Just thought I'd throw my hat into the ring for a 40K story about a DE Kabal leader. I hope people might like it (+ am free if anyone from Black Library likes it - lol - but I'm not presuming my writing will be up to their standards though).
This is pretty much spur-of-the-moment writing (hope it doesn't show too much) and can do more if people want.
As ever, comments and critcisms gratefully received.
Although the memory was slightly painful to him, as he surveyed the environs of his palace, Archon Viasperon reflected that these luxuries had not always been his to command:
Not for him the vaulted ceilings and dark marbled throne that he now occupied (albeit perhaps tenuously due to the treacherous predilections of his race); nor the corridors of captive-dungeons that occupied some of his most prized creatures; neither still the numerous squads of the Poisoned Chalice Kabal which malice and his own delicious planning had dragged from nothing and forged into a new force in the halls of Commorragh.
No, his life had begun as the third son –and the seventh progeny- of a once-Noble House that was soon to be brought to its knees.
Unlike that of so many other races, familial rule was supposed to pass on not to the oldest, nor even to the strongest, but to the most murderous. If this had rung true for his own family –one of many vying for control of the House- Viasperon may have held the keys to becoming House ruler over all of them; yet it was not to be: his family’s fortunes had fallen very far out of favour and this had led to power-struggles between the siblings, some of which he had even engaged in himself (after all, there were certain standards to uphold; a perverse system of tradition -and perhaps even manners- to be adhered to).
Seeing endless conflict –although it had chafed against his bloodthirsty senses not to lose himself in the battles- Viasperon had tried to buy his way out of the melee, yet it had brought him nothing but a life in chains to the gladiatorial arenas; virtually a slave-existence inflicted upon him by those who sought to bring down his family even further.
As he reviewed those times -now many decades hence- Viasperon bared his sharpened teeth in a self-satisfied smile…after all, this had been the exact position that he had wanted to be in:
Overlooked as a powermonger in the shifting political nature of the Shadow-City, Viasperon had allowed others to take the spoils for themselves, watching the power-plays of the more vaunted…noticing the slightest nod of agreement or an individual smiles of attention across a crowded room which could make their fortunes rise and fall like leaves in the shifting breeze of internal politics. It also left his name free to build slowly (and almost undetected) by only foraging here and there for meagre scraps of infamy and bloodletting upon the fringes of society’s notice.
The abuse and scorn he had been subjected to as one of ‘the weaker ones’ had often been all he could stand to bear…yet bear it he had, in favour of longer-term goals that had now come to fruition.
Left alone in the morass of the power-struggle, his name would have been forgotten as just one more casualty that no-one bothered to remember or record in history.
But taking a place in the arenas -turning his back on the lifestyle that many would feel he should have had the courage to take or die trying in the attempt- allowed him a little more infamy. Despite the frequent derision and humiliation he received from onlookers and patrons, it offered him a slight degree of succour that he had ignored the Dark Eldar system by choosing a lowly life fighting slaves instead of ruling and having games held in his honour. Like a half-drowned man clinging to a raft, it had sometimes been all he had to hang onto and his death-grip on the thoughts had carried him through to the here-and-now.