamers, followed by a squad of Vigilators with executioner greatswords.
Light and shadow flickered in the Primarch's eyes. He calculated the range of their psychic mist dissipation:
Knight-Errant: ninety-two meters.
...
Canoness, the squad leader: thirty-eight meters.
A Silent Sister who had taken the Vow of Tranquility: twenty-three meters.
Nareth's gaze shifted to Etrich.
This negative Omega-grade Blank pushed back psychic mist only nineteen meters from him.
'Indeed, wild talent is no match for professional training.'
'Etrich's Blank talent is higher than any Sister of Silence, meeting the requirements for a Culexus Assassin. Yet his suppression ability is less than that of an ordinary Sister of Silence.'
An ambitious flame kindled in Nareth's eyes. He became even more determined, after the Heresy, to extend a caring hand to the orphaned, abandoned Sisters of Silence, shunned by the High Lords, with even the Custodians they fought alongside offering no aid.
'I truly cannot stand by and watch the Sisters of Silence, who have bled and sacrificed countless lives for the Imperium, suffer in forlorn obscurity.'
As Nareth's ambition burned, Etrich, his Falcon short sword in hand, strode forward.
The swirling mist receded before him, as if making way.
Unburdened by the loathsome Dionysian Spear, he moved far quicker than usual.
Following his innate revulsion, Etrich overtook the first hunting party.
His sharp eyes fixed on the ruby-encrusted chainsword in the Aeldari's hand.
Lord Nareth, his employer, had promised rewards based on what he slew and the spoils he secured.
Unlike other Vessorine, who worshipped Nareth as a divine statue, Etrich was driven by material wealth.
He craved filling his tower with Sovereign Coins.
Etrich leaped, lunging at the Aeldari darting through the shadows of the crystal pillar forest.
The Warlock, a Scorpion of the shrine, felt a shift. The soul-chilling cold faded. The cloying sweetness thinned.
He knew what that meant: the She Who Thirsts, the great enemy of the Aeldari, was lifting her evil hand.
The Warlock slowed his pace, searching for his scattered kin.
Ever since the Mon-keighs' abomination had rent the veil, he had sensed the presence of the Great Enemy.
He realized that the deaths of countless Aeldari had already drawn Slaanesh's gaze.
The rent veil, the widening rift, it was as if the souls of the dead were being served up to She Who Thirsts on a platter of fine Aeldari cheese.
The insatiable hunger of Slaanesh yearned for the souls of the living.
Scattering was their only option.
The larger the group of Aeldari, the more likely they would draw Slaanesh's attention.
He dared only to flee with his three most trusted followers.
He knew that no one could save another from this calamity, not even a Farseer.
Blessed by Lileath, they had not attracted the gaze of She Who Thirsts.
Now, he had finally escaped.
The three Scorpions, having stopped with their Warlock, were about to speak when a cold flash struck.
Spurt!
A short sword pierced a Scorpion's spine, its bloodied tip emerging from his chest.
Zap!
A las-beam struck another Scorpion's armor, burning a hole through the ornate green carapace.
"Mon-keigh!" the Warlock shouted in warning, his eyes fixed on the black-armored Mon-keigh with revulsion.
This black-armored Mon-keigh was even more devoid of emotion than his lowly kin.
He was like a hollow stone, a black hole of feeling.
The Warlock wove between the crystal pillars. The other two Scorpions also darted into the rock column forest. They could no longer rely on the simplistic, emotionally barren focus of the Mon-keigh warriors to track their target, but their helmets' target spectrometers locked onto the hollow black-armored warrior.
Psionic sensors activated. The weapon pods on their cheeks, resembling scorpion mandibles, fired beams of light.
The beams shot towards Etrich, but lost coherence mid-flight, slamming aimlessly into the surrounding crystal pillars.
Spurt, spurt...
The Warlock saw their psychic lock fail completely. He was stunned.
A nauseating black blur shot forward. The Mon-keigh, moving at a speed surpassing his crude kin, matching a swift Scorpion, thrust his short sword through the tough Scorpion armor.
The Warlock stared at the Mon-keigh's short sword, its hilt carved with an eagle. The blade, and the Mon-keigh himself, were equally loathsome.
A thought flashed through his mind. To test it, he abruptly raised his hand.
Shimmering mist rose, enveloping him and the other Scorpion.
The two "Concealed" Aeldari struck at the black-armored Mon-keigh from both sides.
The Warlock, having completed his Path, moved with a speed far exceeding a Scorpion's.
The chain-teeth of his mandiblade, unlike the screaming weapons of humans or other races, spun silently in his hand.
The Warlock swept his mandiblade, spinning it as he lunged at the black-armored Mon-keigh.
He drew closer to the motionless Mon-keigh when the mist shrouding him suddenly dissipated.
Etrich, his eyes always tracking the target within the shimmering veil, slid backward and to the side, evading the incoming chainsword.
He dipped his shoulder, raising the hilt of his sword from his waist, the blade pointing upward.
The barbed tip of his blade caught the mandiblade. Etrich exerted his full strength, sweeping his arm.
The Vessorine chieftain's immense strength lifted the green-armored Aeldari. Etrich released his grip on his laspistol, letting it fall, and shot his hand out, grabbing the Warlock's wrist.
He twisted, snapping the Warlock's wrist.
The Vessorine's finely honed unarmed combat skills allowed him to slip his hand onto the mandiblade's hilt.
He swung his arms with all his might.
The Falcon short sword drove into the off-balance Warlock's neck.
'So... it is... him…'
'He shields... from She Who... Thirsts…'
'Suppresses... psychic power...'
The Warlock's consciousness dimmed, his thoughts reeling in shock.
Etrich withdrew the Falcon short sword, his left arm straining to control the Warlock's two-handed mandiblade, bringing it down on the green armor.
His left arm trembled as he struggled to control the spinning mandiblade.
Having slain all the enemies and secured the spoils, he warily shifted his gaze to three o'clock.
A tall woman, wielding a greatsword, her hair in a high top-knot, strode towards him.
....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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