Warhammer: Adventures Of The Two

986.M41 Aurorum III

"And what does this symbol mean?" Michael asked, pointing on the piece of paper both he and Kiara were looking at.

"That… that's a C." She said, guessing.

"That's right! Ok, next one,"

The two went on, both teaching each other their native languages. Kiara taught Michael basic words and phrases in Aeldari, while Michael did his best to teach her low gothic. Many Eldar walked past, sneering at first before they noticed Elirom standing behind them, a dangerous look on his face.

The previously sneering Eldar soon left Michael and Kiara to their activities.

"Can you understand now?" Kiara asked.

Michael wrinkled his nose, "Think to Understand?" He said, his pronunciation atrocious and his accent sounding like someone who'd never spoken the language before. Granted, he hadn't, but Kiara giggled anyway.

Michael laughed at himself, enjoying the time they had been able to spend together. It gave him a warm feeling, being able to help someone so young find joy even in the grim dark future of the 41st Millennium.

Even before he'd come to this time, he'd loved being around kids her age, and being able to put a smile on her face reminded him of the simpler times, when he wasn't about to get possessed by a champion of Slaanesh.

Kiara, the perceptive little minx that she was, hugged him when she noticed his smile falter. He smiled, returning the gesture.

"Why can't you stay?" She asked.

Michael sighed, "I messed up… stopped the wrong bad guy, and now… now they're going to try and turn me into one of them."

She hugged him tighter, her small hands gripping the fabric of his uniform. Outside of their small room, Elirom watched with a solemn look on his face. He knew better than most that the dark gods were capable of causing wounds that would never heal. Leaving scars that would never fade.

He cursed his own sense of precognition. Was he wrong? Was Michael truly doomed to be turned into a servant of she-who-thirsts? He had denied the possibility at first. Saying that he had looked into their future and seen a hundred battles, a hundred victories. Then, he looked forward again.

Death, destruction, betrayal… all of these were at the forefront of his visions, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. What had he missed? How could he have missed it? He wasn't some apprentice seer, he had been a farseer for over five hundred years, and would continue to be one as long as he lived.

Yet, why was he so afraid of the fact that something had changed?

Michael had asked him if he had lied to Kiara and stated that Farseer's had a reputation. Yes, he knew they did, even among his own people. And yet Michael felt no reason to bring it up until the life and well-being of a child was at stake. He knew that in all likelihood Elirom would deceive them. Granted, he did not, but that was beside the point. They appeared to trust him.

And that was what made Elirom think. Had they really trusted him? Or were they ready to turn on him as soon as he would have shown his true colors? The thought did not sit well with the Farseer, and he dismissed the thought. Whatever doubts the two of them may have had were well and truly gone at this point, considering everything that they had gone through together.

Still, it did not soothe his mind at the thought of Michael being possessed. Was Michael so resigned to the fact that he was unwilling to even try? Or did he and Jarod have some kind of trick up their sleeves? He was torn from his thoughts when he felt Jarod's presence approaching. His mind was hidden, not an odd thing in and of itself, but the ice cold mental wall that surrounded his mind suggested that he was rather… angry, if nothing else.

Unlike so many others, Jarods rage was quiet, reserved, and invisible to anyone who could not read his mind. It worried Elirom, and he was under no illusion that Jarod was unlikely to be receptive to any encouragement he could give.

"How is he?" Jarod asked, his voice… not hollow, but not filled with the jovial tone his words normally carried.

Elirom let out a sigh he didn't even realize he had pent up, "He is… coping, I suppose. He has taken comfort in spending time with Kiara, and while many Aeldari has tried to intervene, I have warded them off at the very least." He explained.

Jarod nodded, "That's good. I wanted to ask, though… do you have any Harlequins aboard Aurorum III?" He asked.

Elirom blinked in surprise. Harlequins? What would Jarod want with them? Yes, they were skilled warriors and dancers, but besides their direct connection to Cegorach-

Elirom's eyes widened at the thought. Jarod couldn't possibly wish to commune with Cegorach, the god of laughter, could he? "What would you want with them?" he asked.

Jarod grimaced, "We have so little time before Lucius takes advantage and possesses Michael. It could be a few hours, or more likely, a few weeks, but I want to use that time to try… something. It's a long shot, but we have to at least try."

"You want to speak to the god of Laughter. You wish to bargain Michael's soul with Cegorach." Elirom stated, not questioned. He saw the look on Jarod's face, heard his tone of voice, there was no other conclusion that could be drawn.

Jarod nodded slowly, "As close to a god as he may be, the Emperor isn't powerful enough to do anything about Lucius with the resources we have access to. The chaos gods are out of the question. Slaanesh would only laugh, Khorne would probably force him to commit mass genocide, Nurgle's in a similar vein and Tzeentch would try to get him to do something utterly pointless and impossible. That leaves the gods of the Eldar. Khaine is currently splintered up into the Infinity Circuit, and Isha is currently being held by Nurgle. That leaves Cegorach, and as much as I hate to admit it, he's the only one who might be able to change Michael's situation for the better."

Elirom was left grimacing at Jarod's thought process. He knew better than anyone that what he said was true, but attempting to contact the god of laughter was not… wise, for lack of a better word. Though he may be revered and worshipped by many, he is seen as eccentric and… distant, at best by most Eldar.

"I do not believe there are any Harlequins aboard Aurorum III, Jarod, though I must attempt to dissuade you from your line of thought. Powerful and wise he may be, Cegorach is not a god you should go searching for." Elirom warned, "Even with Michael's life at stake, I find it difficult to believe the laughing god would do more than take amus.e.m.e.nt from your situation."

"Cegorach is the Eldar god of laughter, Elirom. Are you aware of what that makes him to us human's?" He asked, giving the Farseer a steeled look, "The god of horror."

Elirom blinked, finding himself quite unable to follow Jarod's immediate line of logic.

"What do most Eldar find amusing Elirom? Their foes in pain, irony, or maybe just sarcasm?" He continued, "I won't pretend to know, but if the Drukhari is anything to go by then Cegorach is definitely not my first choice. If Isha weren't trapped by Nurgle, I would have gone to her first. Yes, she is an Eldar goddess, but she's the goddess of life and fertility correct? Even she would be sympathetic at the very least."

Elirom finally understood. Human's were so unlike Eldar, far more than he at first realized. Their kind did not enjoy the same fruits and niceties that they did and by all accounts, he was right. Cegorach would be more akin to some kind of eldritch horror to a human than a bumbling fool of a god that he based his appearance off of.

"Why then do you wish to seek his counsel, even if he is your last viable option? Do you not fear for your own sanity?" he asked.

Jarod gave a subtle smirk, one that made Elirom unsure what to think, "Cegorach isn't the only thing the Harlequins would help me find. He isn't even the first. Where do you think he lives, after all, a caravan?"

The Black Library.

"No," Elirom said. No, demanded. "The Black Library is forbidden, even to us. Do you think the Harlequins would simply let you in? Even if they took you and Michael to speak with Cegorach, do you honestly think they would let you anywhere near the Black Library?"

Jarod sighed, "Honestly? Probably not. It would take a miracle, and those don't tend to happen in this day and age. No, I don't see them doing that, but I do see a hope that Cegorach might make them let me. I'm powerful, way more powerful than I really have any right to be. You don't think Cegorach would recognize that?"

"Oh, he would, of that, I can assure you. But he is a god, they do not play by the same rules that we do. If he so chose, he could possess an Aeldari and make them one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, someone that could undoubtedly surpass you." Elirom pointed out.

Jarod grimaced, turning back to watch Michael and Kiara. Michael was explaining ancient Terran history now, and Kiara seemed to be soaking it all up as if she were hearing some kind of bedtime story.

"It'd be worth the risk."

[-----]

Calivar stood over the coffin that held Alaric's body. Inside one of the many airlocks' aboard the Emperor's boot, himself and several servitors prepared the space marines funeral. It would be private, silent, and only Calivar would be present to witness the coffin be ejected into the void of space. Alaric died far too soon.

Alaric placed a hand on his cousin's coffin and closed his eyes. "Oh Emperor of mankind, as you sit upon your Golden Throne, watching the Galaxy Eternally, I beg that you Guide Alaric underneath your wing. Watch over his soul, and welcome him into your fold." he prayed.

Though the Emperor was not a god, even in his eyes, he was still powerful. And even in his decrepit state, he would still watch over the Imperium, guarding the souls of loyal humans, be they guardsmen, citizen, or Astartes.

Stepping out of the airlock, the door closed behind him. He turned to the cogitator and opened the airlock to the void of space. The air inside rushed out, but the coffin stayed put. Pressing another button, the coffin detached, and the added thrusters began moving it into the depths of space.

"Your duty has ended, cousin. Sleep now, and leave the rest to me."

Gripping the power sword that hung at his belt, he turned to leave the room. He stepped out into the hall and made his way to his quarters. Many mortals passed him, avoiding the cerimite clad warrior as best they could. Calivar wore a solemn look on his face, one that spoke of grief, anger, and a tangle of other emotions.

Stepping into his room, he placed his helmet onto his desk and looked at the easel that had taken from Alaric's room. They were not Blood Angles, but even they had a talent for art. Alaric was no exception. Upon the canvas, an unfinished painting stood. At the centerpiece stood Jarod, kneeling before… someone, Calivar didn't know. The painting was unfinished, and it showed.

The figure was clad in white, with light green's and blue's mixed in with their clothing. The image was clearly female, and judging by their hight -- even compared to Jarod's relatively small size -- she was at least as tall as a space marine, if not more so. Picking up a brush, Calivar continued the painting.

He may not know who the woman was, but Alaric clearly felt as if she was worthy to paint. Perhaps he had seen her in a vision, perhaps Jarod had revealed a part of his past to him. Calivar didn't know, but even if he couldn't finish the painting yet, he would not leave Alaric's work unfinished.

[-----]

Matthias stood, looking in awe at the sight of the power armor before him. The twisted metal, the ruined paint, the marking's borne by a space marine. This machinery was holy, blessed by the Techpriests of a craftworld long forgotten. And he was the one who was to attempt to repair the irreparable.

This would normally take months to do right, and even then, that was with established tech-marines working on it. For a mere Magos like Matthias, it could possibly take him years. Yet Jarod for some reason felt confidence in his abilities, and even Calivar had given his blessing for him to attempt such a project. And so, Matthias began planning.

Adamantium, Cerimite, and a thousand other components needed to be gathered, none of which he had access to. Still, he would do his best to repair what damage had been done. He would start by cleaning the soot, grime, and dried blood from the armor. The process would take nearly two days alone. Next, he would strip the torn and damaged bits of metal from the assembled whole, leaving only the most intact parts behind.

Using the inadequate forges aboard the Emperor's Boot, Matthias planned to melt down the ruined pieces of Adamantium and began to reforge them into the pieces he needed. The armor would be incomplete, yes, but incomplete was better than destroyed completely.

He used the material's he had to repaint what parts of the Armor that he had, coating them in black and teal, with the blue wind-like symbol of the chapter. The blank, red-eyed helmet stared at any who looked at it. Remarkably, the helmet was left relatively undamaged.

After so much planning, Matthias paused to look at what he had accomplished. The armor would be cleaned and repainted, the minor bit's of damage to the c.h.e.s.t piece and pauldrons would be fully repaired, and only the limbs, lower torso, and circuitry remained. Such a task would be an undertaking for Matthias, but he swore.

He took an oath to the machine god that day. To the Omnissiah. He would repair the armor of Alaric, Adeptus Astartes of the Astral Winds chapter. Of that, there was no doubt.

[-----]

986.M41 Cellos IV

General Gaz sighed as he and the Inquisitor sat down in their personal meeting room. Many people expected the truce between the Imperials and Necron's to break down the second the rogue trader and his merry band had left… those people were going to be very disappointed. Both faction's leaders had gone to great lengths to preserve to peace that they had acquired.

Nevha had her forces appear like living and non-hostile beings, even though the only thing that really changed was their targeting programming. The Imperial's had it far more difficult.

Many of the guardsmen had tried to instigate a fight, and even though officially the commissars had kept them in line, many of the less disciplined marshal leaders had turned a blind eye to the actions of some of the more radical men. To her credit, the Phaeron never took offense to the actions, rarely even moving to her own troop's defense. This was mostly due to her knowing that any hostile action she might take would cause irreparable damage, whereas whatever damage the Imperials did would be superficial at best. It helped that she had complete control over her own troops as well.

"Even the Eldar would have given up on a truce like this by now. Even if one of their farseers demanded them to keep trying, they'd probably have just given up and tossed him out an airlock and then shot us." Inquisitor Karev said as he slumped into his chair.

Gaz chuckled, "At least the Necron doesn't plan on using us to destroy something even they couldn't. I guess Jarod wasn't kidding when he explained they were probably the most reasonable race in the galaxy."

Loathed as he may be to admit it, Karev was rather fond of the Rogue Trader. Given time and experience, and perhaps a few happy accidents, Jarod would climb the ladders of the Inquisition in no time. He probably wouldn't reach the title of Lord within record time or anything like that, but he'd probably be one of the few sane inquisitor's out there.

"What are we supposed to do with the ones that threw the explosives?" Gaz asked, referring to the latest incident. A pair of young guardsmen, younger than twenty years old if Gaz remembered right, had stolen a melta bomb from the armories and lobbed it into the Necron camp beside their own, damaging the terrain as well as a few warriors. Nezha herself had, as always, not retaliated, and instead suggested that the two men be reprimanded for their actions.

Reprimanded.

If they had done that to a space marine encampment, the two of them would have been shot on sight. As would it have been if it was any other ally to the Astra Militarum. And yet Nevha Cleo, a Xeno and a leader of a race of technologically almighty warriors merely suggested they be reprimanded.

Perhaps he had grown senile in his age, but even Gaz knew that such a prospect was far from a normal response. It was very likely that Jarod had asked her to be polite and too not show any form of hostilities towards them. Then again, whenever he spoke to her she always seemed… kinder, than any political or military leader he had ever known, so it may have simply been her own method of madness.

Reaching toward his cogitator, he began typing up the report he would send back to high command. Fifteenth times a charm, maybe he would actually send it this time.

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