The Doom of An-angau

Notable conflict

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Cadarn lay against the smooth walls of the webway, its curved surface feeling warm against his skin. Strange, he thought, it normally felt so cool…Cadarn blinked and shook his head, feeling himself drifting towards unconsciousness.

He was dying.

His ceremonial armour lay discarded in a blackened heap a short distance away. Hideous burns from Ahriman’s witchfire marred his perfect alabaster skin. His pistol has spent but the Spear of An-Angau was still in his hand, held by a grip of iron that only death itself could release.

Cadarn coughed sharp copper, each spasm reawakening the burning knives in his ribs. After he’d been struck down before the Fortress of the Void Veil he’d had no choice but to crawl through the press of bodies and haul himself into the webway to avoid being trampled by iron-shod Chaos boots. He’d meant to gather his strength and then return to the fray, but as his life blood ebbed away he finally realised he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not long after he’d propt himself again the wall of the webway tunnel a lone figure has strode past, Astartes tall and crackling with a halo of dark energy. Cadarn had shouted a challenge and tried to stand, but his croaked words had fallen on deaf ears. Ahriman hadn’t spared him a second glance as he strode past and deeper into the webway.

The Autarch hadn’t seen anyone else since then. Anyone mortal anyway. Gibbered howls and bloodthirsty roars echoed through the webway, but none of the mighty daemon lords came to claim him. Perhaps they didn’t know he was here. Perhaps he was no sport.

Eventually a crowd of Nurglings had gathered around him. They tittered and gambolled and cavorted around him, always staying just out of reach of his desperate swings with his spear. Now, as his eyes grew heavy, they began to creep closer…

Cadarn tried to muster the energy for one last swing, waiting until the obnoxious mites where a little closer. Suddenly they scattered, shrieking and running off into the shadows. A solitary figure slowly walked from the darkness. The Autarch tried one last time to pull himself up, using the ancient spear as a prop, but before he could manage it the figure was by his side, cradling him in her arms. Cadarn looked up into the terrifying mask of the Solitaire.

“Rest easy my love,” said Fásail , “your labours are at an end.”

Cadarn’s blood ran cold. Relief, anger and shame warred within in. Relief that Fásail had survived, anger that she never revealed her true identity to him and shame at having lain with a Solitaire. Tradition said that to even exchange a few words with a Solitaire was to invite damnation, so how much of a worse fate awaited him now? How could she have done this to him?! Yet most of all, he was glad she was alive.

“Why?” Cadarn gasped.

“Blood begets blood, I tried to warn you,” replied Fásail softly.

“No, not An-Angau,” whispered Cadarn, “why have you damned me?”

“I told you that the Dark Gods could not keep us apart,” answered the Solitaire

“This is true, now we are damned together,” the Autarch replied with a mix of bitterness and bewilderment.

“Is that not better than being damned apart?” asked Fásail.

“Lies beget lies, my love…” replied Cadarn as his vision blurred. As he looked up into her Solitaire’s mask, its features seemed to soften.

Cadarn’s eyes closed and he felt himself being gently lifted up as the spear of An-Angau finally slipped from his hand…

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Crammed together and exhausted from tiredness and fear, the refugees of An-Angau watched from the crystal ports of the wraith-cruisers and dragon-ships as their home slowly receded behind them. Artists and craftsmen rubbed shoulders with Aspect Warriors and nobles, all now equally disposed. As they watched they could still see the occasional flash from one of the outer domes as a giant war engine exploded or a defensive position was finally overrun.

The last ships had left now. Anyone still on An-Angau would not be leaving. The Craftworld was now their tomb.

As the Eldar ships sailed away An-Angau was slowly drawn into the dusty Boten Cloud nebula. Most of the passengers on the fleeing ships looked away and wept, those few whose gazes lingered swore they saw mocking faces in the dust of the vast nebula as it swallowed everything they had ever known and loved.

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Ten Years Later…

Knock-knock-knock.

“Come,” said Inquisitor Zephon without glancing up from the parchment.

His chamber door slowly opened and a nervous looking menial entered – a pallid fellow by the name of Obiel – clutching a data-slate in his sweaty palms. He stood before Zephon’s desk in nervous silence. It was a beautiful item of furniture, large, dark wood carved into intricate designs by the finest local craftsmen. But the menial couldn’t appreciate it, as his eyes were fixed firmly on his own feet.

“Yes?” said Inquisitor Zephon after a few moments of silence, still not looking up.

“If it pleases you my lord,” began the menial breathlessly, “your astropaths send word. They have intercepted a classified transmission from Inquisitor Veck, intended for person or persons unknown. They thought you should be appraised.”

Zephon finally stopped writing, lowered his quill, and raised an eyebrow.

“They have intercepted a classified transmission from one of my brother Inquisitors?” asked Zephon. The Inquisitor’s tone was calm, but the menial went a little paler.

“If it p-pleases you my lord, the t-transmission tested positive for the key-phrase An-Angau,” stammered Obiel as he held out the dataslate.

Inquisitor Zephon raised his other eyebrow. He took the dataslate and studied it hungrily while Obiel continued to look at his feet.

An-Angau. After all these years. Ten years ago his Lord and Master, Inquisitor Auxentious had vanished while answering an invitation from the faye Eldar. Auxentious was honourable, but he was no fool. Although asked to come alone, he’d left a detailed record of where he’d gone and why hidden deep within the mem-layers of his best savant. A year to the day after he left the record had activated, a fail-safe against his disappearance. Inquisitor Zephon had searched long and hard for An-Angau and his master, but all to no avail. But now, on the eve of the 42nd millennium, the Craftworld had reappeared, right where Auxentious’ recorded had indicated his rendezvous was to take place.

“Will that be all, my lord?” asked Obiel hopefully.

“No,” said Zephon, standing up, “that will not be all Obiel. There is much to do! Summon my warband. We depart in 24 hours.”

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The Investigation

Ten years after the daemonic incursion, An-Angau has reappeared. Now the investigation into the following questions (and many others) can begin:

What exactly happened on An-Angau?
What fate befell Inquisitor Auxentious?
Why has the Craftworld reappeared now?
Is there still a daemonic taint?
What happened to the Solitaire who invited Auxentious to An-Angau?
The Craftworld’s automatic defences and Imperial Navy pickets are preventing a full-scale landing by a large combat force, but can they either be disabled or controlled?
What lays within the Vault of the Last Song and Sli-Therin’s Chamber of Secrets?
What happened to the fabled Spear of An-Angau?

Full report:

http://www.warseer.com/forums/showthread.php?409457-The-PCRC-presents-The-Doom-That-Came-To-An-Angau