Fall dura

A drop of nearly one hundred metres yawned beneath Lucius, ending in a swaying field of floating corpses. Drowned men, women and xenos stared up at him, dangling in mid-air as if held aloft by the churning waves of an invisible ocean.

(...)

Lucius glanced back down. He wondered for a moment what would happen to him, were he to fall. The answer came to him, provoking a dry chuckle.

*I would starve.*

(...)

Lucius never hit the invisible waters crowded with the floating dead. At the exact moment he was to strike their surface, a wrenching knot of dislocation wracked him. He had experienced its like before, through teleportation beacons and gateways slashed open into the raw warp, but never as seamlessly as this. It was like taking up a new blade for the first time, and finding it with impossibly perfect balance.

He crashed down onto a floor of gouged, flexible stone. The air that filled his lungs was different. It was no longer the cold and cloyingly sterile atmosphere of the eldar’s hanging gardens, but hot, and heavy with the tang of fire and the spice of the spilled blood of a cross section of species. His ears recoiled in a moment of shock as they were bombarded by the frenzied roar of thousands and thousands of alien throats.

***

Lucius: The Faultless Blade, III.I - III.II