As we stepped inside, I wondered if it was aware of my presence or had slipped into a comforting subroutine. But as the door closed and the lift ascended, it seemed to sag. Perhaps, as it was no longer in motion, the machine was conserving power, but doing so placed additional strain on its organic system. It slid into a gradual heap, its leg buckling until it lay prone. As the lift slowed and the doors ground open it tried to rise, but the mechanical components could no longer compel it, its remaining arm clawing at the floor. I would say it looked confused, but I am not sure its biological systems were even alive. Perhaps it was the toxins that had distorted its face into a scowl. I prefer to think that. It is better than wondering if some echo of humanity still clung to the dying machine.

I had been too preoccupied by the tendrils to dwell on what awaited beyond the doors. I would have guessed a standard service corridor, but the walls were patterned in teal and gold, and strangely unmarked by the parasitic roots. The paintings that adorned the passageway were of a familiar style, but I had little time to critique them as I hobbled onwards, intent on locating my seer-skull. The imagery evoked by the pictures reflected the planet’s ecology, entrancing sunsets mirrored in the still swamp water, the insectoid motif prevalent throughout.

But as I pressed on the subjects changed. I do not know how the paintings were ordered, whether chronological or themed, but as I progressed those slender beings in curious robes crept into the imagery. I found myself slowing, my gaze lingering on the alien figures. Their appearance was consistent: androgynous features and flowing robes. Aeldari, I assumed, their prominence accompanied by a shift in style; the linework grew increasingly unrefined, the paint almost carved into the canvas. I wished I had a seer-skull with me, that I might have recorded what I saw.

Particularly the final image.

I saw echoes of the Harvest Banquet in the final painting, both in the clothes and pairings. But the silhouetted figures, framed by a waning sun, were like shadows writhing in flames. Their anatomy was painfully distorted, and I could not tell whether the revellers were cavorting in lust or indulging murderous whims. At the centre of the festivities a dark figure was suspended above the swamps, pale flesh peeking from beneath black robes. Its face was barely rendered in a flurry of brushstrokes, but there was something haunting to the eyes and terrible in the smile. Worse was its excess of limbs, additional arms emerging from a hunched back, and its dangling feet did not quite touch the ground.