Viasperon's Story (Dark Eldar)

[andyg2006]

Hi all,
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.

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Viasperon’s Story

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.

=====

[andyg2006]

=========
Chapter 2 (hope you like it, please let me know either way)
=========
Breaking out of his reverie, he supped the wine from his force's latest conquest: the beverage was passable for such an unrefined and amateur race, but remembrance of how it was gained was much more fulfilling. Those some called 'humans' had put up a brave yet futile resistance; their commander had perished amonsgt the rising and falling blades of his Incubi enforcers...his shouts of anger had wafted towards Viasperon on the breeze that drifted through his ruined bunker, though they were soon drowned out by the wet chopping sounds of weapons contacting his dying body.

Time and time again, he found he was becoming increasingly lost in memory...a side effect of glutting upon souls, or so he had been told by his Chief Haemonculus, Maeroth.
Little their race said could be fully trusted, but Viasperon held Maeroth's chains of loyalty tight. After all, since their exile from Commorragh, there had been few others willing to supply him with so many tantalising bodies to experiment upon and this had proven to be an offer that Maeroth could not refuse.

From the Northern corridor, he heard a gaggle of laughter, accompanied by a snarl and then the sounds of a body hitting the floor from the Eastern Walkway...both noises announced the arrival of the remainder of his Council:

The laughter was accompanied by multitudinous clicking of high-heeled boots hitting dark-veined marble as the Wyche Cadre of his Lieutenant Velouria entered the dome-ceilinged chamber. Despite Viasperon's stern gaze, the laughter did not stop until she wanted it to, deliberately teasing his senses with the punchline of her not-so-private joke.
The crimson-clad gladiatrix carried her weapons nonchalantly, but it as no mere resting pose: even when walking, each of her movements was closely calculated and could be deadly in the right situation. Her followers tried to emulate her grace and finery, yet each knew that they were not...yet...her equal. Viasperon could almost taste the jealousy in the askance glances that her squad gave her; Velouria saw his wide smile and hissed angrily at her minions...it was another sweet thrill that he would save for later.

The scene came to an abrupt halt as the other guest made his entrance to proceedings, growling in fury at the xenos who had taken him from The Emperor's sight. Thought it must have chafed terribly -another of Viasperon's comforts in cold nights- the snarling warrior knew that they now held his obedience just as securely as the Master of Humanity had ever done before.
Battered scraps of armour had now been repaired to the same standards as any that his foresworn army could have acomplished.
With his helmet slung on his side, matted hair clung to his face, his deep brown eyes taking in the sight of his captors...no, his companions now.

At the sight of him, the newest and most alert of the Wyches let loose a shriek of alarm, drawing two of her long-daggers as the rest of the unit took up fighting stances next to her leader. Neither Velouria nor Viasperon had moved to react to the situation, nor would they....it was to be expected, after all....few of The Emperor's dogs gave up their oaths and this one had proven more resilient to the Kabal's allure than all the others who had gone before.

[Cheeko]

mate this is brilliant i cant wait till the dark elder finally get updated please continue....

[andyg2006]

(Some more from the same story, hope people like! Comments & criticism are always appreciated - AndyG).


Chapter 3?

Waking in what might have been termed panic, the sweat-soaked sheets fell from his muscular form as his mind sought to grasp onto the fleeting last seconds of dream.
This time was different, however, he had turned upon his puruser determined to end it once and for all; leading it into the dead-end that he had found, using actions he had rehearsed so many times over the last week.
It’s mis-shapen body blocked most of the tunnel’s light and, at almost twelve feet tall, it was one of his biggest adversaries yet.
Arms outstretched as it ran, the beast’s huge dirty-encrusted talons reached for him, eager to feel his flesh rend beneath it’s prodigious power. But this time it’s shoulders were encased in plates of rough-hammered bronze (their captors had evidently learnt from their last confrontation that he could find it’s weakness there) and it’s huge plodding actions were accompanied by the heavy gurgling of idling pertochem motors; in addition, one hand had been replaced by a spinning Buzz–Klaw that appeared to have been torn straight from an Ork Kan and merely nailed in place.
As he rounded the last corner with it close behind, the fingers of his left hand dug into the cracked wall, finding purchase in the uneven surface, his strength keeping his back tight to the cold metal as he hunched down. The creature had no such means to prevent it’s momentum and –although it cleared the bend- it’s skid carried it crashing into the facing wall.
Honed by mental practice, his strong thigh muscles launched him shoulder-first into the monster’s midriff, winding it a little, but succeeding in the main point of getting inside the reach of it’s weapons. His powerful punches thudded into it’s torso; he smiled as he felt several internal organs rupturing beneath the impacts, but even these seemed cause little visible injury.
It’s huge torso barrelled into him, pushing him away just into range of the Klaw and it’s whirling disc sheared through his right shoulder pad, deeply gashing his arm, yet thankfully stopping short of severing his limb completely.
Several kicks to the brute’s left knee brought it crashing down to the floor and a quick somersault over it’s roaring head allowed him to pull handfuls of greasy cables out of the back of it’s skull, coating his fingers in stale yellow pus as it’s strength evaporated and began to thrash feebly behind him; no longer augmented by the steroids that flowed over it, the beast’s strength now proved insufficient to even bear it’s own bodyweight, let alone lift a weapon to it’s own defence.
As it weakly gurgled and died, a soft plaintive cry emitted from a broken speaker-unit mounted where it’s face had once been.
Turning it over, he looked down into it’s mess of wires and lumpen flesh and for a second caught a glimpse of very human recognition in it’s maddened red eyes before they rolled back in it’s head and it went limp in his arms. As it’s face turned away in death, the dank mat of coarse hair that covered the holes where it’s ears had once been parted and he saw a faded yet unmistakeable golden fleur-de-lis tattoo of the Adeptus Sororitas upon it’s left cheek.
Shaking his head as he made his way back to his cell, he recalled wondering what had made such a noble woman fall from grace and of how long she must have been here to have suffered so many indignities?

The nightmare now endeed, his vision returned to his solitary confinement: the red walls were pockmarked and cratered with impacts and scars...much like his own body after centuries of service to his God. No, not his “God”: ’Mustn’t think that way ! This is something which they believe, not you...! ’ his mind screamed, finding a small measure of comfort in the familiarity of his surroundings:

His senses sharpening, he saw the seventy-four scratches on the wall that spoke of the weeks he had spent here, yet there were other, older markings in the room: some were the more recognisable hatch marks, others were more cryptic and elaborate; his rational warrior’s brain was still unwilling to allow him enough peace to process what the unfamiliar sigils might mean.

Though he had been able to keep track of the days, most other things in this place seemed to be mutable and designed to disorientate ...the room’s pillars and door lacked identifying numerals and there was no way to tell how many levels the prison had. On the occasion that he had tried to use his weapons to score marks in the iron (the same material as the corridor walls), he had been paralysed whilst the robed and discoloured servitors(?) merely replaced the door.
Even the pale yellow “daylight” that streamed through his high window had proven to be nothing more than a meagre lantern hung just out of reach on the wall outside. He doubted that there even was an “outside” here...it may have been mounted on the other side of the wall: just another wall, leading to another corridor and yet another block of cells.

Occasionally the slight breeze –wheezed through an inefficient air circulation system- held animal snarls, more humanoid shouts, or even noises that could pass for hearfelt sobbing. The feeble engineering keeping him alive was in stark contrast to the meticulous surgical attention he had received since his capture.

It was a cold-iron place: not only of incarceration, but also of torture and things broken, yet some things thankfully remained constant...

[Inquisitor Kallus]

Awesome stuff, love the way hows its told through his dreams, recalling past times. In chapter 3, what is the large brute?

[andyg2006]

Thanks, Inquisitor Kallus, it's always good to hear people's feedback.
With the monster/brute: It could be some kind of Ogryn, maybe a Xenos or even a daemon/chaos follower. I was trying to get across the idea that he doesn't really know what it is...it's some hulking thing that keeps trying to attack him...bits of jumbled up memories about it attacking him previously mixing up his logic...and he doesn't really have time to register what it could be or to figure out racial weaknesses/etc, just that it's extremely hostile.
However, there could be a bit of a clue in the 6th/7th from last paragraph..?

There are already a couple of twists in these tales, however.

[andyg2006]

Chapter 4

Running his hands through his hair to calm his racing heart, he caught sight of his shadow on the far wall: his eyes were instantly drawn to a strange object which shifted as he turned. Moving more slowly to get a better view (infuriated by the light which blinked out every few seconds) he saw that there was something projecting from his back.

Thinking back to his last confrontation, it was possible that the drooling monster had managed to catch him with one of it’s many blades after all:
In the heat of battle, endorphins kicked in, unthinking survival instinct took over and it was very easy for a warrior to be injured (or even be mortally wounded) and not even know about it....He had seen it happen to former comrades and he had also meted out the same punishment to his own opponents more times than he cared to remember.

Rolling his shoulders, thankfully it didn’t feel like anything internal was damaged and he reached around to try to extract it, first with one hand then the other, but it was in the exact place where neither of his hands could reach it with any degree of strength. However, his fingertips contacted a viscous liquid which seemed to leak down his toned back. Thinking it might be blood, he drew his hands to his front and looked down: rather than the familiar red of vitality, instead his digits were coated in a pale green substance, possibly mucus. Concentrating on his cultured olfactory senses, he thought he detected a scent of vileplant?

He knew that poison was a weapon of choice in this place as lithe-limbed combatants seized every available advantage, no matter how ‘niche’ or costly: thousands of toxins with hundreds of symptoms, yet very few cures and he had even less clues. The Inertia-Surgeons and their drones were always experimenting and making new batches of drugs, so it might even be a new concotion that he’d never heard about or encountered.
Even if he had known what it was, where would he even acquire such a cure from? Trapped inside the cell with no means of escape, the room’s only door was on a time-lock and also remotely activated from elsewhere: the people who held him would not even risk the most lowly of their soldiers as targets for his revenge by making them unlock his door manually.
It was yet another put-down to his warrior’s instincts and spirit; another embarrassment heaped upon his already heavy shoulders. Of course, a fight would also have left the option open for him to deliberately lose so that he could finally be free of this place: though they never shared such intimate knowledge with him, he knew that they would not willingly allow him to sacrifice his life so that he could spare himself more shame.

Thinking back to the possibility that he had been poisoned, even if he was free, he could not think of one reason why his tormentors would even allow him a salve to stave off such a venom?
From experience, he knew that rarefied tastes inevitably led to arrogance and these people (if they could be termed such) were amongst the most rarefied of the race.

With a tinge of resignation, he knew that all he could do was see if any later effects occurred and try to narrow down the list of possibilities as he went. The consideration that he might be being used as a test-subject for his captors only served to further enrage his bitter heart.

Lacking any means of leverage on the item in his back, being ever-rational, he ran and shoulder-charged into one of the room’s pillars: feeling bones jarring in his skeleton, he screamed in injury at the impact which also covered him in fine red dust from the brickwork; it took two more attempts to succeed in his aim of jarring his shoulder out of it’s socket.
With hate enabling him to fight through the pain, he bent his weakened arm back and was now able to reach round and take a firmer hold of the item that protruded from his back. Instead of the ragged edges associated with a talon or a weapon-wound, his fingertips found smooth incisions, cold metal and some sort of toothed socket, before meeting a smooth hard cylinder. With his desire for knowledge overriding the concept that it could possibly be something that was keeping him alive, he took a firm grip on the item, wrenching it from his body with a snarl. His anger turned to incredulity as he now saw it for what it was: some sort of glass syringe filled with the same green liquid as before, but the flexible needle at the tip seemed to writhe as though alive. As he rotated the article to get a more complete view, the needle tried to turn in his grasp, attempting to sink it’s miniscule teeth into his fingers. Keeping it at arm’s length, he savoured the small measure of pleasure that ran through him as he watched it squirm ineffectually. Though he doubted it could see, he still gave it a predatory smile, revealing his sharpened teeth as it quickly stilled in the cell’s cold air.
Taking no chances, he squashed both it and the vial under his boot-heel...suprising himself that he could feel so elated at such a small triumph. Had this place changed him that much? How did he not know this sooner? And why had he not already taken steps to remedy it?

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

very good i think. more updates plaes

[andyg2006]

I'm currently writing these on-the-fly & as I think of them (not really planned out at all), but will try to, Exitas.

If anyone's got any suggestions for types of things to come up with (i.e. general themse like "betrayal", "battles", etc, not really specific like "fights Chapter Master X"), then PM me and I'll try to work them in somewhere (i.e. almost certainly not straight away though).

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

how about something based on revenge? that something the dark eldar are pretty keen on isnt it? pehaps someone from his slave days.

[Inquisitor Kallus]

I agree, revenge is a good thing,..for Dark Eldar anyway. But only if they are the perpetrator! Yes, well,..... ahem. Anyway, great story so far.

[andyg2006]

Thanks for the suggestions, I'm sure they will feature in here somewhere.
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Chapter 5?:

Surveying his Court, Archon Viasperon reflected that he had much to ponder.

Although the head of the Kabal of the Posisoned Chalice, his centuries of being overlooked in larger circles had stood him in good stead, as he had become one of the most adept amongst his race at observing humanoid nuances. Even from across a crowded room, he could read another’s emotions just from the tiniest curve of an artificially-thinned lip, or discern how deeply a raised eyebrow indicated that owner’s involvement in the latest scandal.

As ever, his faithful pet was at his side, pawing the pink-veined marble of the dais: fresh scorch-marks that had seared right through it’s thick fur and blackened it’s skin told about how it now knew the folly of trying to break the chains upon it’s neck and feet.
Giving an ill-disguised yawn as he waited for the hubbub to die down, with his gaze moving from left to right along the various leaders and hangers-on, he noticed how the different elements olf the Kabal...no, his Kabal...tended to keep distinct lines of separation between them:

The purple-haired Korinth Larella was what passed for a leader amongst the group’s Hellion Riders. Parted from his beloved customised sky-board by the requirements of Court, Korinth was now pacing like a caged animal. Though most of it was bravado, his paired energy-gauntlets had felled many a foe and he was an expert marksman with almost any splinter weapon. He posed little threat on his own, yet he and his followers had excelled at chasing down fleeing prey and there were certain standards to uphold in Dark Eldar society about including all groups in the hunt (though thankfully few rules about how exorbitant the fees could be for their inclusion), so Viasperon kept then around...for the sake of tradition if nothing else.

Beside the Riders stood the Incubi....ostensibly no more –or less- loyal than the next Dark Eldar, his five bodyguards were as immobile as statues: perfect in their menace and projecting just the correct amount of excessive disadain for everyone else in the room. Perhaps they once possessed names but the Archon cared not as long as they performed their job flawlessly. In their last two hundred years of service to him, only three had failed to meet his exacting standards; their Shrine of Ebon Severance had replaced the defective ones, but he had yet to find out why they had charged so little for the service. Ah well.

Next was Laresha Radillion, Captain of Reavers. As ever, her stance was one of trying to remain controlled and poised; trying to play ‘the game’ as he himself did. Viasperon had to agree that she was very good at it, too. Yet the slight twitches along the right side of her well-built frame spoke of prolonged macro-steroid abuse. It seemed that she had taken only a slight pause before sampling the delights of the latest Barghest-based consignment. With her loyalty thus ensured for the next twelve weeks, the Archon was determined to not waste a single second of it.

If not for the jagged triple-scar across his face, the next leader would have been handsome in the extreme: Helrac Sindarion had once been Viasperon’s protege as they climbed the greasy social ladder, but the former was happy to just bide his time taking charge of the Kabal’s huge population of fighting-beasts, whereas Viasperon had carved out his own destiny to get to the top of the powerscale. As the majority of the Kabal’s power had (at least historically) been drawn from their ability to supply the arenas, Viasperon still indulged his former student. In fact the latest raid was launched just to capture a mating pair of a single species; no doubt the orange-furred creatures would prove instructive to the Kabal’s artisans and engineers once they had been rendered suitably...compliant.

Succubus Velouria was still proving to be the most vocal of his leaders: the conversation with her Bloodbrides should have been held privately, yet she conducted it in open view, as several others tried not to look like they were listening too closely.
“Velouria, so nice of you to attend my court. How are your b*tches..? Sorry, Wyches..?” Only a couple of the court attenders knew any human words to be able to decipher the mon-keigh word in his sentence, but the Lieutenant was one of them. His use of the alien word was calculated to not only jar with her pristine visage, but also as a lesson to the rest that perhaps the lesser races had some worth after all, so a reminder for them not to discount anyone.

Refusing to rise to the bait, Velouria’s reply cut through the stilled air as others held their breath. Her face remained a picture of serenity as she replied: “My Lord, the Wych Cult of Hearts Broken is always ready to serve. Few have fallen since we last spoke and Maeroth proves ever-diligent in his attentons to my Brides.”
A low grumble of disapproval arose from Korinth’s sector; his Hellions had sufered the most in recent raids, yet they were still waiting for units to be repaired or replaced. Ignoring the Master Hellion for now, though unable to discount him as their skills were evenly matched, Velouria turned her attention to Viasperon’s latest pet: “I see that you still have that...thing...at your side; it’s stench clogs the very air that we breathe, infecting our delicate senses. Does it share your every moment as closely as it does during Court?”

Viasperon’s smile caught her unawares as his even-voiced response hid how her insult had hurt him (innunendo had always been his weakness): “In my Court, loyalty is always rewarded, my Darkling Succubus. Many owe their positions here through discipline and foresight, including yourself. Others have been...removed...because of their lack of such qualities. I am sure that you intend to share the grace of this Court for quite some time.”
With their leader suitably rebuked, as one, the Bloodbrides clustered around Velouria, as though cutting her off from sight would offer any modicum of protection. The Archon's smile widened as he saw the gladiatrixes' synergy; it would help in the coming days.

[andyg2006]

(Hope people like this & grateful for any comments/criticisms/support/suggestions - please send me a PM if you want?)

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Chapter 6?

“So, tell me again: what use have I for you..?” The chilled voice of Lady Diadex cutting through the cool night air just like the ornate husksabre that she wore unsheathed at her side. Though she wore a crimson high-collared coat, her bare legs and the exquisitely designed slashes through her clothing made sure she had no proof against breeze, though it was tailored to deftly hide a myriad of stilletto knives and garrottes...The Sharp Lady was never unprepared or defenceless and even her hair held razorblades and envenomed needles.

Kneeling before her on the cool granite, he kept his voice low as he replied:
“I know that the blade at your waist was made from the twisted spine of a Broodlord that you slew during their insurgency on Malifex IV...I forget which Tyranid exactly, but then they all look the same to me. I know that your lieutenant is actually your lover and that you plucked out their eye during passion. I also know that your last husband, rot his soul, died under the blades of your now-deceased brother, High Lord Garillan.”

The identity of her husband’s slayer was new information, but Lady Diadex did not show it in either her facial expression or her perfect stance: knowledge was power and she always kept her feelings closer than even the deadliest enemy. “Yes, rot his soul indeed, though I can scarcely believe even She could find anything worthy in that particular morsel.”
Turning back to her informant, nodding slowly but with the contempt dripping from her words: “I have no need for unskilled people...anyone could have found out this information...and I have no need for anyone who bears old news. I already knew the last part, of course.”

“Yes, but when Garillan reported his initial failure, you still paid his handsome reward anyway, did you not?” Viasperon made sure his reponse held a little query at the end, as though unsure of his information, but he was certain that the ex-High Lord had not been lying...torturers lived at every corner of the Dark City, yet truth serum was extremely highly-prized and this last dose he purchased had cost him the equivalent of a whole squadron of Venom anti-gravity transports.

“Your forget: I saw the resulting panic and fright in his eyes; it was nectar to my soul even for weeks after. The first attempt was enough; evidently it meant that the old fool’s paranoia left the door open for the later success. Either way, his days were numbered and he was as good as dead.”

“I agree, my Lady: he stood in your way and it was only fitting that you trampled upon his dreams. This is why I am here: allying my Kabal with yours is the only way to ensure my safety but, even in my...situation...I would not bow the knee to just anyone. Our pride is remarkable compared to that if the galaxy’s other races and I do not claim to be free from it’s clutches...”

The slight hissing rasp of bone against leather stopped his words of fealty...the unmistakeable sound of Diadex’s much-vaunted weapon leaving her belt. Though he would have preferred to keep his head cast downwards, Viasperon felt the tip of the blade beneath his chin, forcing him to rise to his feet to avoid being impaled; one centimetre further and his Kabal would be needing a new leader.

Looking along the ossified remains of the King-Genestealer, Viasperon’s gaze travelled to her delicate left hand which held the blade between just the thumb and forefinger. It was a vulgar display of power which he would normally have sneered at (after all, they both knew she had much more influence) yet –with his arteries at the mercy of the bonesword’s razorpoint- Viasperon had to agree that it was a very effective tactic.
“You speak of an alliance as though you are an equal...perhaps, once, we might have married and bound our Houses together but, as you say, there has been a reversal of fortunes over the decades and inevitably you have come grovelling for scraps at my table. I wonder how many of your followers are worthy? Two hundred? Or maybe only 5 per cent?”

Seeing anger flash in his eyes, Lady Diadex continued: “Do my words chafe, Viasperon, Archon of the Kabal of nothing..?! If you had a weapon now, would you seek to strike me down for them? Hate is easy to come by in the Dark City yet, uncontrolled, it serves the user nothing; you yourself know that a beast with no master achieves naught but a miserable death. Is that to be your fate, pawn?”

Lady Diadex watched as cold reality sank into his bones and the fire in his eyes sputtered and died right in front of her...if not for the situation, she would have indulged his request and accepted his loyalty for at least the next ten years (barring mishap) just because of the memory of this moment as she drank in his pain. Her smile widened as he began to move slowly back, deliberately catching (but not breaking) his skin along the blade until his skin was free of it’s barbs and she laughed as his lips kissed the very tip of the sword before he answered.
“I have little you would need except the skill and guile which had kept my Kabal prominent for over seven hundred years, now perhaps all we can offer is to fulfil the role of being extra bodies to expend in your wars against the other Noble Houses. But I see nothing but good things for my role beneath your feet, my Darkening Princess.”
The last two words were an historical honorific, handed down the ages from his teachers: Just like his Kabal, they were a relic of the past and had also been forgotten by half his race and overlooked by many more, but they were still supposed to count for something in the current times.
Though it had grated against his sense of devious planning, the words had been his last card to play and all he could do now was reply on something that he had not known for nearly a millennia: the newness of the sensation of it powered through him and energised him like a fine wine...hope was not something he had ever aspired to and -if he survived- he knew that he would have to brutally suppress it once again.
Part of him hated himself for his weakness, the greater part of him found exhilaration in the sensations that he had believed to be lost.

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

sounds like a cool sword, if you have time and can fit it in a short backstory as to how she got it would be cool. feel like trying your hand at a fight scene? post a WIP and we`ll see how it goes

[andyg2006]

Hope people like, comments and criticism always appreciated.
=========

Chapter 7?

“You do know how, don’t you?” she enquired, her voice not quite reflecting the doubts in her mind.
The whisper of the Enchanter grated as he replied: “You came all this way to the Lower Quadrant to tell me that I don’t know what I’m doing, Lady Diadex? You could have done that from your vaulted halls or during your quiet intrigues to the Houses. No, you came to me as I am only one of few who can do what you ask.”

“Spare me the bargaining, artisan. You are already getting a very good price for your skills, so why not start putting them to some use? You are being paid to craft, not to waste breath.”
“The skill lies not in what the hands can do, but in what the mind creates of the materials...if the raw item is poor, no amount of workmanship can make it into something great...”
“They are from a Genestealer, a leader of it’s kind, a foe-to-all...you should thank me that I did not bring it back alive, lest it tear your head fom your shoulders during your work: I understand their race is fond of doing that kind of thing to anyone who possesses less arms than themselves.”
“Lord Kheradruakh should be safe from them, then, but there would be a sense of irony...” he replied, his voice bereft of mirth, stopping himself from saying any more, knowing that to even just speak the name of the Decapitator was death in most places. “It will take some time, but it can be done” he added quickly, lest the rumours about his employer’s contacts prove to be correct after all.

“In the meantime, why not tell me about how you came by this piece?” The timbre of his voice had changed as his spidery fingers excitedly explored the skeleton...’Almost intact! Perhaps I can keep some of the leftovers for myself?’
The feel of a triple-bladed knife at his throat told him that he had made a mistake somewhere and he felt the unfamiliar sense of panic wash over him, thinking: ‘Is this just another intrigue?’
Her soft breath lingered across the lobe of his left ear as she leant into him and murmured: “No intrigue, I assure you. I will indulge your cravings and also your desire for information, master-smith, but do not voice your thoughts again; the next time you do, someone else will have a new set of bones to play with.”

The blades withdrew from his skin and the click of her boots on the flagstones of his small foundry told him she had taken up residence in one of his workshop’s chairs; daring to glance over to her, with a sigh of relief he saw that she had not taken one of the booby-trapped ones.

“Since it is mine to share, the story will be as long or as short as I make it, but I assume that the item would be finished by the time I cease.” It was not a question.
Summoning his favourite Wrack, Elishera’s work began in earnest, but he was unable to keep the tapping of her toes -nor the thoughts of what would inevitably follow if the item was unready when the sound stopped- out of his head as he began his greatest work.
--------

On the bridge of the Deus Fortuna, Captain Shandler recoiled from the viewscreen as through struck by an object. Turning to Chief Steersman Krantz, he bellowed: “What do you mean ‘Now it’s gone’ ? Find it again! Emperor only knows what’s out there...”

It had been three days since their Astropath died; now stranded on the return journey of their route, cargo holds fully laden with machine parts for the Army, their progress had been slowed to a crawl. Stuck in orbit in the Malifex system, they were waiting for clearance to land on the fourth planet.
“There! There it is again off the port bow!” Helmsman Cortez shouted.
“Bring the guns to bear just in case Armsmaster, I don’t want to be caught unawares.”
“Aye sir!” Cortez replied. Thought the frighter was not substantially-armed, Shandler had refitted the Fortuna to carry more guns than her class usually allowed; a fact that had saved their hides on more than one occasion and Cortez was confident in the crew’s abilities.
Cries of alarm rang out from all crew stations as the viewscreen showed a portion of empty space expanding and bubbling outwards –his eyes told him that the space between the stars had darkened for an instant, but his mind knew that was impossible- warping the crew’s view of the stars around it before disappearing just as quickly, calming the crew’s nerves.

Assistant Steersman Raichek shouted: “Multiple contacts on the starboard side from the third moon, Captain...different signals to just now...Emperor, there’s a dozen of them! Diverting power to scanners, but they’re not any configuration I’ve ever seen.”
Usually, by now the crew would have been engaged plotting several different courses out of the system but, with warp-navigation now impossible, even the risk-taking Captain Shandler was reluctant to order the ship into the aether-realm, lest it remain adrift forever.
These new contacts had remained invisible by using the moon for cover, but they seemed to move as one –almost like a shoal of fishes- towards the Fortuna and the planet below.
“Scanners to maximum, let’s see what these hostile are” Shandler ordered but, as the images resolved on-screen, he almost wished he’d never given the command. Not only did the ships move like animals, they also looked like animals...perhaps shellfish or molluscs? Also, other things with tentacles and hooked beaks that could rend adamantium and which no doubt bore cargo just as deadly...yet each was several miles long.

Almost the whole crew stood stark in terror for nearly a minute, but Cortez was the first to shake himself as he gave the only viable order: “Get us down to that planet right now; I don’t care about clearance, the thrice-damned Tyranids are here!”

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

good stuff, i just have one query: can tyranids use warp travel? wasnt that changed in the new fluff?

[andyg2006]

good stuff, i just have one query: can tyranids use warp travel? wasnt that changed in the new fluff?

I don't want to jam up the story with things like "how things work" and it's a DE story (and their victims) not one about Nids.
I'm leaving it to the reader to imagine how the Nids got there but, for the purposes of the story, it doesn't really matter.
Please don't anyone start posting the science-stuff about Nid travel here though; it's supposed to be a story, not a technical manual :-)
Thanks, AndyG.

[Exitas-Acta-Probat]

fair enough, it was just an idle question.
looking forward to the next installment.

[andyg2006]

Thanks to all who've read this - keeps me wanting to write.
-----
Chapter 8?

“Malifex Four was what they call a ‘hive’ world...millions of millions of them crowded on top of one another, toiling away for little rewards and even less recognition.”
An amused grunt from Elishera told her that he sympathised with their plight and her steel-toed boot immediately stopped tapping the floor, waiting for him to contemplate what he had done. Although only her eyes were visible behind her ornate fan, Lady Diadex knew that his vision was upon her, fearing a death-strike.
She only waited thirty seconds before resuming her movements and the scratching of knives, the rasp of the grinding wheel and the high pitched whine of the foundry’s generators continued –perhaps a little more quicker than before- the smith seemed eager to finish his work and get her out of the shop.
She reflected that recounting events in the third person was always easier:
-----

A forwards somersault carried her into the heart of the Stealer-Brood, long daggers slicing down into the left shoulders and through into the groin of her first victim. It’s chittering communication was turned into a cry of agony as it dropped –as though poleaxed- to the ground. The Wyches of her bodyguard had also joined her from the Raider which had now sped away out of contact and they speared into the other beasts, tearing the heads and hearts from two of them before they could even turn around to face these new attackers. Hearing several blades skitter against chitin, Diadex knew that this spelled the end for their owners as the Tyranids grappled with the Wyches and ended their lives in a mass of wetly chopping talons. The rest of her squad circled their prey, looking for the one stroke to end their opponents, whereas (unusually) the genestealers seemed content to guard and be defensive, as though knowing that time was on their side..?

Lady Diadex also knew that this was the case...the victors would turn their guns and blades on the Dark Eldar as soon as their main enemy was routed or dead...

Her blades scisssoring at it’s throat, she removed the head from her own enemy with her next strike, spinning round to impale an onrushing genestealer in both thighs as she ducked beneath it’s outstretched claws. Twisting her fists inwardly, the blades wrenched apart it’s arteries and opened the wounds even further to allow more vitality to flow out of it; the creature was dead before it hit the dirt.

The leader-beast seemed to recognise her as a suitable opponent and it snarled at her across the combat, both sets of arms slicing up and down to efficiently separate all four limbs from the next two Wyches in it’s way. Using it’s superior bodyweight to barrel another Wych -Issida- to the ground, it ignored the fallen Dark Eldar completely as it now faced Diadex. Through it’s legs, she saw that Issida was now being attacked by a swarm of the small insect-like Rippers. Although her handblades killed whatever they touched, soon she was covered in a living carpet of them, yet still stuggled.

Surprising her, the Broodlord beckoned to her with one taloned hand, goading her to approach: evidently quite a lot of humanoid creatures had contributed to this thing’s genetic codes over the years.
In response, she whirled around and spat a series of poisoned needles towards it’s face; one side of the creature’s face froze in it’s snarl, but it blocked the rest with it’s upper left forearm, preventing certain death, but incapacitating the limb just as the paralysis-toxin was designed to do.
With a roar, it launched itself towards her, the two lower arms opened wide to catch her if she dodged and the upper left arm punching straight for her head.
Her cartwheel to her left took her out of range of the outthrust claw, but she could not escape the lower right set of stabbing claws which tore through her ghostplate armour as though it was paper and carved a large gouge out of her middle, dropping her to her knees in the dirt as the melee raged all around.
Nursing her injury and looking back, the Broodlord was slow to regain it’s own feet and pulled out the long knife that she had embedded into it’s chest up to the hilt.
Even mortally wounded, the beast was a formidable opponent for most warriors, but Lady Diadex was sure that she now had it’s measure. Circling around it -making darting lunges and desperate parries where she could- she headbutted one of the smaller ones who got close and looked like it might intervene, making it fall back onto the waiting blades of a Wych. The Broodlord hissed at it’s compatriots...this was a win or die confrontation, but one-on-one.

Thought grievously hurt, it still seemed to be able to anticipate most of her dodges...if she had allowed herself to think that way, she would have conceded that –even crippled- it still possessed too many arms and razortalons for her to avoid them all.
Bleeding heavily from her stomach wound, the power she had absorbed from her earlier kills meant that she barely felt it’s effects, but that she would ultimately pay for them if they were not attended to. Breathing hard and shaking blood from her eyes, she surveyed the monster: two arms now hung limp at it’s side, and the monster had been slowed, but even the useless limbs could still prove useful as blunt flails if she was not careful. One of it’s eyes was also gouged out, but it still had enough left to keep track of her movements as the new gash to her right thigh evidenced.

Sensing the end of the fight was near, she keyed in the alert for the Raider to return – for the rest of the squad if not for herself- and stood motionless infront of the Broodlord.
Spreading it’s arms out wide and howling out it’s battle cry, the animal charged towards her and the other ongoing combats meant that there was nowhere for her to flip to get completely out of it’s range.
Parrying one claw, she ducked inside it’s snapping fangs and the other of it’s talons scraped across her chest armour, protected at the last second by a shimmer of pale yellow energy as the armour’s failsafe shield activated.
[N.B.: This is one of my various interpretations of how the invulnerable save in ghostplate armour works, I’m sure there are other ideas - Andy].
Whirling round, elbow-blades shicked out of their holsters and she stabbed them into the Broodlord’s spine. Bellowing in pain, it arched it’s frame and she span to face it’s back, both hands stabbed round it’s head: her left hand gouged out it’s remaining main eye and the fingers of her right hand thrust inside it’s maw and drove upwards through the roof of it’s mouth into it’s brain. Although her fingernails were coated with the same venom she had used on it earlier, through muscle spasm -or plain spite- the Broodlord’s jaws clamped shut on her hand, severing three fingers and she was close enough to hear it’s last noises as it juddered then finally stilled in her grasp.
With her physique enhanced by combat drugs, Lady Diadex held the Broodlord’s corpse aloft and shared her victory with the three remaining Wyches. She smiled as she saw that one of the survivors was Issida: covered in blood -much of it her own- she staggered, then stood, surrounded by the bodies of the Rippers as the last one still twitched in her mouth. Biting it’s head off and spitting out it’s remains onto those of the other Tyranids, Issida howled in triumph, joining the shrieks of her leader and remaining Sisters, only ending as the Raider returned and hovered at knee-height.
It’s hull was pock marked not only with the remains of bio-acid and tiny grubs but also from laser scorchmarks and myriad bullet holes -evidence of the pilot’s skill at avoiding the many firearms which had come his way- as they boarded the transport with the Broodlord’s remains and left the field with the battle stil raging.
“Give me the weapon” she snarled at the transport’s gunner. His moment of question and hesitation at her order proved very costly as she flipped him over the side of the Raider and he plunged to his doom amongst the barbarism below. Unable to leave without at least one parting gift, Lady Diadex saw that the Imperials’ line had been bolstered by a Hellhammer superheavy tank which was busy clearing great swathes of Tyranids from the battlefield with it’s heavy cannons and flamethrowers. Targetting the rear of the tank with the transport’s Dark Lance, a pulsing pencil-thin line of blacklight hit the tank’s engine compartment and at first nothing happened, but then yellow flames began to flare along the joints of all the armour plates before the whole tank was engulfed in a thunderous explosion, debris and fire shredding and vapourising everything in proximity.

Hearing that the mission was complete (and with the battle now hanging in the balance instead of favouring the mon-keigh) the Raider made it to the rendezvous point five minutes earlier than planned; despite this, the transport only just screamed through the webway portal before it closed.

[Boc]

An excellent read thusfar, looking forward to reading more as you come out with it. I'm always jealous of people that can write convincingly from a Xeno perspective, and you've pulled it off very well.