Alaitoc roams the loneliest reaches of the galaxy, holding itself apart from the affairs of lesser races and, often, from its own kin. Its people cleave with rigid devotion to the ancient disciplines of the Path, believing that only through unbroken adherence can the soul be shielded from the hungering shadow of She Who Thirsts. This severity breeds a restless multitude who cannot endure the confines of ordered life, and so more of Alaitoc's children than any other craftworld's abandon the Path to wander as Outcasts.
These exiles become the Rangers, master scouts and marksmen who drift across the stars for decades before, if ever, returning home. When Alaitoc goes to war, its far-flung children answer the call, materialising from the wilderness to loose long-ranged death upon the foe. The Aeldari of Alaitoc excel at ambush and misdirection, weaving illusions and false trails until an enemy army finds itself surrounded, exhausted, and doomed before a single blade is drawn.
Alaitoc's warhosts fight from the shadows, striking with sniper rifles and cunning traps rather than open confrontation. Their Pathfinders, the deadliest of the Rangers, can lie unseen for days to place a single perfect shot. It is a craftworld of wanderers and watchers, its strength scattered across the void, its wars won by patience, deception, and the merciless economy of the perfect kill.
The atlas continues
