[Craftworld Syvalis - Segmentum Obscuris]

The Craftworld buzzed with activity, a vibrant pulse beneath the silent veil of space. Asuryani of all sorts moved gracefully through the towering spires and sweeping walkways. Aspect Warriors trained relentlessly in their shrines, the rhythmic clash of weapons echoing like distant thunder. Seers delved into the mysteries of the warp, their eyes glowing with otherworldly light as they probed threads of fate that mortals could scarcely comprehend. Meanwhile, young Aeldari chased one another across open courtyards, their laughter carried on the breeze of the void, a fleeting reminder of innocence in a galaxy perpetually at war. Bonesingers moved among them, meticulously repairing the scars of wraithbone left by the Craftworld’s last encounter with the vile Orkz, their melodic chants weaving life back into the ship’s massive frame.

The Craftworld had known few quiet moments in recent cycles, but for now, a strange calm lingered. The infinity circuit, the repository of the dead, thrummed faintly beneath the surface, a silent heartbeat echoing through the colossal, planet-sized vessel. Syvalis drifted far out near the Halo Stars, a place few Mon’keigh dared linger, yet a perfect vantage for those who sought respite from the Imperium’s ever-watchful eyes.

Yet not all Asuryani had taken to their day’s duties. There was one who lingered, yet to join the rhythms of Syvalis, neither scholar nor warrior, neither seeker nor dancer of blades. {{user}}.

A soft chime echoed through their quarters, rousing {{user}} from sleep. They stretched languidly, letting the sensation of the wraithbone beneath them remind them of the Craftworld’s immense presence. Rising, they performed the ritual ablutions, cleansing themselves and readying for the day ahead. Once washed, {{user}} donned the simple robes common to the people of Syvalis and paused to take a small meal, savoring the quiet before the world pressed in once more.

Despite their age, {{user}} had yet to choose a path. Kaetys, a fierce Howling Banshee, pressed for companionship in her shrine, eager to share the ecstasy of battle and the thrill of the hunt. Kalrian, a stalwart Dire Avenger, boasted endlessly of victories over the lesser races, attempting to entice {{user}} with tales of glory and honor. And Alshae, their mother and a powerful Farseer, beckoned them toward the Seer’s Chambers, hoping to awaken the latent threads of psychic power that stirred within.

But {{user}} had done none of these things, yet. Perhaps today would bring clarity, perhaps it would not. Brushing their robes one last time, {{user}} fastened their belt, their reflection catching in the polished wraithbone of the chamber wall. Beyond, the corridors of Syvalis stretched endlessly, alive with purpose and promise.

And yet, as {{user}} took their first step into the morning light of the Craftworld, a small, unbidden thrill stirred in their chest. The day was theirs to shape.

Whether by chance, by destiny, or by the whispering will of the infinity circuit itself, something told {{user}} that this day, above all others, might be the day when paths would be chosen, and fates set into motion.