The Musing of R. L. Frymire

VHY’LIETHE STOOD BEFORE a jet-black monolith.

Upon approach, he’d felt its wrongness. Nothing reflected in its smooth, unblemished surface. Instead, the stone seemed to radiate the deepest depths of the void, where it sought to devour the light around it. Rising a mere quarter in height compared to the surrounding spires and towers, the monolith’s diminutive stature did nothing to diminish its presence. Rather, the pillar drew attention, demanding notice.

Another false perception?

He lowered his gaze to glare at his guide. The Harlequin abounded in deception, twisting reality with a malevolence that bordered on the hysterical. Were they the cause of the distortion his sensed? Or, was his impression true?

Vhy’liethe felt it. All around him. From the moment of his arrival. The Black Library’s strangeness.

Though the architecture was undoubtedly an ancient vision of aeldari design that had not been seen—or replicated—since the calamitous Fall, it was unlike any craftworld he’d ever seen. Perfection was etched into the very fabric of the Black Library’s configuration, but it was dark and foreboding.

A malign beauty.

The Harlequin were not like other aeldari who made a craftworld their home. The asuryani were harmonious, adhering to the Path that allowed them to experience their innate ability to feel intenseemotion without falling to excess. The Harlequin, however, did nothing to protect themselves against their baser nature. They were tenebrous, their emotions a constant reflection of sinister delights. Had their volatile energies influenced the Black Library? Twisted it?

Standing before the monolith, Troupe Master Iayaniar beckoned to Vhy’liethe. An invitation or a taunt?

“I tire of this subterfuge. We have an understanding, you and I. Unless…” Vhy’liethe’s voice lowered dangerously. “You intend to renege.”

Iayaniar did nothing more than step to the side and wave him forward with a patience that was insulting, a silent insinuation that questioned Vhy’liethe’s courage.

Spine stiff, Vhy’liethe stepped forward. Only when he was mere paces from the monolith’s base did the doorway reveal itself with a hiss of released air. A section of the wall collapsed inward before sliding to the left. With one last glance at the gold mask that grinned harshly back at him, he entered. Alone. The portal closed behind him, encapsulating Vhy’liethe in darkness. Before he could call forth an illumination globe, light blazed. Above, black flames somehow cast a muted white glow. Three walls surrounded him. Should he stretch out his arms, he could have touched the stone on either side.

The floor began to sink. He could only perceive his downward momentum as the strange, black flames grew smaller with distance. Until the light blinked out. There was nothing to see but pitch blackness, and with the utter stillness of the platform, he could not detect if he continued to descend.

He gnashed his teeth.

How many times would the Harlequin entertain this same game? More importantly, why was it working? He had to control the impulse to reach out to touch the walls, to feel his descent with the reassuring—repulsive—glide of stone against his fingertips. If the Harlequin had nefarious designs for him, entombing him served no purpose that he could see.

Abruptly, torches erupted before him, revealing a narrow corridor. The flickering black flames differed from before by giving off a violet hued brilliance.

Refusing to turn back, Vhy’liethe didn’t hesitate to continue forward, only to pause when he reached a threshold. His eyes widened, stunned. Incredibly, he was back in the ceremonial chamber, hidden deep within the temple of the exodites, upon the maiden world where he’d been tasked with obtaining the artifact for Yvraine. And there it was, resting on its ornate pedestal. He couldn’t prevent his feet from carrying him forward. When he reached the tall stand, his lips parted. There were two tomes, one of which he recognized as the book he’d given the troupe master.

No, the one he’d exchanged.

For better.

He stared at the other tome. It was bound in an unfamiliar purple canvas, stretched so thin in places as to appear to bleed pink, and at the center was a black rune. The sight shriveled his heart. The tome belonged to the aeldari’s Great Enemy.

Sai’lanthresh.

She Who Thirsts.

Before he could draw back, repelled, another thought quickly followed. Was there some secret knowledge contained within that would lead to the Chaos god’s defeat, thereby securing the aeldari’s salvation?

Heart palpitating, Vhy’liethe reached out. The tips of his fingers grazed the gold clasp sealing the pages from his gaze, the metal disconcertingly warm. The instant he made contact, the chamber wavered around him. Vertigo assaulted him as the temple’s walls began to melt, like candle wax, only…wetter. Denser. And there were things inside the oozing, thick tears.

Disfigured faces.

Screaming. Laughing. Crying.

Vhy’liethe stumbled back and nearly fell into a bubbling mess that erupted at his feet. All at once, the chamber solidified. Though his stomach continued to roll, the dizziness subsided, and he found himself not within the exodite’s temple but a cavernous shrine dedicated to She Who Thirsts.

“That scent. How positively disgusting.” A purr. A hiss. The sound slithered down Vhy’liethe’s spine, rubbing against places no mortal could ever possibly touch. “And oh, so delectable. I sense it. Your desire, little aeldari. A desperate need. Of what do you yearn for?”

The insidious voice echoed around him, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Senses screaming, Vhy’liethe whirled around and was struck by the sight before him.

A long, purple tongue slithered from a too wide mouth, rivulets of saliva splattering onto the cavern’s floor. “But first, a taste. Just one. Small. Taste, lover.”