Accompanied by the long, melodic strains of music steeped in unmistakable Aeldari style,
the High Archbishop of the Art Sanctum ascended the stage with graceful steps.
After a few polite words of introduction, he wasted no time. He knew well that none of the guests had come to hear empty speeches.
So, once the key announcements were delivered, he proclaimed the beginning of the Grand Festival of Art, to the eager delight of all present.
From her seat in the guest section, Alison looked out at the performers on stage and the sea of spectators below, packed shoulder to shoulder. She sighed softly.
"It's so lively…"
Such a gathering of people, she thought, was something she would never see in her home world.
After all, the total population there could not compare even to some of the larger clans represented here.
The Aeldari themselves, though not renowned as the most populous race, still numbered in the trillions across thousands of colony worlds.
In that respect, her homeland and this place were utterly incomparable.
Hearing her remark, Orsaga leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and said with a smile:
"If you like it, you're welcome to return often."
Alison waved a hand dismissively.
"Perhaps another time…
Even the finest things, if seen too often, can grow tiresome."
Then her gaze turned thoughtful.
"Still, the Aeldari are so much like my own Elven kin. In truth, they might as well be elves from another universe entirely."
Orsaga nodded.
"They do resemble them, yes. But the differences run deep — both in body and in spirit."
Compared to Golariel and Alison's elven race, the Aeldari had many more advantages, which had driven them to great strength. Yet those same traits carried fatal flaws, sowing the seeds of their eventual downfall.
They were brilliant, powerful, and numerous.
But their temperament and senses were extreme: what they loved, they adored with intensity; what they hated, they despised with equal force.
Their emotions and perceptions were hundreds of times sharper than those of ordinary races like humanity. This drove them toward spiritual pleasures such as art — but also made them prone to physical indulgence.
From another angle, it meant their self-control was far weaker than that of less sensitive species.
In this current age, the Aeldari were still in a period of positive growth.
Kind, beautiful, strong — they appeared dazzling, almost too perfect, like the children other parents envied.
But should their civilization stagnate, should external pressures vanish, they would rot far faster than humanity ever could. And far worse.
When that time came, Orsaga doubted that Golariel and the others would still find them admirable.
For most affections, he mused, arise from seeing only the pleasing side of something.
Just as humans love their cats and dogs for their cuteness — not for the fact that they defecate.
While the others focused on the stage, the ever-unconcerned Iris settled herself into Orsaga's lap, leaning against his chest. With curiosity in her voice, she asked:
"Tell me, what do your followers usually beg of you?"
She had always been intrigued by the nature of gods.
Orsaga stroked his chin, thought for a moment, and answered with amusement:
"All sorts of things. Power, wealth, strength, family, love… even fruit. Or sometimes they simply beg for a beating."
At first the requests seemed reasonable, but the further he went, the stranger they became.
Iris fell silent, dumbfounded.
"…Your followers are that eccentric? Don't they know you're a Chaos God? Why on earth would they ask for fruit? Or for a beating?"
She had never imagined Orsaga's faithful to be so bizarre.
"I am not a god of pure faith," Orsaga explained patiently. "I am a vast conceptual entity, formed from the union of countless smaller concepts. Thus, even if a follower knows nothing of my name or dominion, if the object of their worship falls within my sphere, they still become my devotee."
Seeing her puzzled expression, Orsaga tapped her forehead lightly with a finger.
Instantly, her awareness was pulled elsewhere.
The festival's grand Aeldari architecture vanished, replaced in a heartbeat by a primordial jungle. Iris blinked in surprise.
Then Orsaga's calm voice entered her mind, dispelling her confusion:
"This is a world over thirty million light-years from the Milky Way. Primitive, savage. No civilized species exists nearby."
His hand extended past her shoulder, finger pointing at a beast resting not far away.
It resembled a cross between lion and wolf.
On all fours, it stood two meters high and stretched nearly seven meters long.
Even through its sleek, glossy fur, the taut muscles beneath were evident.
A predator of undeniable ferocity.
Before it lay a slab of bloody meat — untouched. Its eyes were shut, as though in prayerful repose.
"It is praying. To a being it cannot name, cannot picture — praying to become stronger, to hunt more swiftly. Foolish, is it not?. But such pleas are among the most basic needs of any creature once thought awakens within it."
"Though it cannot distinguish god from demon, instinct compels it to revere and fear powers greater than itself. The cause may be lightning, or storm, or sickness… Whatever the trigger, its imagination grants such forces meaning. And in turn, it hopes — expects — that some unseen power will grant it favor."
Orsaga's gaze lingered on the beast as he continued:
"What it does not realize is that its inner desires connect its prayers automatically to multiple Chaos Gods. As it prays, it belongs — in some sense — to three gods at once. It calls upon Khorne for a stronger body. It calls upon Tzeentch for greater knowledge of the hunt. And it calls upon me — for the growth, progress, and tempering that lie before, during, and after the hunt. Thus, I too hear its prayers."
As he spoke, Orsaga slid his finger lightly through the air.
A radiant, phantom doorway appeared before them, opening into some unknown region.
_____
T/N:
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