#this just reaffirmed that i canNOT draw the same thing twice to save my life lol

[flames-tstuff]

An Alternate Ending

(this is a direct continuation of this, which I posted separately for all the normies XD)

someone had to do it, okay?? I can't be the only one who thought about this....

[inquisitorradcliffe]

Awakening

Radcliffe walked the stacks of the great library, guided by the glowing mote of psychic energy he manifested before him. The little orb cast blue light that played off strange shadows around the cavernous space. Rows of shelves towered over him, rising up towards the vaulted ceiling overhead and extended off in all directions, far beyond what the eye could see. There was much knowledge here, gleaned from the minds of geniuses and savants, or pulled from the ruined consciousnesses of madmen. It was not the Archives, the place he had called home for decades. That had burned down, consumed by blood and fire stoked by the heat of corrupted jealousy. It had been a watershed moment in his life, and had instigated a number of changes that had now brought him to where he was today, both physically and emotionally. 

The Gregarian Edifice was a massive complex built into the white stone of the Domhole Cliffs, high above the crashing surf of the Ionian Sea. The Edifice had withstood storm and tempest for ages, defying the waves below that constantly rose up like claws to drag it down into their depths. The complex had stood for generations, and bore the name of the man who reputedly built it. Erros Gregarian had been one of the first Inquisitors to bring the local sub-sector in line with Imperial law. He had been a man large in both stature and personality, and records described him as someone as merciless to his foes as he was loyal to his friends. The one thing Radcliffe had always found curious about the man’s history was that there seemed to be no specific Ordo affiliation, as if Gregarian had been content to flit back and forth between them his his duties and whims saw fit.

Regardless, Gregarian had carved out a base of operations here for himself, well stocked and well protected, and home to much the same knowledge that Radcliffe himself had accumulated before the wedding. Over decades, as that knowledge passed from one set of hands to another, it had waxed and waned with the sensibilities of its caretaker. Now that caretaker was the Lord Inquisitor.

He paused to run his hand along the worn spine of a leather-bound tome. The ink along the spine was so old it had faded nearly out of existence. Radcliffe only knew what it said because he was used to tracing out the indentations of each individual letter. He was about to pluck it from its place on the shelf and open it when the soft swish of robes caught his attention, and something pressed against his mind with the soft pressure of familiarity.

“Erylla,” Radcliffe said. There were notes of surprise and pleasure in his voice in equal measure. He turned, smiling into the darkness. “It has been some time, old friend. Are you really going to do me the discourtesy of remaining in the shadows?”

There was a moment’s pause, then a figure slipped from the darkness. She was tall, as tall as the Inquisitor even without her high-crested helm, and she was slender in the most inhuman of ways. Her eyes were as blue as the seas that pounded the cliffs outside, and her pale face was framed by fiery red hair. Farseer Erylla Lythowyn smiled. The gesture was meant to be warm. She and Radcliffe went back decades. But some of the emotion was blunted by a concern that reflected in her eyes as well as the psychic aura that surrounded her.

“Gabriel,” she said. Her voice echoed twice, once between the shelving units and once in his mind. “It is good to see you.”

“It is,” Radcliffe agreed. He took a step towards the Farseer. “But I believe you and I are too accustomed to each other to believe you have come here merely for a social call. Did you come alone?”

“Saysa and Icthelial are outside,” Lythowyn replied, referring to the latest pair of warlocks that served as her proteges, emissaries, and bodyguards. “I did not think I would need them to speak with you.”

“Of course not.” Radcliffe inclined his head slightly. “I did not mean to insinuate you did.”

Lythowyn took a step closer. Radcliffe felt her mind buffet his again in that secret gesture of care and curiosity shared between two psykers. She was trying to probe as far as she could without being rude, trying to glean his state of being by reading what resided on the surface of his mind.

The inquisitor looked up.

“I feel as though I should be reading you,” he said. It was a playful jibe, and one that managed to draw a wry smile to Lythowyn’s lips. “I could feel your anxiety long before I could feel you.”

“But that is not the only thing you have felt, is it?” she asked.

Radcliffe cocked his head for a moment. Visions of nightmares rose up within his mind, memories of nights ill spent in the throes of restless sleep and sudden wakefulness. They were filled with distorted faces that howled unheard screams of agony, and a swirling miasma of otherworldly energy that whispered things to him in a language he could not understand, nor dared wish to. And always there was the third entity, cackling in the darkness about a phoenix before an unholy shriek sent him rising back to abrupt consciousness.

“No,” Radcliffe said. The word was heavy on his tongue. Premonition had never been a strong suit of his in the past, but as of late that had changed. Ever since the coming of the Cicatrix Maledictum, the Lord Inquisitor had suffered more and more warnings and omens. Most came in dreams when he was fast asleep. The more disturbing came to him in full wakefulness, hallucinations overlaid across his vision, the ghosts of a play being acted out for him and him alone. “But I get the sense I do not need to explain to you what I have seen.”

Lythowyn nodded slightly.

“Is that why you have come, then? To seek answers from a man you know has none?”

“I have come,” she said slowly. “To find comfort.”

Radcliffe blinked. That had not been the answer he had expected. While he considered Lythowyn a friend and close ally, she was still Aeldari, and her nature kept her emotions in check and cards close to her chest. She rarely came to him unless she truly needed something. That was likely due to her pride, Radcliffe thought. But this... just mere comfort was not like her at all.

“Comfort?” he asked, making sure his confusion was evident in the single word.

“A reaffirmation, Gabriel,” Lythowyn continued. “As you say, it has been some time and...” She paused, as if suddenly displeased with her choice of words. “There are things coming, Gabriel. Things worse than anything that has manifested thus far. We are both going to need friends in the coming times. I wanted to make sure I still had one in you.”

Lythowyn figeted slightly, as if embarrassed she found herself saying such a thing. Radcliffe had saved her people, and in truth her entire Craftworld, on countless occasions, and she had always strived to return the favor and keep the scales balanced, despite the inquisitor’s insistence that he was not keeping score. The fact she had come all this way simply to seek reassurance spoke volumes to Radcliffe. The Farseer was just as unsure, perhaps even less so, as to what was happening than he was.

“You will always have a friend in me, Erylla,” Radcliffe said. His tone was soft, but chiding, like a father entertaining a question from a child that could have been answered by a simple appeal to common sense.

Lythowyn drew close and took Radcliffe’s hand in her own. It always surprised him how warm she was. He expected her, with her pale flesh and thin frame, to be colder. But she never was. “I am pleased to hear that,” she said. “And grateful.”

Radcliffe looked at her hand, the light from his orb shining off the deep purple of her gloves. “Do you know what is coming?” he asked, bringing his gaze up to search her crystal blue one.

“All I know is the greatest daughter of Morai-Heg will meet the Master of Blades and blood will spill from the Dark City,” Lythowyn replied. “What comes of this, I cannot say. The skeins are too clouded.”

Radcliffe nodded, but his mind remained ill at ease. “Keep me apprised, then,” he said. “As usual.”

“As usual,” Lythowyn replied.

“I take it you cannot stay for a cup of tea? It has been some time, and I am sure Rebeckah would enjoy seeing you.”

Lythowyn smiled. “Your wife entertains my presence only because of what I mean to you, Gabriel. She does so out of respect for our history. And while I would love nothing more than to sit and chat beside the fire like we used to, there are more pressing matters to attend to.”

“There always are.”

“The work never ends, Gabriel. But I am glad that we remain friends. It is the one constant I have always been able to count on.” Lythowyn released the inquisitor’s hand and stepped back out of the pool of light. Darkness swallowed here almost a little too eagerly for Radcliffe’s liking.

“Don’t let it be so long before we next meet,” he said.

There came no reply, save for a small mental bump. Then it was gone, and the farseer along with it.