"Then be welcome in my shrine, now there is but one task you must accomplish before you may receive my instruction."

The Hierarch's words were repeated like a mantra inside his mind. The task that Andorahl had assigned him did not surprise him, as it reflected what he already knew of the ways of Incubi. The warriors of the sect advanced in rank by killing the previous holder, a meritocratic system that Naerion was intimately familiar with, but the Incubi took a different approach to it. Assassination was forbidden among their ranks, they instead favored a more direct approach.

Just as an aspirant was expected to slay a proven Incubus to be formally committed, a pilgrim was expected to ritualistically slaughter an aspirant to receive the Hierarch's tutelage in his stead. The specifics of this task could be considered severely grim by the standards of his kin, which into itself truly underpinned the nature of the brotherhood he now sought to join. But at this point, Naerion was beyond caring.

Naerion had been divested of his armor and weaponry, and told by the Hierarch that he had three cycles to complete his task; Andorahl did not bother to elaborate on what would happen to him if he failed. The answer was baldly obvious.

He had spent the last two cycles prowling through the dark corridors of the war-shrine, tracking down potential victims. Whatever training and conditioning the Hierarch was putting the aspirants through was apparently very effective, each one he had surveyed so far displayed a constant awareness of their surroundings, muscles coiled to spring into action within an instant of notice. But in Naerion's experience, there was always a weak link waiting to be broken.

There were only a handful of turns left in the final cycle before fortune embraced him. One of the aspirants was injured. The aspirant tried to hide it, as any sane true eldar would, and may have succeeded if Naerion had not spent most of his entire life learning how to evaluate and exploit the weaknesses in others.

The aspirant had the faintest of strain's in his neck on the right side, and the same side's shoulder was stiff and his breathing pattern indicated a barely suppressed discomfort which led Naerion to believe the eldar had recently suffered a fractured collarbone. A severe handicap for any warrior.

Not one to be sloppy, Naerion planned his order of attack carefully, even a broken blade could still cause harm. Interminable silence descended as he stalked his prey to the lower levels of the shrine, Naerion clung to shadows within shadows as he steadily crept closer to his prize.

The cold air ghosted across his skin, numbing his body as he forced himself to keep his movements in moderation. Most parts of Commorragh were relatively warm, humid in some cases, how anyone could remain sane in these temperatures and impenetrable darkness he could scarcely fathom.

The aspirant suddenly tensed, the awareness he was not alone just now coming upon him. Naerion exploded from the shadows, lashing out with a palm strike at the aspirant's shoulder. His would-be victim turned and met him with a roar, a dagger whispered through the air, matching coordinates with Naerion's throat. Naerion weaved out of the way with a split second to spare, landing his strike upside the aspirant's arm.

Though unarmed, Naerion had the benefit of being both in excellent shape, and relatively uninjured save for the lingering wounds sustained in his trip through Low Commorragh.

The aspirant reeled off balance from the blow, but recovered swiftly, slashing at Naerion with his one good arm, face knotted with a mixture of shame, agony, and homicidal rage. But in the end, Naerion would not be denied.

Naerion caught the weakened aspirant by the wrist, twisting it harshly while applying pressure to a sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the palm, the knife dropped from the aspirant's twitching fingers. Naerion threw a brutal punch into the aspirant's solar plexus, before turning him around and wrapping his arm around his neck.

The aspirant struggled like he was possessed, kicking and choking out screams as Naerion constricted his windpipe. Naerion held the aspirant until the struggling stopped and the failure eased into unconsciousness.

His task done, Naerion set the aspirant down and retrieved his distinctive blade from where it fell on the floor.


In the heart of the shrine stood the gargantuan iron statue of Kaela Mensha Khaine. Comparable in stature to a Phantom war-titan, the magnificent construct dominated everything within the open chamber with it's sheer presence. The bittersweet scent of blood cloyed the air around the towering god, likeness. This was hallowed ground.

Before the base of the statue there was a ring of octagonal pits, their rims projected ten hand spans above the cold polished floor. From within, iridescent green flames flickered and whorled to unperceived currents of air, somehow failing to cast any light upon the surrounding area; like a warp storm in the deepest depths of space.

Naerion carried the insensate aspirant over his shoulder as he mounted the shallow steps of the platform overlooking the murderflame, his anticipation growing with each weighted footfall. Two spines flanked each end of the platform, silver rings connected to chains dangled from ports in their opposing faces. Naerion lay the aspirant in a kneeling position between the spines, making sure he would not fall off the platform and into the flame. Yet.

He grasped the two rings and pulled them down to the aspirant. The rings clicked open, and then snapped shut with audible pings around the defeated eldar's wrists.

A bell tolled from somewhere in the inky darkness above, it's mournful peal vibrated off the walls with a lingering note of finality. The next sound was of the restraining pins on the cuffs being engaged, driving a cold metal spike through the flesh of the conquered aspirant's wrists, and locking into the other side with sharp clicks.

His victim was immediately awake and screaming in a mixture of agony and outrage. The chains retracted, lifting the eldar off his knees until his toes just barely brushed the surface of the platform. His eyes turned rapidly before settling on Naerion with a look of utter hatred. He knew what was happening, doubtless he had at one time been in the same position as Naerion, and knew very well that pleading for mercy was futile.

Naerion drew a narrow blade from a sheath affixed to his belt, he had not used it to fight the aspirant for a simple purpose; the blade was not meant for fighting, it's purpose was much more ignoble than that. The blade was two hand spans in length and two fingers at the widest point, the tip curved viciously towards the hand that wielded it, forming a sharp claw-like hook. Scratched into the blade stem was the icon of the Incubus sect.

The eldar gazed at the vicious tool with a look of grim acceptance, "Do what you must, rith'vaas but know this; you will die here, the Hierarch will destroy you... just like he destroyed me."

"I'm afraid you will never know, but I intend to live forever," Naerion replied humorlessly as he stepped forward, blade in hand.

The blade's edge sliced through the eldar's clothing without effort, Naerion stripped his victim of the trappings of life until he was completely bare. Then he went to work.

Naerion could hardly be called an amateur in the realm of physical torture; granted he was nowhere even close to the lowliest haemonculus when it came to the craft – but he was still talented. Naerion had only rarely applied his skills upon a fellow eldar, and in those times the goal had been punishment rather than deriving sustenance for his soul. Never being one to rush to instant gratification, Naerion's feedings were fewer and further between than most. But even so, the procedures involved in this ritual were quite a bit different than what he was used to.

Screams echoed through the chamber as the blade tenderly kissed pale yielding flesh. Tendons were severed, vital muscle groups violated under the keenest edge, cut by cut Naerion unmade him as a warrior. Lastly taken were the eyes, the hooked tip worked perfectly for that particular procedure, now it was time for the main event.

The blade hovered for a pregnant moment over the eldar's left hip, before Naerion sunk it's edge into flesh. With excruciating slowness, Naerion guided the disemboweler along the line of the victim's midriff with surgical precision, deep enough to penetrate the muscle layer, but sparing the thin abdominal wall which was now the only thing keeping the eldar's guts from spilling onto the platform. Through it all the sacrificial aspirant shuddered hoarsely through clenched teeth, eyes rolled back into his head.

The crescent shaped cut widened as viscera strained against the gossamer thin barrier of flesh that was artfully left intact, but not quite enough to break through. The victim's pale skin was covered in tracks of blood produced by the eldar's pierced wrists, bisected muscles, and cut tendons.

Sheathing the blade, Naerion proceeded to guide his bare hands into the incised abdomen with slow, reverential deliberation. His fingers pierced the pink lining like it was a thin layer of plastic wrapping, the heat of the aspirant's intestines warmed the chilled flesh of his palms, pleasing him as the soon-to-be-gutted eldar screamed anew.

Upon withdrawing his hands, the eldar began producing choked gurgles as his entrails spilled out of his split midriff and into the bowl-shaped depression set into the floor. As soon as the eldar was completely evacuated, Naerion disconnected the fleshy tubes still linked to the body with the knife.

Naerion then knelt before the pile of stolen organs as the bell tolled once more.

The spines extended, lifting the conquered still-living eldar further into their air. Then they swung down, lowering the offering into the murderflame.

The sacrifice screamed louder than ever before, the green fire began casting flickering illumination all over the chamber. And in that moment Naerion knew pain.

Naerion's hands had been washed in blood from the act of disemboweling the aspirant. And as the flames consumed the shrieking failed warrior, the blood on his hands burst into emerald flame. Naerion knew what it was before the pain started.

Soulfire was an uncommon phenomenon in the Eternal City, and was generally treated with suspicion due to it's seemingly sorcerous nature. Soulfire was little understood by any outside the Haemonculus covens, who jealously guarded the particulars of it's creation. But it was understood that it involved the collection of specially prepared psyker souls inside of a special containment vessel which preserved them in a constant state of instability, producing the distinctive lightless flame. But this was different.

The flame ravenously excoriated his soul, making both it and him howl in agony. As his spirit burned he felt touched by ravenous, all-consuming hatred. He was possessed with a desperate, demented desire to destroy. In his minds he saw friends and enemies, everyone he ever knew hacked to pieces, left to rot in pools of their own blood, and he rejoiced in it even as he suffered.

His pain screams gradually transmuted into deep, guttural, roars that echoed of incomprehensible desire for release.

Self-preservation rose within him, imploring that he fight the mind-killing fires before they doom him. But another aspect, one that had been slowly rising to the surface ever since he was visited by the Dark Warrior, demanded otherwise.

Naerion stopped resisting, and the fires rushed through him. Naerion's eyes flashed wide open, his screams stopped, breath trapped in his lungs. Every nerve surged with life. He saw the dark heart of the shrine with a clarity he had never known was possible. Every minute detail gleamed in his mind; whispers in darkness, the subtle rasp of armor, sounded clear in his ears. Everything stood out in sharp contrast, and for the first time the unnaturally deep shadows of the shrine no longer hindered him.

He gazed up at the statue of Khaine, the flickering firelight of the murderflame cast light upon the menacing countenance of the bloody handed war-god, in such a way that it seemed to be sneering silently in approval.

The euphoria was then swiftly replaced by the uncontrollable urge to destroy everything around him, to savagely dismantle the shrine with his bare hands and slay everything that dwelt within.

The next thing he knew, two pairs of mailed hands were restraining him as he was lifted, screaming in murderous hysterics. The two incubi warriors said not a word as they dragged him off the platform, Naerion's frenzied struggles continued up to the point he mercifully blacked out under the weight of his rampant emotions.


The past few cycles had seen Hassarian traveling from one part of Commorragh to the other, after seeing Naerion to the war-shrine the Harlequin had swiftly gotten back to the task that first brought him to the Eternal City.

Over the long millenia, Commorragh had grown and prospered from it's shadowed beginnings to the galactic nightmare it was today. A vast and incalculably powerful metropolis buried in the deepest depths of the Webway ruled over by the most devious members of the most terrible race to ever grace the stars.

His steps took him further and further from the brooding light of the Ilmaea and deeper towards the twisted sumps of Low Commorragh. The Death Jester was currently leaning jauntily against the steerhouse of a low-drafted barge as it skimmed silently through a wide canal. This was Rhonathiliin the River of Three Hands. How it came to be named such, Hassarian had yet to figure out, it was a story long forgotten. The water was a silty flat gray, and freezing cold, every now and again one could hear a splash as refuse and the occasional corpse was thrown from the walls on either side of the canal.

Game houses, drug dens, brothels, mercenary forts and trading posts rose up on either side of him, in the distance was a vast squat cylindrical structure, the sounds of pleased cries mixed with screams of terror carried upon the wind. This was a Wych Cult arena.

Rhonathiliin was part of a larger realm controlled by the Eternal Star Kabal, which ruled over a collection of tiers that joined High Commorragh and Low Commorragh together. It was a busy cosmopolitan center that was constantly brimming with activity. Archon Rylac Chuthural ruled over his personal fief with the suave veneer of an exalted merchant king, with his kabal so tightly connected to such a rich artery of trade, it enabled him to construct a rather sizable power base that rivaled the might of the affluent kabals that roosted in the spires of High Commorragh.

Allied with the Eternal Star was the Annointed Blades, a Wych cult of impressive repute which had made it's home in the confines of the Rhonathiliin city sector. Hassarian was a frequent spectator of the Wych cult arenas, he found the impeccable skill of the Dark City's gladiatrixes to be a wonderful source of inspiration for his admittedly sadistic brand of humor. There is no such thing as a joke taken too far.

The barge pulled up to a pier in the arena's shadow, Hassarian followed the other passengers off the boat and turned down the street, following the thronging crowds intent on the same destination as himself.

A procession of statuary marked the path to the arena. Unlike the décor that the Incubi of the Ebon Blade favored, these statues were quite appealing to look at. Likenesses of triumphant murderesses wrought from rare materials procured from realspace and the depths of the Webway formed an unmoving honor guard on either side, presenting the heads and hearts of felled victims, or saluting their shardnets and razorflails to an invisible crowd.

This region of the Eternal City was a cultural marvel, it attracted all kinds of sentient beings to it's exciting splendors. Humans, eldar, and other starfaring races mingled together in crowds; he even spotted a group of kroot mercenaries, tittering in their primitive language as they tried their best to keep the Commorrites at a distance. Most of the humans were either mercenaries, slaves, or slave traders, arrived to the Dark City to provide their services, willingly or unwillingly.

The Craftworlders often described the dark kin as absolutely unreasonable savages incapable of acknowledging any limits on their actions, regardless of the consequences. Hassarian knew better, and his surroundings proved him the wiser. Unrepentant sadists they may be, the dark kin were not idiots; the Archons all the way up to Asdrubael Vect himself knew well the value of a stable, structured society, Rylac Chuthural more than most.

The domain of the Eternal Star was well ordered, the kabalite warriors doubled as enforcers as well as the military force. So long as one made sure to stay on the grid, one could go about business here with minimal danger as long as one obeyed the rules to the letter. Rylac's castigators watched the crowds with calculating, daring eyes, the moment a rule was broken a warrior was at rights to claim the rule breaker as his or her personal property. Overall the atmosphere was surprisingly casual, if a bit guarded; but the underlying surfeit of cruelty, arrogance, and merciless ambition remained – as it did everywhere in Commorragh.

Coming upon the arena, Hassarian took a moment to appreciate it's majesty. In every aspect possible, the Wych cults made a mockery of the warrior castes native to realspace, and that included their houses of carnage.

The arena was constructed from the bones of an enormous serpent, poached from the seas of a forgotten world thousands of years ago. Set at ground level, the cavernous elongated jaws of the serpent's skull spanned the entire width of the busy thoroughfare, hinged wide open to act as the arena's morbid gate. Mercenaries clad in shadow-bending ghostsuits were posted at hidden vantage points, surveying the crowds through the compound crystalline optics mounted upon long-necked sniper rifles, ready to pick off anyone foolish enough to scale the gently sloped skeletal walls.

Built into three tiers, with forbidding black bastions set in between yellowed rib structural supports, the arena had a sizable array of hidden defense turrets with each tier thoroughly armed to the hilt to ward off any besieging force. Even when consumed in their deepest revelry, the Eldarith Ynneas were not ones to be caught off guard. Unswayed by the imposing level of security, Hassarian casually stalked through the serpent's maw through the VIP lane, the guards had but to take one look at the icon etched into his outlandish coat before stepping aside to let him through. No matter where they went, the agents of Cegorach enjoyed a broad level of freedom to conduct business.

The Hekatarri of Commorragh were second in prestige only to the kabals that supported them. The inhabitants of the twilit super-metropolis thrived on bloodletting, and in this pursuit the Wyches were a talented breed that knew no peers in the galaxy. The nightly displays of ultraviolence held in their arenas draw baying crowds from across the Dark City.

These arenas played a role that far outweighed entertaining the jaded masses. The Wych Cults provided their kin with a feast of agonies that, temporarily at least, stayed their blades from one another's throats. The city's citizens would gladly stab each other in the heart just for the looks on their victims' faces, for to witness another sentient's anguish is the only way the dark kin have left to ward off the persistent entropy of their blackened souls. Yet to allow such passions to run unchecked would be to invite total societal collapse.

The Wych Cults provided to their kind's unending need to bathe in murderous sensations. Each of these vital organizations supported gladiators thousands-strong in number, collectively bent on creating nightly displays of the most incredible violence conceivable; not only for entertaining the masses, but also for their literal sustenance. In this way Commorragh was spared from full-scale anarchy, much to the detriment of the races inhabiting realspace.

Hassarian enjoyed these blood-soaked performances as much as any other bloke in the eternal city, but for entirely different reasons. As a ward of the Laughing God, Hassarian did not possess any need to sustain his spirit beyond following his part in the grand stage of the universe.

As he stepped out into the stands, Hassarian opened his mind to every aspect of his surroundings. The sweeping terraces were packed to the brim with tens of thousands of eldar, the air positively crackled and glowed with tension, all attendants leaning forward in their seats with eyes wide and the leers of ravenous predators stretched upon their ashen faces, fixated upon the gruesome spectacle playing out below.

The sand upon the stage was soaked through with gore, victims -most still living – were either lay groaning in varying states of dismemberment upon the ground, or waged a pointless defense against their tormentors. Among them danced sinuous figures of entrancing beauty, pirouetting and weaving through the arterial sprays and clumsy vapid counterattacks with sensual grace, wearing arrogant smirks as they absolutely dominated their chosen prey.

The main stage, and the grav-suspended islands orbiting it periodically shifted in geometry, sections of flooring rose up like bsaltic pillars, sending the awkward mon'keigh tumbling in all directions in their haste to keep the murderous females at a distance. The wyches mastered the ever changing battlefield with superlative dexterity, their playthings screaming in agony as blades caressed their flesh in mid-fall. The entire scene was an artfully constructed and scathing mockery of the human race, underpinning their flaws and inferiority before the eldar people.

It was a well worn meme, one that Hassarian had seen repeated many times throughout the dark city, but never quite in the same fashion. The wych cults eternally competed with one another to offer the greatest show for their bloodthirsty audience. With each performance growing more violent and outlandish than the previous. But for Hassarian it was all the same; a catalyst.

These artful displays of carnage had a subtle yet profound effect on the Harlequin. The scale of the violence made the wheels of his imagination spin with ominous rapidity, pushing him into an altered state of consciousness that when combined with his dark sense of humor, inspired him in a way that even the debased perspectives of the dark kin would find frightening.


Twin moons crested the horizon. Illuminating bodies stacked high, flesh stained with blood. Hands worked with feverish pace, cutting, carving, why was She crying? Her childish features alight with horror, the flesh of the Father stuck between her bared blood-washed teeth. The fluid of life dribbling from her mouth, off her chin.

'Too salty! Too salty!' she cried hysterically as two hands sought to restrain her, another pair of hands caressed her face lovingly.

'Finish your plate my love,' a voice that sounded like his own trilled. 'Lets celebrate your naming day properly.'

She resisted, punched him, cursed him in the name of all the dead gods. But still he smiled, still he fed her, still he encouraged her. He would do anything for her, and could not bear to see that beautiful face look so sad.

A knife glinted in the moonlight, screams sang out from the darkness.

'Lets put a smile on your face.'


"Margorach." a stern voice awoke him from his scattered recollection. He turned to behold the imposing form of an Incubus standing before him. His spiked armor, gleaming brilliantly in the variable lighting of the arena. Hassarian bowed his head apologetically.

"Terribly sorry, my thoughts were elsewhere," the Death jester said, addressing the grim warrior, "Is there something you need?"

"Archon Chuthural desires your presence, follow," the Incubus instructed before turning away, the Harlequin shrugged and followed after the towering warrior.

Hassarian was led up to the highest tier of the arena, where the personal craft of the visiting archons had landed to overlook the carnage, their occupants stooping over rails like carrion birds, feasting their eyes upon the last gasping moments of their prey. One craft stood apart from the others in both size and majesty.

Archon Chuthural's lavishly decorated and heavily beweaponed skimmer-barque, it's razor-thorn encrusted flanks cast glittering arcs where the light touched their astonishingly keen edges. The bladed cluster mark of the Eternal Star kabal was proudly displayed upon the voluminous gravsails fluttering above the deck. The craft was a striking testament to the wealth and power the Eternal Star commanded.

The Incubus gestured to a silvery glowing platform set upon the ground on the port side of the landed skimmer, the Harlequin huffed impudently and strutted over to the disc. The moment he stepped upon it, an invisible force snatched him and levitated the death jester upwards over the side of the hull, until his feet landed upon the barque's quarterdeck.

Rylac had seen fit not to rub shoulders with his own warriors, instead he surrounded himself in the company of his own royal court, comprising of some of the most fascinating personages of Commorragh's middle districts. Rylenas, formally of Craftworld Iyanden whose obsessant pursuit upon the Path of the Artist led him to adopting ever more ecletic tastes, his subsequent fall to the Path of Damnation led him to create some of the most twisted masterpieces the dark city had ever seen. Nonemara stone-hearted overseer of Port Shardis, whose grip on the gangs in the port district gave her one of the most pervasive spy networks in the Eternal Star's fiefdom. Renegin Styre, vice president of the Casprian Labor Alliance, the largest slaver organization in the Imperium of Man. Shaper Vystrax, leader of the Nogth'on kroot clan, alien mercenaries currently allied with the Eternal Star's interests.

The Archon himself was seated upon an intricate bladed throne set on a raised platform mounted on the skimmer ship's stern. He was guarded on all sides by five incubi bodyguards, now turned six as the one that guided Hassarian swiftly moved to rejoin his dark brethren in vigilance over their employer. Rylac's clique of dracon lieutenants, personal courtesans, and favored slaves also hovered in his presence.

Hassarian mounted the steps to the stern platform with an air of affable bemusement, appearing before the mighty archon carefree and detached. He bowed respectfully to the self-styled King of the Middle Realms. In this city, courtesy was a matter of life and slow, painful death.

"I welcome you into my hospitality Harlequin," Rylac said, bidding the death jester to straighten from the bow.

Archon Rylac Chuthural was a prime example of the city's ruling elite. Ambitious, solipsistic, and arrogant in the extreme, with the power to bring entire worlds to ruin on a whim. Sharp angular features were framed by long hair colored snow white on one side, and jet black on the other. His body was sheathed in segmented vermillion armor, engraved to mimic flensed eldar musculature. Upon his brow he bore an intricate silver diadem of thorns, set in the center with a flawless onyx stone.

With a gesture, the archon bade his companions to leave the platform, the gaggle of sycophants hurried to comply with the order, lest their lives be ended upon the klaives of the feared incubi warriors.

The dimension-warping technologies artfully concealed into the platform worked much in the same ways as the ones built into the arena which allowed all spectators to view the bloodshed as if they were scant meters away. It created a co-sensual reality which allowed the Archon and the Harlequin to converse without fear of prying ears.

"I have found what your troupe master is looking for," Rylac began without preamble. "The answer lies with the Coven of the Sunken Labyrinth."

"We suspected as much from what we were able to glean from the delivery's remains, but I am afraid that someone else got to the recipient before we could properly detain him." Hassarian stated, crossing his arms.

"Mores the pity then," Rylac replied, casting his gaze to the arena to observe savage warp beasts tearing into frightened human pilgrims. "Why did your troupe master send you in his stead?"

"Litherial has little appreciation for Commorragh's more... visceral choices of venue. So rather than endure it herself, she has appointed me to speak on the troupe's behalf." Hassarian somberly explained.

"And what is the other reason?" Rylac demanded, leaning forward in his throne.

"The Coven is close to becoming aware of our involvement, if they haven't guessed already. We know that the Sunken Labyrinth is not working alone, and if we tip our hands too early their hidden partners will slip back into the shadows and disappear."

"Naturally," the Archon agreed. "But I would know why the masque would wish to incite one of the most ancient and feared Covens in all of our great city on the account of a... dream?"

"More than just a dream," Hassarian replied, "As for the why? We seek only to protect the People, if the Sunken Labyrinth's agenda threatens Commorragh, they must be opposed and quickly."

"Your troupe master has yet to illuminate me on what what exactly this threat is!" Rylac spat, standing up tall and descending his throne to stop right in front of Hassarian, "My patience is wearing thin margorach if this partnership is to continue, you and your compatriots would do well to ensure that this arrangement remains in my best interests."

Hassarian merely reached into one of his pockets and produced a crystalline wafer with glowing lines of digital circuitry tracing it's facets. "Then here is a token of reassurance. Ten Imperial shrine worlds, orbital defense codes, troop manifests, system traffic, everything needed to ensure successful captive procurement."

The archon plucked the wafer from the harlequin's fingers, his gaze hardening, "This tribute is acceptable... for now," he said eying his guest with a piercing look, "One way or another, I will find out what you are hiding from me."

"Then speak of what you have learned."

"My agent in the Invisible Hand has reported the presence of a new haemonculus in the employ of the newly ascended Archon Anaeil Ynneath, this I am sure you are already aware of. Zalikith, a member of the Sunken Labyrinth and a specialist in the transmutation of souls, more specifically the transferal of a living consciousness to another body."

"I have never heard of such a thing being done," Hassarian remarked, interested.

"It's highly uncommon," Rylac affirmed, "The knowledge is not often put into practice, as traditional methods of reanimation are often more than adequate in escaping She Who Thirsts. Traditionally, in order to replace souls both bodies must be alive, and in close proximity, and even then complications could still present themselves. It is normally only employed when one is afflicted by a destructive viral attack such as the Glass Plague, which tends to make the body unsalvageable through normal reanimation."

"A last resort then."

"The very last," Rylac corrected him.

"You appear to be remarkably well learned on the subject," Hassarian observed.

The Archon was leaning over the railing, watching the darting feminine figures as they brutally dissected the endless hordes of captives being shepherded into the arena. Drinking in the miasma of anguish that rolled from the stage.

"My mother, the Eternal Star's previous archon was struck by the glass plague two millenia ago, the infection overwhelmed her outdated vaccinations, which only served to slow it's progress. It reduced her to a partially vitrified quadriplegic, basically a living death."

He paused as the roars of the crowd rose and fell like waves upon a beach. Not a single captive was left standing, the Wyches had promptly turned their blades on one another, skipping and skirmishing over the flayed and still screaming bodies of their victims.

"The haemonculi in service to the kabal tried to reverse the progress of the virus, but it was already too late, even with their assistance her life was measured in days, by then her body would have completely turned to glass, all cells destroyed, nothing to reanimate, True Death."

Hassarian nodded in understanding. If there was anything that the people of this city feared, it was passing beyond the point of recovery. Being slain in this city meant little, so long as there was enough mortal remains for the Haemonculi to regenerate through the application of pain. The dark kin were to the last more than aware of the horror that waited for them beyond death, an eternity of torment in the belly of She Who Thirsts.

"The chief haemonculus offered a possible solution, the Kyn'hassar the Soul Exchange. My mother of course accepted, and my aunt was forcibly chosen to take my mother's doom as her own. The operation was a success, my mother was reborn in the flesh of her sister, condemning the original resident to the maw of She Who Thirsts."

"What went wrong?" Hassarian asked.

"No act of desperation goes unpunished in this city," Rylac uttered softly, "My mother was proud of what she did, unreasonably so. It was not until three passes after the event that it was discovered something went wrong. My mother's appetite for suffering began to steadily wax, her needs requiring her to feast upon ever more slaves and unsatisfactory underlings, with the restorative properties of the process becoming increasingly short-lived. Nine passes later, the hunger overcame the kabal's ability to quench it; in the end my mother became one of the Parched, her stolen body still living but completely empty."

Hassarian quietly processed the knowledge, turning it over in his head, "Did you ever find out who exposed your mother to the glass plague?"

A dark amused glint entered Rylac's eyes, "Is there really any doubt, harlequin?"

"Point taken," Hassarian conceded, "But a question yet remains; why does Anaeil need a Soul Exchange?"

"That is where my role ends and yours begins anew," Rylac said, returning to his throne.

No my dear Archon, that role belongs to another. Hassarian thought as he stepped from the platform, leaving the barque via grav lift.

The only question now is if he will live to fulfill it.


A/N: So Naerion ritually guts one of Andorahl's students and takes his place. This chapter is totally a product of frustration in trying (and failing) to register classes in my local university. Once more the eldar prove themselves superior, in this society all you have to do is disembowel one of the students and BOOM open spot! So simple... we can still dream.