Как они это делают технически — не столь уж важно. Хотя да, у них есть своё измерение. Вроде бы у него даже есть название — Aelindrach.
О, с тех пор, как К***друах затопил тьмой кусок Комморры, там водятся некие shaderavens. Не аналогичных ли птичек призывает Коракс?
Ухх! Существует некая "Тьма", "Darkness", пространство, не являющееся ни Материумом, ни Имматериумом.
"David Annandale, «Mephiston: Lord of Death»"Darkness is running through my hands. I feel its textures. I know its shifting from smooth to granular, soothing to jagged, calm to desperate. The dark has as many moods and faces and songs as any more mundane, more adulterated reality. It is as protean as the warp, but possesses a purity that the daemon-infested empyrean will never know.
I am in something that might be called Limbo. I think of it as the embodiment of neither. It is neither real nor illusion, neither consciousness nor sleep, neither moral nor corrupt, neither materium nor warp. I am part of the neither, and I am separate from it. But the darkness is mine. It is in my hands. At any moment that I desire, I can grasp it. And then I can bend it to my will.
When I do, I must face a truth: the dark and the warp are not separate. The warp fuels its potential. The warp fuels me. If I slip, the warp will take me. It will become me. But that has not happened, nor will it. This is what I must believe. If I fail, then I must consider myself damned, and this is something I will not do.
But.
But the reason I travel the dark, the reason I parse its ways and beings, is to discover what it is that I am. I once was Calistarius. He has been dead for many years. I stand in his place, with death in my right hand, darkness in my left, and I would know who this is who bears the name Mephiston. So it is not just darkness that is running through my hands. It is knowledge. And one of the grains may be the one I seek.
The neither is non-space, and yet it has a place. It has an entry point, and outside of the neither, in the realm of the here, the gateway has a precise location. It exists aboard the strike cruiser Crimson Exhortation. It waits, barred to all but myself, in my quarters, in the upper reaches of the tower that rises amidships. My domain in the here is spacious compared to the cells that are sufficient to the needs of my battle-brothers. My quarters are large, but not because of any indulgence. They are large because of the archives...
...Beyond the archive, up another level, is my meditation chamber. This is a small space. It is empty, a lightless cylinder no more than three metres high and two wide, a coldness of black stone walls. This is the gateway. Pass through it, and space ends. In the liminal zone of the chamber itself, my body waits for my exploration to end. It waits while my mind weaves through the tapestry of the dark. Yet in the dark, I have a body, too. There is no consciousness without the idea of the physical self. I stretch out my hands. I do not see them, but I perceive them in the minutest detail. I flex my fingers, and touch the dark. It pours itself into and through my grasp. I will not find answers today. I know that with a certainty as perfect as death. But I also know, with the same certainty, that I must continue my search. I must seek to understand this thing that I now am. The day that I abandon my quest will be a terrible one indeed.
I must remain wary of the being who touches the dark.
The currents in the darkness become more defined. The slick of the warp spreads its stain. It forms sights, words, sounds, memories. An echo reaches for me: it is the insinuating rasp of M’kar. The image of the daemon prince is also there, fragmented, distorted and multiplied by the crystals of my prison on Solon V. You are of our party without knowing it. You walk the path. Know what you are. Embrace the revel. Enter the palace of wisdom. I denied him. I destroyed him. But his words will not die with him. He has bequeathed a legacy of doubt.
I turn from it. I deny it, though I know I will meet those words again. In its stead, I follow another current, one of more immediate import. This is a flow that gathers strength the further I follow it. It tries to sweep me into its rushing turbulence, but though it wants my surrender, it conceals its nature. I sense its power. I sense that it is hurtling toward a maelstrom of terrible force. I know that there is purpose, but whether holy or corrupt, I cannot tell. There is also a physical destination, and this I can read. All too well.
There is a change in real space, a presence approaching. My consciousness drops from the darkness, back into my body.
"Gav Thorpe, «Hand of Darkness»"While fresh fire sprout out around her, Yvraine felt inside the void where she had been raised by Ynnead's touch. She plunged into the icy cool of her own mind, seeking the slender tendril of her god's lingering presence. Like a frozen wire, it wove into the hole opened by Ahriman's adepts, trembling and taut. The line did not pass into the Warp, but into the cold void beyond. Neither real nor unreal, nor the skein between. The realm of death. The absence. The empty expanse.
And here she found the cold beat of Ynnead's heart. Restless. Stirring. Here, the spirits of the slain were drawn, the souls of Eldar gathering like a mist of silver particles. Yvraine snatched up a handful of souldust, and rose like a diver reaching up from the chilling depths.