Overlord of the Ohtesh Dynasty, also known as the Custodian of the Rapareen Data Archive, The Luminescent Liege, and The Ravenous Radiance. Profile picture by @rowscara
βYour claim to this world, which you believe to be divine, is illegitimate. It is an error that Iβll rectify soon and with care. As Dynast of the Ohtesh Dynasty, I decide whether or not to grant trespassers with mercy. And Iβve decided to grant you and your people the kindest of mercies my own people can afford those that live and breathe. That mercy, is utter cessation of existence. Goodbye, βGovernorβ.β
|Rules|
Height: 10β5"/ Age: Eons Old/
Demeros awoke along with his sibling during the opening of the Great Rift, their deathless slumber interrupted by the foul energies that leapt forth from the tear in time and space. Despite the entire court shunting hibernation and powering on, both the two royal siblings and the Ohtesh advisors would find that the then Phaerakh had not joined them, and laid inert.
Immediately, the collection of both true and partial nobles turned to infighting, almost starting a civil war that had the potential to destroy the Ohtesh dynasty, if not for the intervention of the Royal Siblings and their split of power. Demeros would be made to maintain the archives, infrastructure, and technical aspects of the Ohtesh Dynasty, ruling from the shadows, while his Sibling would reign in the light, threatening those whoβd dare speak out against her position, and marching to war against those whoβd dare attack the Dynasty.
Thus, the prince became a false king, one whoβs role was to hide from the sun, and act as a glorified librarian. Many would assume that Demeros would chafe under this imposed fate, and partially, he did. But, ruling the dynasty from the front had never appealed to the Overlord, and so he took to his new found duty with a mock apathy. Underneath however, was a burning diligence that would not be dulled by either time or death. He was Demeros the Compiler now, and the galaxy would know his ire.
Titles: Shaper of Light, The Blinding Death, The Unmoving, The Ravenous Radiance, The Luminescent Liege, and The Gleaming Ghast.
Goals: As the Compiler, Demeros must find and repair those data archives lost to the Ohtesh Dynasty during the chaos of the Great Rift opening. From there, itβs his responsibility to then link them to the prime archive and maintain each one, a task that his Sibling deemed appropriate for him. Personally, he finds that another task that must be fulfilled is preparation for the Silent Kingβs eventual reappearance, and to do that the Dynasty must be properly cared for.
Affiliations:
β’ The Triarchy
β’ The Ohtesh Dynasty
β’ Semera the Ruiner
Appearance
Demeros is a shining example of a Necron, his metallic skin a gleaming ivory, with tinges of gold spread throughout his form. Maroon wires and structural parts give him a sturdy form, and decorating his body are ruby like Hardlight Projectors. These manifest the Hardlight cape and armor pieces that float with a crimson light.
Equipment
Staff of the Builder (Lost): Like most Overlords, Demeros wields a Staff of Light, but he has modified it with assistance from his Crypteks to amplify his Hard-Light Manipulation capabilities. It also has the handy ability to cleave through most armor thanks to it's Warscythe Blades.
Hard-Light Projectors: Demeros specifically has modified his chassis with emitters that allow him to project Hard-Light. This means he can form walls of pure light from thin air or twist them into complex shapes with but a gesture. The capability is usually used for more artistic goals, but is a deadly weapon otherwise.
Phase Shifter: By using this implanted device, Demeros is able to for a short time become incorporeal. Any foe who tries to strike him will find their arms harmlessly passing through the Overlord, while he takes this time to get closer to an adversary or retreat.
Sempiternal Weave: Demerosβ necrodermis is threaded with filaments of phase-hardened amaranthite and adamantium, vastly increasing the hardiness of the chassis to a level that rivals that of Astartes Terminator Armor.
Plasmacyte: Demeros always travels with a plasmacyte at his side, in case a data stack requires cleaning. While generally not fond of βpetsβ, Demeros finds these metallic creatures endearing enough.
Sub-Routine Letis: An artificially created intelligence forged from the programming of a repair scarab, or so Demeros says. The digital assistant resides inside Demeros himself, dedicated to helping the Overlord achieve multiple tasks at once, initiating orders in his stead while he's busy with other duties, and protecting his engrams from outside influences.
First image drawn by @/rowscara, Full body image drawn by @/Gij_Arentz on Twitter
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
Damn it all. Rishaeron would not die without a weapon in his hands. He took Fatethreader and held it close to his body, the Necron could complain all he wished: giving death to the deathless was amongst the skills he had honed over the decades.
Around the nearest corner, a horde of a dozen howling Flayed Ones advanced on the gravedigging party. Clad in skin so ancient and dessicated it appeared both like parchment and worn leather and brandishing claws the length of Rishaerons forearms, the screaming monstrosities hobbled their ungainly gait with weapons raised.
A shot from the Long Rifle blew a hole straight through the face plate of a charging Flayed One but a second flew wide and took a charging Necron through the knee when Demeros knocked his Rifle in his own charge.
Bastard. He hissed internally. Death was facing them down and the Necron was too focused on glory to allow him to destroy more Flayed Ones. Very well, he thought, he would get the measure of the Overlord by observing him in combat.
The sight of the creatures alone was enough to leave Demeros feeling sick. Their thin and distorted forms a twisted mirror to his own, the way they skittered across the ground like beasts. It was horrific to watch, and Demeros couldnβt stand it any longer.
The warriors had begun firing now, their steady but slow aim releasing green beams of energy towards the remaining Flayed Ones. Unfortunately something about the nature of these corrupted machines made them far more agile, many of the monsters jumping out of the way as they loped onward.
Demerosβ released an electronic growl at their persistence, the pit in his non-existent stomach deepening. Stepping towards them, Demeros whirled his staff in his grasp deftly, suddenly striking at a speed far faster than one would anticipate from him. The bladed end of the spear like weapon struck heavily through one monstrosity, tearing through its chest before being violently wrenched free.
It collapsed to the ground spewing millennia old core fluid, the lights in its eyes dying moments later as a puddle grew underneath its crumpled body. Already Demeros had returned to his readied combat stance, standing ready before the screaming ghouls. Despite felling one, the inner sensation of disgust and growing claustrophobia wasnβt abating. It only grew worse as he eyed their deformed limbs, their hungry eyes, and the mock teeth carved into their faces.
Necrons were soulless abominations without expression or mercy, but one thing Rishaeron knew was violence and what he saw from Demeros was not the superior swordsmanship of an aristocrat, but the panicked and conservative fight of one experiencing real fear. How fascinating, indeed.
He aimed Fatethreader and spied his target, the nearest to Demeros staggered towards the Overlord before a beam passed inches over his "hosts" shoulder to erupt the Flayed Ones faceplate in a shower of exploding shrapnel.
He shrugged his shoulders at the castigating glare Demeros scowled over his shoulder and continued firing. The first of the bodyguards was felled beneath the blades of the howling monstrosities, and suddenly, their perimeter was breached as even more Flayed Ones filled the narrow corridors of the tomb.
βWeβll get nowhere like this!β Demeros hissed, and turned to the warriors who remained. Flashes of digital orders traveled through the network discharge nodes on the Dynasts chassis, and the struggling warriors stiffened in response. Batting at the Flayers with their weapons, they reconvened beside Demeros, who stepped back closer to Rishaeron.
βStay close aeldari, or youβll ruin what comes next.β The dynast commands, and with a glow of maroon from his assorted gemstones on his form, rectangular fields of crimson Hardlight emerge on the forms of the warriors and Demerosβ forearms. With another silent order, the group charges forward, the warriors pushing through the crowd of scurrying Flayed ones with shields held high. The fields keep the creatures back, unable to be torn asunder or wrenched free.
However, the light on Demeros flickered, making it clear he couldnβt do this technique for long. Now it was a test of endurance as they dashed through the corridors, nearing the heart of the tomb.
"What the...?" Rishaeron was shocked, and the sudden ruby illumination cast a murderous glare in the darkness of the hallway. Never one to look a gift Grox in the mandible, the Ranger threw his Rifle over his shoulder and did as he was bid.
Staying close, he placed a palm on Demeros' shoulder as the Necrons trotted through the crowd of repulsive monsters and fired the occasional spray of Shuriken from his Pistol to slow down the nearest Flayed Ones.
"Where are you taking us?" He yelled into the Necrons non-existent ear, straining to feel heard over the commotion.
The warriors smashed through the Flayers with every step, Necrodermis crunching with every swing of their arms and shove of their shields. The beasts recoiled with alarmed groans and hisses, scurrying back into the dark and out of the red light.
Demeros shuddered as his sensors registered Risheronβs touch on his cold metal shoulder, and his violently wrenched himself away from the contact.
βDo not dare sully my form with your filthy flesh ever again, Aeldari.β Demeros snapped over his shoulder, red eyes burning into Risheronβs before focusing back to the front.
He seemed to have ignored his question, and instead the group would finally break into a much larger room, pushing back stragglers of Flayers who now retreated fully into the dark. Their twisted bodies vanished into the shadows, and for the moment the untainted Necrons and singular Eldar were left alone.
Before them, in this wide chamber, there rested a single structure that dominated the center of the room. It appeared to be some sort of slab of indeterminable material, covered in the same growth that had kept the entrance to the tomb locked shut for all these eons.
βFinallyβ¦.β Demeros sighed, a growing sense of relief alighting in his core. He was so closeβ¦
"Do you remember the intervention on Maxentious IV?" Aelinor snapped the twig she had been fiddling, throwing it into the roaring campfire quite idly as she reminisced.
"Hmm?" Rishaeron looked up from his task, his brow furrowed and head shaking. "I can't say that I do." The rasp of the whetstone against metal began again.
Aelinor drew her knees closer to her chest and held them close as Virtute snored by the warmth of the fire beside her.
"It was one of my first commands. Of course, I had been in battle before and on the Seer Council for many years, but I had never truly led a battle as its sole commander."
Rishaerons uncomprehending face urged her to be less coy about the memory. The even glide of the stone against his dagger was the only noise besides the fire and had a meditative, measured quality to it. Rasp. Rasp. Rasp.
"For goodness sake, Ranger. A tzeentchian cult had influenced the leading Imperial household, and they had intentions to summon Daemons..."
"Well, yes. I shot him." The Ranger said obtusely. Aelinor tutted and rolled her eyes, Gods could he be foolish.
"I recall you doing more than that, Rishaeron." Aelinor scoffed softly. "If I remember correctly, you delivered the killing shot from that same Rifle while cartwheeling from one rooftop to another." She gently tapped Fatethreader with her index finger, and the myriad charms and knick-knacks rattled against the Wraithbone.
Rishaeron's eyes lit up in sudden remembrance.
"Oh! Yes! Indeed, I do remember." He had forgotten the finer details of the kill, but Aelinor's recollection brought it back to the fore. "Why do you bring it up?"
Aelinor leant back, resting her weight on her palms she petted Virtute who chirped happily in response.
"I would very much like to see it again. Tomorrow, we will try."
Rishaeron knew better than to argue when Aelinor Fatereader told him the plans for the future. She might not be a Farseer in name anymore, but the Aeldari had a wonderful talent for predicting their immediate future.
"Very well, at first light, then." Rasp. Rasp. Rasp.
"Rishaeron?" She gazed into the crackling fire, her voice pensive. The whetstone stopped as the Ranger looked up, at last.
"I am sorry I was not good to you. To Eldrin. I wish to be better, to be the...friend you deserve. Thank you, for being my companion."
The dagger slid back into the sheath on his Wraithbone arm and Rishaeron moved to join Aelinor on her log. He wrapped his remaining arm over her shoulder like a shawl and Aelinor stiffened at the touch, unused as she was to any kind of physical contact from others. Gently, affectionately, he squeezed.
"Aelinor, you are one of the wisest, kindest and most patient people I have ever had the luxury of knowing." He playfully shoved his former commander hard enough to throw her off balance and disturb the Gyrinx.
"But you are impressively foolish, with regards to friendship. We've been friends for many years, you just won't allow yourself to see what you bring to the table. Myself, Eldrin, the Corsair Princess. We all see you, and we all consider you a friend." The words were a balm to the constant anxiety Aelinor felt, and words she needed to hear. Despite the particular emphasis that Rishaeron put on Corsair Princess sent pin pricks of tingling nerves to her cheeks.
"Even if you wish you were more than friends with one of us." Aelinor gasped, shocked at the implication as her cheeks and ears burned red with embarrassment.The Ranger laughed the shit-eating cackle of little brothers spilling secrets all over the universe, before he turned over and feigned going to sleep. Leaving Aelinor to mortify before the fire until it was naught but embers.
She had never truly thought of it, but Rishaerons observation shone a light on something she had never acknowledged before. Too stunned to speak and too dumbfounded to sleep, a vortex of repressed feeling buzzed inside her until morning came at last.
Her and Rishaeron must be good friends, she reasoned at last. Because she had never been more annoyed at a person for being so right. The little bastard.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
Damn it all. Rishaeron would not die without a weapon in his hands. He took Fatethreader and held it close to his body, the Necron could complain all he wished: giving death to the deathless was amongst the skills he had honed over the decades.
Around the nearest corner, a horde of a dozen howling Flayed Ones advanced on the gravedigging party. Clad in skin so ancient and dessicated it appeared both like parchment and worn leather and brandishing claws the length of Rishaerons forearms, the screaming monstrosities hobbled their ungainly gait with weapons raised.
A shot from the Long Rifle blew a hole straight through the face plate of a charging Flayed One but a second flew wide and took a charging Necron through the knee when Demeros knocked his Rifle in his own charge.
Bastard. He hissed internally. Death was facing them down and the Necron was too focused on glory to allow him to destroy more Flayed Ones. Very well, he thought, he would get the measure of the Overlord by observing him in combat.
The sight of the creatures alone was enough to leave Demeros feeling sick. Their thin and distorted forms a twisted mirror to his own, the way they skittered across the ground like beasts. It was horrific to watch, and Demeros couldnβt stand it any longer.
The warriors had begun firing now, their steady but slow aim releasing green beams of energy towards the remaining Flayed Ones. Unfortunately something about the nature of these corrupted machines made them far more agile, many of the monsters jumping out of the way as they loped onward.
Demerosβ released an electronic growl at their persistence, the pit in his non-existent stomach deepening. Stepping towards them, Demeros whirled his staff in his grasp deftly, suddenly striking at a speed far faster than one would anticipate from him. The bladed end of the spear like weapon struck heavily through one monstrosity, tearing through its chest before being violently wrenched free.
It collapsed to the ground spewing millennia old core fluid, the lights in its eyes dying moments later as a puddle grew underneath its crumpled body. Already Demeros had returned to his readied combat stance, standing ready before the screaming ghouls. Despite felling one, the inner sensation of disgust and growing claustrophobia wasnβt abating. It only grew worse as he eyed their deformed limbs, their hungry eyes, and the mock teeth carved into their faces.
Necrons were soulless abominations without expression or mercy, but one thing Rishaeron knew was violence and what he saw from Demeros was not the superior swordsmanship of an aristocrat, but the panicked and conservative fight of one experiencing real fear. How fascinating, indeed.
He aimed Fatethreader and spied his target, the nearest to Demeros staggered towards the Overlord before a beam passed inches over his "hosts" shoulder to erupt the Flayed Ones faceplate in a shower of exploding shrapnel.
He shrugged his shoulders at the castigating glare Demeros scowled over his shoulder and continued firing. The first of the bodyguards was felled beneath the blades of the howling monstrosities, and suddenly, their perimeter was breached as even more Flayed Ones filled the narrow corridors of the tomb.
βWeβll get nowhere like this!β Demeros hissed, and turned to the warriors who remained. Flashes of digital orders traveled through the network discharge nodes on the Dynasts chassis, and the struggling warriors stiffened in response. Batting at the Flayers with their weapons, they reconvened beside Demeros, who stepped back closer to Rishaeron.
βStay close aeldari, or youβll ruin what comes next.β The dynast commands, and with a glow of maroon from his assorted gemstones on his form, rectangular fields of crimson Hardlight emerge on the forms of the warriors and Demerosβ forearms. With another silent order, the group charges forward, the warriors pushing through the crowd of scurrying Flayed ones with shields held high. The fields keep the creatures back, unable to be torn asunder or wrenched free.
However, the light on Demeros flickered, making it clear he couldnβt do this technique for long. Now it was a test of endurance as they dashed through the corridors, nearing the heart of the tomb.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
Damn it all. Rishaeron would not die without a weapon in his hands. He took Fatethreader and held it close to his body, the Necron could complain all he wished: giving death to the deathless was amongst the skills he had honed over the decades.
Around the nearest corner, a horde of a dozen howling Flayed Ones advanced on the gravedigging party. Clad in skin so ancient and dessicated it appeared both like parchment and worn leather and brandishing claws the length of Rishaerons forearms, the screaming monstrosities hobbled their ungainly gait with weapons raised.
A shot from the Long Rifle blew a hole straight through the face plate of a charging Flayed One but a second flew wide and took a charging Necron through the knee when Demeros knocked his Rifle in his own charge.
Bastard. He hissed internally. Death was facing them down and the Necron was too focused on glory to allow him to destroy more Flayed Ones. Very well, he thought, he would get the measure of the Overlord by observing him in combat.
The sight of the creatures alone was enough to leave Demeros feeling sick. Their thin and distorted forms a twisted mirror to his own, the way they skittered across the ground like beasts. It was horrific to watch, and Demeros couldnβt stand it any longer.
The warriors had begun firing now, their steady but slow aim releasing green beams of energy towards the remaining Flayed Ones. Unfortunately something about the nature of these corrupted machines made them far more agile, many of the monsters jumping out of the way as they loped onward.
Demerosβ released an electronic growl at their persistence, the pit in his non-existent stomach deepening. Stepping towards them, Demeros whirled his staff in his grasp deftly, suddenly striking at a speed far faster than one would anticipate from him. The bladed end of the spear like weapon struck heavily through one monstrosity, tearing through its chest before being violently wrenched free.
It collapsed to the ground spewing millennia old core fluid, the lights in its eyes dying moments later as a puddle grew underneath its crumpled body. Already Demeros had returned to his readied combat stance, standing ready before the screaming ghouls. Despite felling one, the inner sensation of disgust and growing claustrophobia wasnβt abating. It only grew worse as he eyed their deformed limbs, their hungry eyes, and the mock teeth carved into their faces.
The darkness of the defunct tomb was oppressive, its halls caked in dust and unpowered lines of circuitry. Demeros passed through the halls of such a sad facility with an air of disappointment. Each of his metallic footfalls echoed through the halls, his stride unbroken as he trekked towards the center of the structure. To think that one such as himself was forced to this menial labor was humiliating enough, and that fact was only worsened by his lack of a standing guard. The warriors he had brought with him had been ordered to search elsewhere, their own journeys to the core tracked by his systems but also showing just how far away they were.
The assignment was supposed to be simple, but thanks to his limited assets, the tombβs poor state, and the lack of aid from his so called βsubordinateβ Crypteks, Demeros was having a far harder time. The Dynast in name only stopped before a turn in the corridor and rested a hand against the wall. Maybe his warriors had scouted enough of the complex for him to have received a proper map at this pointβ¦
Unbeknownst to Demeros however was the fact he wasnβt as alone as he believed himself to be.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
Rishaeron gazed into the scarlet eyes of his species ancient enemy and considered for a moment. He thought about the warriors of Wasp Mitre, the Nightstalkers of IdralΓ’sh and the young and naive Rangers walking the universe that would answer such a distress call as he had. Better it be him here than any other Aeldari out there.
He swallowed.
"Fine. Perhaps I'll see if Necron nobility has any honour when I walk away from this...play." Rishaeron stowed his rifle in a pouch on his back pack and removed his helmet, pleased to be free from beneath the stifling heat.
"Do lead the way, Demeros. I'm not as smart as you are and might get lost." The Pathfinder added without a hint of irony.
The overlord brushed his hand through the holographic image to dispel it, and turned towards the entrance of the looming edifice, head rising as he studied its surface with unknowable intent.
Within his thoughts, Demeros sent orders to his now arisen warriors, who stood beneath the blazing sun awaiting orders ever so stilly. As the digital command traveled, the shambling drones went into motion, stiffly marching behind Rishaeron.
Each was armed, hefting their Gauss Flayers with robotic fluidity. Whatever sapience these things once had was all but gone, burned in the war that created these monstrosities and replaced with flesh with strong and rigid limbs.
βIβd prefer you beside me aeldari. Dull witted you may be, but the descendants of the Krork showcase high cunning alongside low intelligence regularly.β Demeros retorts finally, taking a few steps finally towards the large door of the complex.
"Ah. Clever. I bet you were a real wit when you still had flesh." Rishaeron said dryly. Besides the Overlord and surrounded by a phalanx of warriors he appeared less like a hostage and more like a foreign dignitary under armed guard.
Nevertheless, the Ranger followed and took in the details of his host and his surroundings as they walked.
βAs entertaining as taunting each other is, I grow weary of the barbs flung each way.β Demeros spat, declining to respond on Rishaeronβs remark. Maybe the ranger had hit a nerve there?
Nevertheless, Demeros strode forward with a confidence befitting that of a royal upbringing, hands clasped behind his back as his Hardlight cape blew behind him from non-existent wind. Clearly, he had a taste for the theatrics, but when the group finally stood in from of the door heβd immediately stop.
The sounds of the warriors echoing his halted pace was deafening, and for moments there was only eerie silence. Ahead of them, rested a decorated entryway, carved with uncountable necrontyr symbols that Al connected to each other, but unlike the usual active ruins, these were dark and inert. Dead, if one had to compete the building to a creature.
At the center of the door, there was something that contrasted the symmetrical and sterile building entirely. This thing was rounded and smooth, organic in aesthetic, and very familiar to a certain species. It held a gem in its spiraling form, like the heart of a strange oceanic life form, which had latched onto door and grew into the metal with leeching tendrils.
βCuriosity will be your doom Aeldari. But, Iβll humor it, as I only felt you deserved a single chance to leave this encounter blissfully ignorant.β Demeros responded, tilting his head as he recalled the exact numbers given to him upon his awakening, and being met with the sudden memories of mentioned moment.
βBy the given estimations, Iβd sayβ¦β heβd wring his hands behind his back, thinking despite most likely having the answer immediately recollected given his mechanical nature. Maybe he just wanted to waste Rishaeronβs time? ββ¦a hundred or so years at the most. Barely anything, which is something you and I have in common I suppose.β
Rishaeron was content with the silence and supressed the smirk beneath his helmet as they walked, powerless as he was it still gave him joy to frustrate an immortal regent as he just had.
He inspected the gem from afar when they approached, it was clear his ancestors did not want the contents of this tomb getting out by abusing the one thing the God Killers could no longer do, have a living soul.
"The universe has changed a lot in only a hundred years. The Cicatrix Maledictum dividing the universe, the rise of the Ynnari, the return of a Primarch and the Indomitus Crusade are all so recent. It must be quite the adjustment to make." He remarked with something almost resembling empathy as he leaned in closer to the gem which seemed to react to his approach like bottled smoke battling against its container.
βYet despite all of this change, it will be meaningless in the face of our full return. Others would say that it is beyond fixing, but I know the truth.β Demeros would retort, before continuing, βBut, for the moment, I demand you open the damn door.β
Rishaeron snorted, the universe would humble both Demeros and the Necrons in time. If the universe would not bend to the Aeldari, the Humans or the Greenskin it would not bend to the will of the Necrontyr.
Nevertheless, he pressed his palm evenly against the crystal and felt a static shock of energy move through him, in a way he would find difficult to explain later the shock felt almost like a gesture of recognition from the ancient circuits, and with a rumble of a mausoleum door and the dust of decades in its wake, Rishaeron was the first living soul in millions of years to behold its contents.
"By the grace of Kurnous..." He muttered, in equal shock and reverence.
"Excellent, you've played your part well, Ranger. Now, all we must do is to advance inside, and you can be the first to witness my reascension." Demeros mocked beside him, lowing his face just so Risheron can easily spy the unmoving but undoubtedly smug skeletal smile.
Another silent order was sent, and Risheron would feel one of the warriors attempt to prod him forward if he didn't move quick enough into the gaping darkness in front of them. It almost held a certain gravity to it, like a black hole you'd spot amongst the stars, yawning open to consume all in its shadowy embrace.
"How magnanimous." Rishaeron uttered dryly, the prod to his back driving him into the dark. He cycled through different visual settings with his helmet and his hand ever remained just a heartbeat away from his Shuriken Pistol.
It took a surprisingly long time for his vision to refocus his surroundings, and with his first steps inside he was stunned by what he saw. Armour, ancient by even Aeldari standards scattered the ground with desiccated skeletons hanging within, as well as the twisted metal of destroyed Necron forms. Demeros had led Rishaeron to one of the last battle fields of the War in Heaven.
"Dear Gods..." Rishaeron was almost too stunned to speak, he was quite literally standing amongst fellow Aeldari that existed while the Gods still lived. But his philosophising was cut short, when an insane shriek echoed down the dusty halls with a howl that chilled the Rangers blood.
"What in the name of Asuryan was that? That was nothing natural..." His hand picked up his Pistol at last, feeling much better to finally have a weapon in his hand at last.
Demeros didnβt answer, instead he summoned his blades weapon to his hand once again. Itβs light lit their surroundings further, bathing the skeletons of bone and metal in a crimson glow. The Dynast peered into the dark ahead, mechanical senses studying the path as he also wondered what horrors had survived for so long inside these ruins.
His warriors suddenly spread out in unison, marching forward with weapons held high in order to deal with anything that may pop out in front of the group. Their metallic forms reflected Demerosβ light and created an unsettling effect of red upon them. Ivory became maroon, and they appeared blood stained in the darkβ¦
βWhatever it is, Iβll give it proper rest.β Demeros stated coldly.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
Rishaeron gazed into the scarlet eyes of his species ancient enemy and considered for a moment. He thought about the warriors of Wasp Mitre, the Nightstalkers of IdralΓ’sh and the young and naive Rangers walking the universe that would answer such a distress call as he had. Better it be him here than any other Aeldari out there.
He swallowed.
"Fine. Perhaps I'll see if Necron nobility has any honour when I walk away from this...play." Rishaeron stowed his rifle in a pouch on his back pack and removed his helmet, pleased to be free from beneath the stifling heat.
"Do lead the way, Demeros. I'm not as smart as you are and might get lost." The Pathfinder added without a hint of irony.
The overlord brushed his hand through the holographic image to dispel it, and turned towards the entrance of the looming edifice, head rising as he studied its surface with unknowable intent.
Within his thoughts, Demeros sent orders to his now arisen warriors, who stood beneath the blazing sun awaiting orders ever so stilly. As the digital command traveled, the shambling drones went into motion, stiffly marching behind Rishaeron.
Each was armed, hefting their Gauss Flayers with robotic fluidity. Whatever sapience these things once had was all but gone, burned in the war that created these monstrosities and replaced with flesh with strong and rigid limbs.
βIβd prefer you beside me aeldari. Dull witted you may be, but the descendants of the Krork showcase high cunning alongside low intelligence regularly.β Demeros retorts finally, taking a few steps finally towards the large door of the complex.
"Ah. Clever. I bet you were a real wit when you still had flesh." Rishaeron said dryly. Besides the Overlord and surrounded by a phalanx of warriors he appeared less like a hostage and more like a foreign dignitary under armed guard.
Nevertheless, the Ranger followed and took in the details of his host and his surroundings as they walked.
βAs entertaining as taunting each other is, I grow weary of the barbs flung each way.β Demeros spat, declining to respond on Rishaeronβs remark. Maybe the ranger had hit a nerve there?
Nevertheless, Demeros strode forward with a confidence befitting that of a royal upbringing, hands clasped behind his back as his Hardlight cape blew behind him from non-existent wind. Clearly, he had a taste for the theatrics, but when the group finally stood in from of the door heβd immediately stop.
The sounds of the warriors echoing his halted pace was deafening, and for moments there was only eerie silence. Ahead of them, rested a decorated entryway, carved with uncountable necrontyr symbols that Al connected to each other, but unlike the usual active ruins, these were dark and inert. Dead, if one had to compete the building to a creature.
At the center of the door, there was something that contrasted the symmetrical and sterile building entirely. This thing was rounded and smooth, organic in aesthetic, and very familiar to a certain species. It held a gem in its spiraling form, like the heart of a strange oceanic life form, which had latched onto door and grew into the metal with leeching tendrils.
βCuriosity will be your doom Aeldari. But, Iβll humor it, as I only felt you deserved a single chance to leave this encounter blissfully ignorant.β Demeros responded, tilting his head as he recalled the exact numbers given to him upon his awakening, and being met with the sudden memories of mentioned moment.
βBy the given estimations, Iβd sayβ¦β heβd wring his hands behind his back, thinking despite most likely having the answer immediately recollected given his mechanical nature. Maybe he just wanted to waste Rishaeronβs time? ββ¦a hundred or so years at the most. Barely anything, which is something you and I have in common I suppose.β
Rishaeron was content with the silence and supressed the smirk beneath his helmet as they walked, powerless as he was it still gave him joy to frustrate an immortal regent as he just had.
He inspected the gem from afar when they approached, it was clear his ancestors did not want the contents of this tomb getting out by abusing the one thing the God Killers could no longer do, have a living soul.
"The universe has changed a lot in only a hundred years. The Cicatrix Maledictum dividing the universe, the rise of the Ynnari, the return of a Primarch and the Indomitus Crusade are all so recent. It must be quite the adjustment to make." He remarked with something almost resembling empathy as he leaned in closer to the gem which seemed to react to his approach like bottled smoke battling against its container.
βYet despite all of this change, it will be meaningless in the face of our full return. Others would say that it is beyond fixing, but I know the truth.β Demeros would retort, before continuing, βBut, for the moment, I demand you open the damn door.β
Rishaeron snorted, the universe would humble both Demeros and the Necrons in time. If the universe would not bend to the Aeldari, the Humans or the Greenskin it would not bend to the will of the Necrontyr.
Nevertheless, he pressed his palm evenly against the crystal and felt a static shock of energy move through him, in a way he would find difficult to explain later the shock felt almost like a gesture of recognition from the ancient circuits, and with a rumble of a mausoleum door and the dust of decades in its wake, Rishaeron was the first living soul in millions of years to behold its contents.
"By the grace of Kurnous..." He muttered, in equal shock and reverence.
"Excellent, you've played your part well, Ranger. Now, all we must do is to advance inside, and you can be the first to witness my reascension." Demeros mocked beside him, lowing his face just so Risheron can easily spy the unmoving but undoubtedly smug skeletal smile.
Another silent order was sent, and Risheron would feel one of the warriors attempt to prod him forward if he didn't move quick enough into the gaping darkness in front of them. It almost held a certain gravity to it, like a black hole you'd spot amongst the stars, yawning open to consume all in its shadowy embrace.
βAinβt nothing left but to start over. Lotta you runts fink weβre done, that without Da Kaptin, weβre good as ded. Well, Iβm βere to tell you sorry gits that youβre wrong. Sure we mighta lost our Dakka, our Kroozerz, and βell, we may βave even lost the battle. But, weβre ORKZ Zog it! You good for nothing grots mustβve forgotten, that we ainβt ever beaten! Weβre gonna come back bigger, better, and smarter than before, and show those bugs that they ainβt won yet!β
|Rules|
Height: 10β3β/ Age: 20-25 Years/
Grimgrod had always been seen as a joke to his superiors, and even to some of his inferiors. Many Orks wouldβve heard stories of the infamously bad luck that tailed the Nob like a loyal Squig, and found it easy to bully him into jobs no one else wanted to do. So during the brutal tyranid attack that wiped out the Circuit Jawz, Grimgrod had survived by being made a lousy messenger. To tell the tale of good ole Kaptin Zagbad Grimgul.
It was only after he first regaled the death of his mighty Kaptin that Grimgrod finally decided he had enough. Something in the young Nob finally snapped, and from then after his misfit mob and him flew through the stars, tackling former Circuit Jawz, absorbing them into the fold, and brutally assaulting lost territories. This new tribe was dubbed the Doomβeadz, with Grimgrod as their Warboss. Only time will tell what plans he has for the former allies and enemies of Zagbad.
Skills: βDiplomacyβ, Close Quarters Combat, Amateur Mek Know How, Tracking, and Sneaking.
Goals: To pick up where Zagbad left off, but instead of being a measly pirate, Grimgrod wants true domination. He wants to prove every git who doubted him wrong, and crush the Hivefleet who did in his Kaptin first as a demonstration of his superiority. Not to mention a need to show that Blood Axe thinking is right.
Allies:
The Heg Ravens
Da Gear-Klaws (Begrudgingly)
Da Mad-Kapz
Appearance:
Standing at 10 feet and 3 inches tall, Grimgrod is much smaller than his former Kaptin, but still a hulking behemoth. Lightly armored, the heaviest implements the Ork carries are his taloned cybernetic legs and arm, while the rest of his attire is military wear based upon imperial foes. His helm holds a skull like visage, a visor hiding everything but the monsterβs gleaming red eyes. Across his form, is a color of blue and black, a camouflage pattern with a bit more subtly to it than the average Ork would care to wear. Around his neck is a flag turned scarf taken as a final farewell from his Kaptin, which Grimgrod now uses as a sign of his era and the passing of the torch.
His shoulders meanwhile are armored by a typical checker patterned plate and a looted astartes pauldron. Itβs been outfitted with spikes to present a more fashionable appearance, one befitting greenskin sensibilities.
Equipment
Snik & Snakk: Two overly long knives that Grimgrod keeps on his person at all times. Theyβre great for slitting throats, picking locks, and generally giving anything a good stab.
Da Hush Hush Stabba: Grimgrod is a Blood Axe, and Axe Boyz never play fair. Within his bionic arm is a secret blade he can extend from underneath his palm, and then cleanly retract. Some gits need that extra nudge to understand that theyβre deceased.
Da Final Say: A large revolver that Grimgrod uses when he realizes the time for words and headbutts are over. Snagged off a Beast Snagga who gave him lip, Grimgrodβs put the weapon to far greater use than its previous owner.
Da Kultural Exchange Bouquet: Grimgrod has an assortment of throwable weapons and explosives in his arsenal, and when in a real pinch, will decide to use all of them. Flash Bangs, Stikkbombs, 'Sploding Squigs, and Tankbusta Bombs are all deployed in a wired βBouquetβ, usually as a parting gift courtesy of the Doomβeadz.
Studgufβs Kustom Nanites: After Zagbad was deemed dead, Grimgrod attempted to replicate the past Ork Kaptainβs strange ability to both harden his skin and weapons to a steel like quality, a technique the Kaptin failed to teach him. After months of tensing his muscles and concentrating really hard, Grimgrod abducted and forced a Mek to instead make him an artificial copy. When faced with a knife to the throat, Studguf obliged, and Grimgrod was gifted with a similar ability to Zagbad. Itβs still a sore spot however.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
Rishaeron gazed into the scarlet eyes of his species ancient enemy and considered for a moment. He thought about the warriors of Wasp Mitre, the Nightstalkers of IdralΓ’sh and the young and naive Rangers walking the universe that would answer such a distress call as he had. Better it be him here than any other Aeldari out there.
He swallowed.
"Fine. Perhaps I'll see if Necron nobility has any honour when I walk away from this...play." Rishaeron stowed his rifle in a pouch on his back pack and removed his helmet, pleased to be free from beneath the stifling heat.
"Do lead the way, Demeros. I'm not as smart as you are and might get lost." The Pathfinder added without a hint of irony.
The overlord brushed his hand through the holographic image to dispel it, and turned towards the entrance of the looming edifice, head rising as he studied its surface with unknowable intent.
Within his thoughts, Demeros sent orders to his now arisen warriors, who stood beneath the blazing sun awaiting orders ever so stilly. As the digital command traveled, the shambling drones went into motion, stiffly marching behind Rishaeron.
Each was armed, hefting their Gauss Flayers with robotic fluidity. Whatever sapience these things once had was all but gone, burned in the war that created these monstrosities and replaced with flesh with strong and rigid limbs.
βIβd prefer you beside me aeldari. Dull witted you may be, but the descendants of the Krork showcase high cunning alongside low intelligence regularly.β Demeros retorts finally, taking a few steps finally towards the large door of the complex.
"Ah. Clever. I bet you were a real wit when you still had flesh." Rishaeron said dryly. Besides the Overlord and surrounded by a phalanx of warriors he appeared less like a hostage and more like a foreign dignitary under armed guard.
Nevertheless, the Ranger followed and took in the details of his host and his surroundings as they walked.
βAs entertaining as taunting each other is, I grow weary of the barbs flung each way.β Demeros spat, declining to respond on Rishaeronβs remark. Maybe the ranger had hit a nerve there?
Nevertheless, Demeros strode forward with a confidence befitting that of a royal upbringing, hands clasped behind his back as his Hardlight cape blew behind him from non-existent wind. Clearly, he had a taste for the theatrics, but when the group finally stood in from of the door heβd immediately stop.
The sounds of the warriors echoing his halted pace was deafening, and for moments there was only eerie silence. Ahead of them, rested a decorated entryway, carved with uncountable necrontyr symbols that Al connected to each other, but unlike the usual active ruins, these were dark and inert. Dead, if one had to compete the building to a creature.
At the center of the door, there was something that contrasted the symmetrical and sterile building entirely. This thing was rounded and smooth, organic in aesthetic, and very familiar to a certain species. It held a gem in its spiraling form, like the heart of a strange oceanic life form, which had latched onto door and grew into the metal with leeching tendrils.
βCuriosity will be your doom Aeldari. But, Iβll humor it, as I only felt you deserved a single chance to leave this encounter blissfully ignorant.β Demeros responded, tilting his head as he recalled the exact numbers given to him upon his awakening, and being met with the sudden memories of mentioned moment.
βBy the given estimations, Iβd sayβ¦β heβd wring his hands behind his back, thinking despite most likely having the answer immediately recollected given his mechanical nature. Maybe he just wanted to waste Rishaeronβs time? ββ¦a hundred or so years at the most. Barely anything, which is something you and I have in common I suppose.β
Rishaeron was content with the silence and supressed the smirk beneath his helmet as they walked, powerless as he was it still gave him joy to frustrate an immortal regent as he just had.
He inspected the gem from afar when they approached, it was clear his ancestors did not want the contents of this tomb getting out by abusing the one thing the God Killers could no longer do, have a living soul.
"The universe has changed a lot in only a hundred years. The Cicatrix Maledictum dividing the universe, the rise of the Ynnari, the return of a Primarch and the Indomitus Crusade are all so recent. It must be quite the adjustment to make." He remarked with something almost resembling empathy as he leaned in closer to the gem which seemed to react to his approach like bottled smoke battling against its container.
βYet despite all of this change, it will be meaningless in the face of our full return. Others would say that it is beyond fixing, but I know the truth.β Demeros would retort, before continuing, βBut, for the moment, I demand you open the damn door.β
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
Rishaeron gazed into the scarlet eyes of his species ancient enemy and considered for a moment. He thought about the warriors of Wasp Mitre, the Nightstalkers of IdralΓ’sh and the young and naive Rangers walking the universe that would answer such a distress call as he had. Better it be him here than any other Aeldari out there.
He swallowed.
"Fine. Perhaps I'll see if Necron nobility has any honour when I walk away from this...play." Rishaeron stowed his rifle in a pouch on his back pack and removed his helmet, pleased to be free from beneath the stifling heat.
"Do lead the way, Demeros. I'm not as smart as you are and might get lost." The Pathfinder added without a hint of irony.
The overlord brushed his hand through the holographic image to dispel it, and turned towards the entrance of the looming edifice, head rising as he studied its surface with unknowable intent.
Within his thoughts, Demeros sent orders to his now arisen warriors, who stood beneath the blazing sun awaiting orders ever so stilly. As the digital command traveled, the shambling drones went into motion, stiffly marching behind Rishaeron.
Each was armed, hefting their Gauss Flayers with robotic fluidity. Whatever sapience these things once had was all but gone, burned in the war that created these monstrosities and replaced with flesh with strong and rigid limbs.
βIβd prefer you beside me aeldari. Dull witted you may be, but the descendants of the Krork showcase high cunning alongside low intelligence regularly.β Demeros retorts finally, taking a few steps finally towards the large door of the complex.
"Ah. Clever. I bet you were a real wit when you still had flesh." Rishaeron said dryly. Besides the Overlord and surrounded by a phalanx of warriors he appeared less like a hostage and more like a foreign dignitary under armed guard.
Nevertheless, the Ranger followed and took in the details of his host and his surroundings as they walked.
βAs entertaining as taunting each other is, I grow weary of the barbs flung each way.β Demeros spat, declining to respond on Rishaeronβs remark. Maybe the ranger had hit a nerve there?
Nevertheless, Demeros strode forward with a confidence befitting that of a royal upbringing, hands clasped behind his back as his Hardlight cape blew behind him from non-existent wind. Clearly, he had a taste for the theatrics, but when the group finally stood in from of the door heβd immediately stop.
The sounds of the warriors echoing his halted pace was deafening, and for moments there was only eerie silence. Ahead of them, rested a decorated entryway, carved with uncountable necrontyr symbols that Al connected to each other, but unlike the usual active ruins, these were dark and inert. Dead, if one had to compete the building to a creature.
At the center of the door, there was something that contrasted the symmetrical and sterile building entirely. This thing was rounded and smooth, organic in aesthetic, and very familiar to a certain species. It held a gem in its spiraling form, like the heart of a strange oceanic life form, which had latched onto door and grew into the metal with leeching tendrils.
βCuriosity will be your doom Aeldari. But, Iβll humor it, as I only felt you deserved a single chance to leave this encounter blissfully ignorant.β Demeros responded, tilting his head as he recalled the exact numbers given to him upon his awakening, and being met with the sudden memories of mentioned moment.
βBy the given estimations, Iβd sayβ¦β heβd wring his hands behind his back, thinking despite most likely having the answer immediately recollected given his mechanical nature. Maybe he just wanted to waste Rishaeronβs time? ββ¦a hundred or so years at the most. Barely anything, which is something you and I have in common I suppose.β
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
Rishaeron gazed into the scarlet eyes of his species ancient enemy and considered for a moment. He thought about the warriors of Wasp Mitre, the Nightstalkers of IdralΓ’sh and the young and naive Rangers walking the universe that would answer such a distress call as he had. Better it be him here than any other Aeldari out there.
He swallowed.
"Fine. Perhaps I'll see if Necron nobility has any honour when I walk away from this...play." Rishaeron stowed his rifle in a pouch on his back pack and removed his helmet, pleased to be free from beneath the stifling heat.
"Do lead the way, Demeros. I'm not as smart as you are and might get lost." The Pathfinder added without a hint of irony.
The overlord brushed his hand through the holographic image to dispel it, and turned towards the entrance of the looming edifice, head rising as he studied its surface with unknowable intent.
Within his thoughts, Demeros sent orders to his now arisen warriors, who stood beneath the blazing sun awaiting orders ever so stilly. As the digital command traveled, the shambling drones went into motion, stiffly marching behind Rishaeron.
Each was armed, hefting their Gauss Flayers with robotic fluidity. Whatever sapience these things once had was all but gone, burned in the war that created these monstrosities and replaced with flesh with strong and rigid limbs.
βIβd prefer you beside me aeldari. Dull witted you may be, but the descendants of the Krork showcase high cunning alongside low intelligence regularly.β Demeros retorts finally, taking a few steps finally towards the large door of the complex.
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
A key that wouldn't open for him but would for Rishaeron? Demeros was right, his ancestors were crafty and the realisation of why he was lured here filled him with a sense of empowerment.
"Despite what we are now?" Rishaeron sniggered, affecting the superior tone that all Aeldari were genetically able to create.
"You should see yourself, Necron. My people travel the glittering void, tempered by time and grief and discipline. Yours awaken now as a shell of their former selves, having lost the War in Heaven to us Aeldari." The Rangers whole demeanour changed, his fingers gripped less tightly, his shoulders returned from the slooped position and he seemed a little taller.
"What is locked that I might open, Demeros, reigning king of the rocks and sand?"
βThatβ¦β Demeros responded slowly, now walking towards the ranger with slow, but deliberate steps. Each foot fall announced itself with the crunch of sand underneath, and as the Dynast drew closer, his head rose in front of the sun, until a shade was casted upon Rishaeron, leaving the ranger in the shadow of the monster, who loomed in front of the aeldari with those crimson eyes, glaring down, and then continue his statement, ββ¦is a very optimistic view of events.β
βYou will open it, aeldari,-β Demeros declared, slowly raising a hand, as if signaling someoneβ¦or something, β-because despite your display of hubris typical to your kind, I believe youβll make the proper choice. The only choice.β
With that gesture of the mechanical monarch, the ever so subtle sound of shifting sand could be heard all around them, and if one were to strain their senses, one could most definitely hear what could only be horrific things emerging from the ground. To the left of Demeros, behind his gilded form, arose a similarly adorned but far more basic ghoul, itβs ivory hide glinting in the sun as sand slid off its skeletal body, scarlet eyes alighting in the similarly empty sockets that Necrons bore.
βThe less you know, the better it will be for you. You can simply forget about your hand in this event, and go back to scurrying across the stars, as if nothing had happened.β Demeros stated, flourishing with his already raised hand, and creating a miniature picture of red light in itβs wake, depicting Risharon riding his jet bike off into the dunes, and towards the sunset. βYour part in this play would simply be a footnote, if any sought to retell this as a tale. The outcast who aided a lordβ¦simple and insignificant.β
Something bitter could be heard in those last two words, but thanks to how slight the tone was, and unmoving of the Necronβs faceplate, it could have simply been disgust for Aeldari finally cutting through Demerosβ tone. A mystery it was, but was it worth exploring?
ππππ ππ π πππ :Β β What is something you are passionate about? What is something you have lost passion for?β
ππππ ππ πππππππ:Β β How badly do you thirst for knowledge? Are you satisified with what you know or would you like to learn more?β
ππππ ππ πππππ:Β β Do you tend to base your actions off of the circumstances or how you feel on the inside?β
ππππ ππ ππππππ:Β β Do you have any kinship with or ability to handle animals?β
ππππ ππ πππ π:Β β Do you have any curative or first aid abilities?β
ππππ ππ πππππ:Β β Is it easy for you to focus or does your mind tend to wander?β
ππππ ππ πππππ:Β βHow much has death and loss been a part of your life?βΒ
ππππ ππ ππππππ:Β β Can you be trusted with sensitive information? Is there any situation in which you would reveal anotherβs secret?β
In the deepest winds of the Webway, a Jetbike passed through a gate and entered real space again after weeks of intense navigation. There was a signal you see, shooting out into the void and repeating for any that could hear it. Six words in the oldest and most archaic ancient Aeldari repeating like a plea into the infinite night.
Now finally on the planet in question, Rishaeron leaves the Shroudrunner and continues towards the origin of the signal on foot. Above, twin suns beat down a spiteful, foreboding heat and beneath his feet a trillion trillion grains of sand shifted like he was walking through a cosmic hourglass. He checked his compass and clicked his tongue when his anxiety was confirmed, the signal was indeed originating from the only landmark on the horizon: a pyramid complex of windbeaten buildings.
Shaking the growing sense of unease like a shawl from his shoulders, Rishaeron breathed deep and marched towards the signal.
With each step taken towards the monolithic structures, there was a certain sensation that would begin to build, one that would induce shivers in those less steeled against the horrors that the galaxy wrought.
The feeling, the nagging itch in the back of oneβs mind, was that of being watched. Yet that was impossible. Amidst the dunes was only the aeldari ranger, the howling wind, and the sanded down buildings. Indeed, without some other landmark on the endless sands, the edifices took on an almost predatory air; despite the planet itself having worked to wear it down and reduce the ruins to naught, it still stood over the dunes, defiant and immortal.
All of this would give travelers an air of wrongness about the spot, and yet there was something much worse here, something that now took itβs time to finally take the stage when Rishaeron took one more step.
There, standing with its back away from the aeldari, stood an immense metal abomination. It hadnβt been there moments ago, and it could have been easily mistaken for a mirage from the desert heatβ¦if it had not now remained in place, itβs ivory chassis glinting in the blazing light, while covering its form were crimson holograms and gold plating. Despite the monstrousness of the present creature, it held an air of regality, which was only broken when it spoke,
βF-Far toβ¦.oo lo-long. It ToOk faaar too lOnG.β The sound of itβs voice was an erratic garble, a noise that teetered on familiar and alien. It spoke in a dialect that was a merging of ancient aeldari and something else entirely, and the contrasting languages created a unnerving effect. It gave the impression that this creature hadnβt spoken to one of Risheronβs kind in a very. Long. Time.
Every muscle in Rishaeron's body was tensed as he approached the structure, when he finally spotted the creature he stopped dead in his tracks. Despite the murderous heat burning down from the suns above, the Rangers blood ran cold when it spoke.
Rishaeron raised his long rifle and realised with grim solemnity that this whole plan was a Venus fly trap, and he was the fly.
"Who..." He licked his lips beneath his helmet, his mouth suddenly bone dry. This was a Necron, but was it one of the insane Destroyers or one of those still retaining some form of intelligence?
"Who are you?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want?"
That was what he had needed, a response. In the moments Rishaeronβs words had left his mouth, the creatures internal programs took each of them and digitally dissected them, comparing and contrasting with the much older variant that he had been familiar with.
βStrange, how much things have changed since Iβve been gone. Strange, yet amusing.β The creature remarked, speaking in a now intelligible Aeldari, though it held an accent that resembled that of an elder speaking in an older and more formal way.
It would turn with a flourish of its Hard-light cape, and settle a crimson stare on Rishaeronβs form, two cold crimson orbs staring out from the black depths of itβs eyeless sockets. Itβs hands rested behind its back as it regarded the Eldar, and it would continue,
βI may not have been common sight during the War, but I would think Iβd make an interesting footnote at the leastβ¦β Heβd crane his crested head towards the monolith next to them, and released a reoccurring staticky sound. It appeared to be a chuckle.
βAlas, Iβm not here to mourn the shoddy record keeping of your kind.β Heβd then turn back to Rishaeron, his arms dropping to his sides as he stepped forward. The Necron then, slowly but steadily, raised a single hand. The ivory limb would extend a single talon in Risheronβs direction, hanging completely still. It pointed at the Rangerβs chest. βI require a key to lock, and you just so happen to have it.β
Rishaeron lowered his rifle, but only a little, reasoning it might not do him much good at this point even if he did land a perfect shot. He thought of all the faces he would never get to see again due to his stupidity in voluntarily rushing to investigate this place.
Still, there may yet be a way to survive this.
"What do you mean key?" He tried to project his voice in a way that hid his tension bubbling in his gut.
"You didn't answer my question, monster. Who and what are you?" Rishaeron scanned his surroundings the way a cornered fox might. Looking for advantages, escape routes or further danger before the ivory skeleton and the monolith. There were none. At least none that came to the Pathfinder, his eyes returning each time to the burning ruby eyes of the Necron, as though they belonged to a hypnotist.
The Necron outstretched his arms, the sound of itβs mechanisms shifting in place easily heard with the movement. Itβs blazing red eyes never left Rishaeronβs as it moved, and there was barely any sound besides the monsterβs own, until it spoke again,
βA key to a lock, one that wonβt open for me, but will for you. It isnβt a difficult concept to grasp, but I may be overestimating the modern aeldari mental abilities.β It said in a mocking, pitying tone, the allowed its arms to drop to its sides. βDespite whatever you may be now, your ancestors were crafty, and to this day are a thorn in my peoples side. But-β
Demeros raised an arm once again, and opened his hand, as if to receive something. In moments, red pixelated energy began to collect within the palm, spreading out to form a long object, until a translucent bladed weapon manifested in the Necronβs grip. Once it formed, it grabbed the rod and plunged the end into the sand, disturbing the surface as the monster continued staring at the Ranger, itβs face conveying annoyance despite it incapable of moving.
β-Iβll humor you, as you have me. I am Demeros, reigning Dynast on this rock, and you know very well what I am, Aeeeeldaaariii.β Heβd spat in a long hiss.
Demeros the Compiler @striding-necron - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
