Dark Omen-- Ruinous Intentions

by Jusblaze

Set in the far flung future, late M41. Former Chief Apothacary of the III legion, Fabius Bile has aquired the location of the fabled dark city, Commorragh. Now he plans to take more than just it's secrets.

Title== yet to be decided?

WARHAMMER 40,000

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bioengineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Part 1 prologue

"I need you to pretend you're me, please be me?" the psyker I currently share a cell with asks in my head. Strangely, his mental voice is the same as his speaking voice, a duet of metallic androgynous tones. It's not a nice sound. His strange request catches me off guard and the mental intrusion irritates me greatly. Outside in the dimly lit corridor, mass reactive shells bite chunks from the walls in a riot of noise. At the far end of the hallway, hulking shadows loom, visible on either side of the double doorway. I can see what looks to be the muzzle of an arc rifle and I assume on the other end of these are the previously A.W.O.L Skitarii guards. Judging by the shape of the shadows on the wall, I believe I am correct. Nice of them to show up.

Cell doors run down the hallway on alternating sides so that no door directly faces another. All but one of them are locked. I am in the one, crouching by the door. Why am I crouching you ask? For crouching is what one does when one awakens to sporadic gunfire. Beside me, the locking panel spits and sparks, its interface mechanism a mangled mass of steel wires and adamantium plate. I struggle to remain calm, my breathing becoming erratic. I feel sluggish and very very sick. I fight to quell the swelling knot of fear bubbling up from within me. It tastes like bile and helplessness. Suddenly, like the sun emerging through clouds on a rainy day, the gunfire ceases leaving peaceful silence for a blissful instant. In the quiet I hear the ping of spent ammunition clips hitting the floor, two if I am correct. A moment later we are plunged back into the metaphorical rainstorm as the shooting begins again in earnest. Out in the corridor, all is pandemonium. Bolter's bark like the hellhounds of Hades. Crackling arc rifles fork bolts of electricity down the mouth of the hallway. A solid round thuds into the wall only a few feet away, turning rockcrete to rubble and dust. "oh throne, we're doomed" the prisoner warbles aloud in his disconcerting voices. "we're?" I ask.. "when did you and I become a team?" My sarcasm either falls on deaf ears ignored, or is drowned out by the noise. I believe it's the former. From a side entrance in the wall opposite, an armoured hand hurls a pair of round objects towards the end of the corridor. Covering my ears and closing my eyes, I brace for the impending explosion. It never comes. Behind my eyelids, a burst of bright light flashes accompanied by the sound of a hissing cobra. Puzzled, I'm about to stick my head out to look when hulking, armour-clad bodies step out into what promises to be a bloody and extremely painful end. They move in unison, as a single green cohesive unit and take up defensive positions behind debris and piles of rubble. It's almost laughable. Like trying to hide a battle barge behind a thunderhawk. From their dubious cover, they begin to advance while returning fire. This only adds to the pain in my aching head, every shot a clap of thunder. The squad of space marines are carrying storm bolters and bolt pistols that make strange wet sucking sounds as they spit mass-reactive shells by the dozen. Quite odd amid the cacophonous soundtrack of battle.

On some unheard command, the incoming fire slows as something mechanical rumbles ominously. Metal grinds on metal. The space marines take full advantage of the momentary lull and advance through the smoke in a lazy formation. From the end of the hallway, something whines itself up into a frenzy, it's spinning barrel offering yet another form of projectile death. Caught in the lethal hail of solid shells, the advance begins to falter as exposed armoured bodies are locked on to. Green ceramite plating starts to crack under the heavy barrage, yet the warriors advance continues undaunted. Risking another glance, I peer from my hiding hole in time to see one of the squad cut in half by blistering heavy fire. It punches through cracked ceramite and tears huge gobbets of flesh from bone, eating away at the stubborn warrior's last defences. For a moment, I think he might have weathered the storm. That is until he turns and I see hardly any armour or even torso remains intact. His top-half topples backwards, and vertebrae snap with a nauseating crack, louder than even the gunfire. His lower half still stands for a second before more bolter rounds explode, knocking it to the floor. The disconnected lower limbs are reduced to a mass of stringy flesh and shattered bone chips. Slumped behind them, what remains of the marine surely knows his time is nigh. He dies with a finger clamped firmly on the trigger, his bolter firing wildly for a long few seconds after death. Finally, a mass reactive takes his helm clean off, sending it rolling down the corridor. Only then does his storm bolter fall silent, clutched in lifeless hands. Blood erupts from the severed stump of his neck in a fountain of gore that paints the ceiling and wall in crimson fluids. So much blood. It cascades down the plasteel panelling, and drips from the ceiling, pooling around the mutilated corpse below. The deceased's helm comes to a stop nearby, resting against a cell door. This triggers the energy barrier into life, viciously spitting and crackling with power. I watch horrified as the dead marines helm and its grisly contents begin to cook in the flood of electrical energy. I want to turn away but I can't seem to tear my eyes from it. Curls of smoke start to seep from the helm as it catches fire. The grim face-plate slowly peels away, revealing the warrior's features. Milky white eyes stare back at me for a few moments and then burst, leaving only dripping hollow sockets. Lesions and welts cover what little flesh remains, mostly one cheek. His other cheek seems to have fused to his faceplate and peeled away along with it. Through the gaping hole in his face, I can see blackened stumps of shattered teeth. I wretch.

Halfway down the corridor, the remaining squad fans out and doggedly press onwards undeterred. At the head of the formation are a pair of marines in massive tactical dreadnought armour. Their sheer colossal mass is soaking up the bulk of the incoming fire and I marvel at the resilience of such a thing. They seem almost unstoppable, unbreakable, invincible even as they stride forward, batting away bullets like demi-gods swatting flies. But they are not invincible. Nor unbreakable either. Like all things, their strange-looking armour has its limits, a breaking point. Incoming rounds start to chew off chunks of ceramite and bite into flesh and bone.

Bloodied and wounded, their advance still does not falter. The pair clad in terminator plate push through concentrated bursts of explosive fire, shrugging it off without taking a backward step. I watch as a burst of accurate shots strike one of the other space marines on the chest, one! two! three! The rapid explosions bloom like fiery blood-flowers on his breastplate, knocking him from his feet. Proving even standard space marine power-armour is extremely tough, the fallen warrior just gives a shake of his helm and drags himself back to his feet. Another marine now oozes blood from multiple lacerations, the worst of which is a sickening puncture wound the size of a powerfist in his side. The catastrophic injury leaves a yawning chasm where once, his stomach and waist had been. His entrails spill out onto the floor and no amount of self-healing would replace the lost chunk of body mass. Eventually, it is this wound that proves to be fatal. When the struggling warrior next stumbles to the floor, he does not rise again. His body twitches and convulses under a swarm of fire, and he finally succumbs to deaths inevitable embrace. Throne only knows whats firing from the end of the corridor, it sounds like a damn dreadnought!. Amid the confusion, a grenade fragments in an explosive wave of concussive energy, separating limbs from bodies. I feel the sonic shockwave ripple passed even at this distance, nullifying my auditory enhancements painfully. The blast throws one marine bodily from his feet, taking off both hand, and the bolt pistol held in its grasp. Caught weaponless in such a relentless assault and stunned by the blast, another space marine dies. When he lags behind the others he is singled out and picked off. Mass reactive shells cut across him, cracking both cuisse and greaves on one side. Another accurate volley slams into the exposed spot, buckling ceramite and splintering bones. The servos in his power-armour cease functioning and its unsupported weight forces the obliterated femur to collapse in on itself. The marine crashes back against an intake shaft and slowly slumps down to the deck. A lucky shot pings off his visor, cracking green eye lenses before exploding behind him. Calmly he tears away his helm and wedges himself into the corner. His worn features are screwed up in understandable agony and his skin is ashen from blood loss. Incoming bolter rounds impact against the stricken marine's breastplate but somehow fail to detonate as expected. Instead, the projectiles seem to sink into his armour, making sickly wet sucking noises. His torso swells and bulges before finally coming apart in a shower of red ribbons, viscera and flesh. All that remains is a crimson stain that paints the corridor, his gene-seed lost forever.

Meanwhile, the remaining squad have reached the doorway and the terrible blitzkrieg goes quiet. From somewhere just out of sight I hear a sound that I'd recognize anywhere in the galaxy. Carnage is about to be wrought. A growling, throaty snarl erupts. building into a crescendo of clacking, biting chainsword teeth. In a matter of seconds, the corridor falls deathly silent. The only sound disturbing the fallen calm is the crackling of burning flesh as the decapitated head dribbles into a puddle like melted candle wax on water.

Forgive me, good reader, for I'm getting ahead of myself as is usual. Let me take you back and start at the beginning for clarity's sake. My name is Septimus Vae, oh throne! I haven't introduced myself yet before rambling on, how rude of me. Yes, I am Septimus Vae, so named because I was the fifth child and my mother was illiterate. I was born on Terra in M31 in the poor sector of hive Malliax and thus my childhood was exactly what one would expect it to be for a hivechild, tough. When I reached the age of nineteen fate took me away from home to the inner city where I found my first ever job, a remembrancer to the XVIth Legion no less. I spent time onboard the Vengeful Spirit as part of the 63rd expeditionary fleet, at the same time as Euphrati Keeler and Kyril Sindermann, although I must confess I liked neither of them. I became ill only a few weeks into my work and was duly deposited on a small agri-world that restocked the Luna Wolves supplies. At the time I was very ill and depressed but my illness spared me the later atrocities on the Vengeful Spirit. I had no idea what a lucky escape I'd had until much much later. I had been but a whisker from death.

When I finally recovered my health, another problem arose, I had no way of getting home from the agri-world whose name I never bothered to learn ( to this day I have no idea what the natives called it). With youthful gusto, I stowed away in a stasis container onboard a supply freighter bound for Terra, fully expecting to be discovered when I was unloaded on home soil. That freighter, the Nautilus had other plans, however. Still, light-years from Terra the ship blew its main core reactor after a troublesome transition from the warp and duly marooned itself in the void. When the rescue finally came, the crew evacuated the scuppered vessel leaving the cargo behind. I was that cargo. Being in stasis is like only having one memory and it being stuck on an infinite loop, for centuries. It drove me crazy. I was rescued by a space junker and rogue trader named Robute Surcouf. To this man, I owe my life and I cannot thank him enough, may the Emperor bless you, wherever you are Robute. It took me a full year to recover from stasis anxiety and a further year to reintegrate myself into society. For the year was now M41. I had drifted on the endless tides of the void for almost ten thousand years, chasing a balloon in my head that I would never catch. When we made our way back to Terra I found readjusting very difficult. I was a man out of time, a stranger on my homeworld. Everyone and everything I had ever known and loved was long gone. As you can imagine I was utterly devastated. When I emerged from my grief and self-piteous wallowing I was a new man. My stint in stasis bought me some minor fame and for a while, my face was on every vid screen and datapad. It was this five minutes of fame that eventually helped me into a cushy if somewhat boring job as an Imperial Incarceration Investigator. It sounds much grander than it is. My work was to inspect Imperial incarceration facilities whereby my findings would be used to make decisions on matters such as facility viability and security threats. Thus my tale begins inside one such maximum-security orbital incarceration facility. Arainia V is a gas giant way out in the far-flung reaches of the Segmentum Solar, on the fringes of the anomaly known as the "eye of Terror". Arainia V was dull and lifeless, literally just a ball of gas, a dreary grey/brown in appearance and instantly forgettable. Also, it's irrelevant to my tale. In orbit around said planet, however, lay a cluster of satellite moons, one of which went by the catchy moniker of "penal colony X-1182-B33-89/BB90 delta", rolls off the tongue, right?. Later I'm reliably told the "residents" refer to it by a different name.

I and my 'escort', one Captain Aldo Lopez, were deep in conversation in the mag-elevator on the way down to the lowest level of the facility. A monotone servitor announced our arrival and we stepped out onto the cold decking of Detention Bay E-1. The gargantuan chamber, and the four others like it, were sickle-shaped and curved out of sight somewhere in the distance. On both sides, row upon row of cells formed massive walls some 2000 units long and 1000 cells high. When I glance up to where I know the main entrance should be I find it shrouded from view by a thin layer of clouds. Such a cavernous structure truly was a feat of Mechanicus engineering, a modern marvel built to house murderers, rapists and heretics.

The cells themselves were one-piece, prefab plasteel shells, mass-produced to be slotted together like building blocks akin to the "lay-go" every child of ancient Terra was rumoured to have played with. The front-facing inner wall of each cell had been replaced by a crackling energy barrier. It surged and spat showers of tiny iridescent sparks, switching colours seemingly at random. The whole assembly reminded me of a patchwork blanket I'd had as a child and staring too long leaves me dizzy. Pulses of vermilion and lazuline energy dance angrily as if to remind the prisoners of their place. When not in the middle of technicoloured spasms, the energy would dissipate and become transparent, as if it had never even been there. Overhead a vast spiders web of walkways connect and intersect, allowing servitors access to the cells. I'm told the prisoners rarely leave their cells, and those who do are the unlucky ones headed to the thermal-incinerator where flesh and bone become fuel for the furnace.

Lopez had proudly been explaining the minutia of the self-sustaining, indestructible cells structure, built to hold even the vilest Xenos species from across the galaxy. "...our current population database extends to the furthest reaches of the Imperium" he droned, shooting me an agitated glare when I voiced a question during the practised and polished speech. Before what I was certain would have been an unhelpful response, Lopez stopped and cocked his head to one side, straining to hear something. His eyes had suddenly grown wide as saucers and though his mouth still moved, nothing came out. When I turned to see what had him so shaken, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, although what qualifies as ordinary in these sort of places was anybody's guess. From within the cell in front of me, I suddenly hear a strange voice. "Welcome to the Hole Septimus Vae" came a voice or more accurately, voices from the shadows. It was such an alien sound, both male and female at once, yet out of sync at the same time. It sounded utterly demonic(forgive me Emperor) and unnatural. So peculiar was that voice it made me overlook the most worrying aspect of it; the familiar use of my full name, at least at first. With piqued curiosity and feeling slightly disgusted, I took a step towards the cell and suddenly noticed all around us had fallen silent. Unsure of what passed for normality in this particular facility, I could only assume nothing was amiss. Still, when combined with Captain Lopez's bewildered expression, the effect was a little unnerving. It reminded me of a hull-breach training exercise I witnessed on my short stay onboard the Vengeful Spirit, right at the very start of the great crusade. From my designated viewing screen, I saw and heard everything and it had terrified me even then. When the sealed-off section of hull was blown open, a vortex of howling wind rushed out as the pressure equalized. It had never threatened the Lunar Wolves who simply mag-locked themselves to the deck. The silence that followed the venting of air had been the silence of the void. That was how the silence in the detention bay felt. All-consuming. Unknown expectation seemed to fill the air around me, poised, although I have no idea what it was poised for. An ominous feeling that was not exactly dread, but hinted at something very similar, hung in the air, filling the detention bay. Icy fingers ran down my spine and I had to suppress the urge to shudder. However, my curiosity overcame my caution as it usually did and I pushed it aside, after all, I had absolutely no reason to feel unsafe. Slowly, I made my way closer to the cell, step by step. The silence was deafening, becoming thicker and more tangible as If I could reach out and touch it. Suddenly, with an almighty crack of energy, the cells barriers snapped back into life, all of them igniting simultaneously. Dazzling flashes of crimson light streaked from cell to cell. Like any sane human being I jumped at the sound, a sound I hadn't even noticed had been absent until that moment. As the cells lit up again, so too the sound is returned. I laughed out loud, a nervous sound. My feet remained rooted to the spot despite a mental urge to flee. Without warning, another loud electrical crack splits the air as the barriers snap off and on again. I take another step backwards and its only when I look up that I spot a face leering out at me from one of the cells. Wretchedness is etched upon the worn, scarred features, a face that had never known beauty. It grinned at my somewhat cowardly retreat, exposing bleeding gums and disturbingly pointed black teeth. "What's the hole?" I asked, my voice a little shakier than I would have liked. In response, the man gestured grandly, spreading his arms as if to encompass the whole facility. "the question I'd have asked was how did you know my name, investigator". The sound of his voice sends more chills down my spine.

From somewhere behind me, Captain Lopez finally recovers his wits and finds his tongue. "impossible" he bleated and I half turned to face him, unwilling to fully take my eyes off the grinning prisoner. "he knew my name" I stated questioningly. Lopez ignored me and blurted out "I heard him speak...those cells are soundproof". Unimpressed, I repeated my statement. "he spoke my name?". Still, this oddity didn't seem to be as disturbing to the Captain as it was becoming to myself. It's impossible" stated Lopez again. "apparently not" I gave in sarcastic response. In mocking reply, the prisoner performed a slight bow and spoke again in that oh so disturbing voice. "not impossible, improbable" he stated matter-of-factly. Still unnerved I took another step back, making the prisoner's toothy grin grow even wider. "your... voice?" was all I could utter. At that moment the massive lumen strips high above us chose to flicker on and off. I turned to face Lopez and asked "that normal?" nodding up at the faltering lights. On, off, on, off they went. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. When the barriers chose to reignite again, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned back to face the oddball prisoner, expecting his amused expression. The lights flickered. Darkness, Light. Darkness, Light. He hadn't moved a muscle, stood with hands-on-hips in an almost casual fashion. Darkness. Light. The prisoners face grinning from behind the barrier. Darkness. Light. Still grinning stupidly at me. Darkness. Light. Grinning but something was missing this time. When I noticed what it was my mouth fell open aghast. "Lopez...Look" I stammered staring at the prisoner who was clearly stood outside of his cell by a whole yard. Darkness. Light. And he was back behind the barrier, leaving me doubting my sanity. I took a step towards Lopez, studying the prisoner intently. It was then I noticed the shape of silhouettes stood at every one of the cells, peering out. While I struggled to find my voice, those around me had no such problem. A deafening chorus of voices howled out from the darkness, the acoustics of the vast cell block echoing it into a solid wall of noise. The effect was an assault to the senses. A wave of rippling sound hit me like a physical blow. Uncontrollably, I lurched over and violently emptied the contents of my stomach onto the decking. Amid the unintelligible tangle of thousands of voices, I was sure I heard the sound of mocking laughter. I felt the Captains hand on my shoulder, and he tried to steer me, still vomiting, towards the exit. "quickly, move!" he spoke urgently and I staggered with him as my stomach continued to spasm. "come on, now" Lopez repeated and this time I thought I noticed an edge of panic in his tone and this frightened me. Try as I might, I could not get my words out in between dry wretches, even though I had nothing left inside to expel. Glad that we were moving away from the prisoner I allowed Lopez to usher me towards the doorway. However, when we reached the exit the auto-panels would not slide apart as they had upon entering and the Captain cursed under his breath. "throne, open!" I knew that could not be good, but was unable to ask as I recovered. Spitting saliva and vomit I eventually managed to croak, my voice unsteady and slurring my words. "did...you sssseee hhimmm" I asked, watching Lopez take out a small bladed object from a pocket and wedge it into the metallic wall panel, prising away the external plate to get access to the manual input interface. At that moment a strange and irrelevant thought came into my mind. "That's contraband", I thought and would have laughed if I could have. Lopez was wasting his time, attempting to beat the advanced security system in place with a flick-knife. All incarceration facilities had security systems of the higher grades.

Mechanicum made and excellent at what it was designed to do, stop things getting out, as is expected in such dangerous environments. The system was overly complex and fiddly. The fail-safe devices consisted of a holo-matrix, a keypad fingerprint reader and a retinal-scanner. Two of three manual input methods would need to be completed to override the system and give manual access to the locking seals. Which was unfortunate as the entire damn system relied on a stable energy source and currently, ours was fluctuating wildly and getting worse. "did you see him?" I managed to croak in a dry whisper but the Captain couldn't hear me, one raised hand on his jaw as he attempted to communicate with the sub-dermal vox implanted in his jaw. He cursed to himself again and I knew he had been unsuccessful. All around us, the lights continued to flicker and fail. Darkness, Light, Darkness, Light. In one such flash, I noticed Lopez wore an expression of fear on his face. Confusion and fear where there should have been implacable calm. I repeated my question louder as my voice returned, tugging on his padded shoulder guards. "Never mind that old wretch, the doors are jammed, the vox isn't responding and the back-up generators haven't kicked in yet" he replied. With a grave finality, he unholstered the concealed las-pistol strapped to his side. Great, a damn laspistol in a facility full of rapists, murderers and killers. I stared at the woefully inadequate thing in his hand and couldn't help myself giggling, a nervous reaction. The look on the Captains face told me he was well aware of how much use it would be should the need to use it arise. "count yourself lucky I even have this thing, the guards are well armed and I rarely carry a weapon". I'd had enough now and put aside the professional facade I wore to voice my opinion. "that's not much comfort when I see no guards anywhere, I haven't seen a one since we got down here. What sort of prison is this?" I shouted above the symphony of voices. I couldn't make out his reply, if he even gave one, as my auditory augmentation tried in vain to separate one voice from thousands. The pressure it produced in my inner ear sickened me and messed up my equilibrium. I wobbled but managed not to throw up again, glad to have nothing left to vomit. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on his pistol, Lopez bundled me away from the doorway briskly. We moved towards the far end of the cell block and I estimate it's about half a kilometre away. "where are all your guards?" I demanded and Lopez had no answer. He's way out of his depth I thought, glancing up at him. The look on his face had hardened as he warily scanned left and right as we moved, his eyes deliberately avoiding my own. As we continued to move I shout out more and more disturbing questions, questions that Lopez cannot answer, or simply does not want to answer. Irritated now, I throw a flurry of less taxing questions at him. "why haven't the back-up generators started? weren't you in constant vox contact with someone? why are there no side exits in a cell block this big? throne Lopez! answer me" Still no reply. We were less than a third of the way to the exit when the lighting finally surrendered. There was no explosion of sparks and splinters though, the lumens simply blinked out in order as if being switched off. I felt the cold touch of black claws on my skin as darkness engulfed us in its inky embrace almost completely. The only illumination now came from haphazard flashes of the energy barriers, which, to my relief, still confined the inmates to their cells.
Trying to remain calm, I chided myself for even considering the locking mechanisms could fail. The weak lighting created a sinister atmosphere, making shadows dance and giving mundane objects an air of menace.

Moving almost totally blind now, we stumbled our way across the deck, heading in the general direction of the exit on the far side of the cellblock. We were being harried by a cacophony of voices every step of the way. I listened intently as we moved and the tangle of voices slowly began to make sense. They unfurled and coalesced, slowly turning the multitude into the singular. And then, all of a sudden, I heard with absolute clarity what it was they chanted. One single word, over and over, again and again. "Lopez, what's Nurgle?" I asked, unfamiliar with the word but certain I had heard correctly. When I duly got no reply I broke from his grip and stopped dead in my tracks, refusing to go any further. That finally got his attention and I repeated my question loud and clear. Only then did I see the look of panic on his partially illuminated face. "I...I don't know, w...why?" he faltered and scratched his nose absently. He was lying, I knew it. "they are chanting it, Nurgle, Nurgle, Nurgle, listen?" I told him. "I just hear the noise that the sound-suppressor should be nullifying, it must have malfunctioned" he replied without any real conviction. "does it happen often?" I asked, already knowing the answer. "Never" was the reply I expected and received and reluctantly I started to move again.

The dim flashes were growing less frequent and I could almost sense the threat lurking in the shapes and shadows. Shadows within shadows and shapes that were not shapes. Things that were... throne knows what they were. In a vivid flash, I saw one of the prisoners stood facing out of his cell, his silhouette outlined in the wan red light. The moment seemed to last forever, dragging itself out. When it ended I had questioned myself and my sanity. The silhouette I had stared at in the darkness had horns on its head. It had horns I swear. Could it have been my imagination running wild in such a stressful situation, maybe? I didn't really believe that though. I had to fight to drag my focus back into reality. The predicament had been getting more and more tense by the minute. Tiny unspoken threats were poised like daggers in the darkness, waiting for their time to strike. "surely there's another way out" I voiced loudly and the Captain turned to face me shaking his head. The crimson light reflected in his eyes made him look eerie as he spoke. " strict safety protocols only allow for two exits in each block, one way in, one way out. For easy management, he shrugged. I broke eye contact, growing despairingly more frustrated, the whole facility was a contradiction of errors. I calmed myself before asking the most disturbing question once again. "where are all your guards Lopez? You have a full squadron of Skitarii guards" I knew this for certain as my data-pad schematics had given me a full list of X-1182-B33-89/BB90 delta's details on my journey here. Lopez looked as if the thought had just dawned on him in that very second. True panic crossed his face, his eyes growing wide, an animal cornered by a wild apex predator. "I...I'm not sure" he finally mumbled in a low voice that offered me no comfort. His fear was infectious and I felt my own panic rising even further. "at least we can see a little" I ventured in a rare moment of optimistic levity. A moment or two later, as if on some written cue, the only source of light, coming from the energy barriers, began shutting down. With an orderly efficientness, the energy barriers flickered, lighting up as one, then winking off in such fashion that the darkness seemed to approach like a rippling tsunami, a wave of nothingness that left only fearful emptiness and silence in its wake. It quickly washed over us just before we reached the exit and we covered the final few meters in absolute pitch darkness. I held my breath as I waited, noticing the voices had fallen to a whisper now with the extinguishing of the light until all was silent. I dared to comfort myself with the thought that the sound suppressors must be functioning properly again. A minute or two passed and neither of us spoke. I waited patiently while Lopez did who knows what to the access panel and I steadied my frayed nerves by composing the damning report I would submit when I was home on Terra. Needless to say, this hellhole would be declared as unfit and dangerous with its population being re-housed elsewhere. Lopez was making a rhythmic tapping sound on my right and I swore in my head that if he was attempting communication in the manner I believed he was, I'd make his future employment chances drop from unlikely to impossible. "If that's Morse code, Captain, by the emperor I'll throttle you myself" I snapped, my patience worn thin. "huh? I haven't made a sound since the blackout" came his reply from somewhere off to my left. I froze, trying to force my fear down. Must be the Skitarii guards I told myself, feeling silly for even considering it could be anyone else. "hello, who's there?" I asked the dark tentatively. The tapping noise came closer until I was sure it passed between myself and where I believed Lopez to be. I almost wet myself when two voice whispered next to my ear. "are you afraid of the dark, inspector?"

To my eternal shame, I shrieked like a girl and windmilled my arms at the dark, striking nothing but air. I knew without a doubt who the speaker was, I'd have recognized his synthesized drawl anywhere, and still would. From out of nowhere, bright beams of light pierced the blackness, sweeping the walkway and quickly finding us. I made the rookie mistake of looking right back at the source, blinding myself in the process. The bearer of the lights advanced on us quickly, their heavy footsteps closing by the second. I backed away instinctively until I felt the cold metal of a wall pressed against my back. I heard Lopez mumble something "Reiker four-ten, that you?" Before I could ask who Reiker was the lights were upon us and around us. I barely heard Lopez grunt before I was stuck, hard on the back of the head. My vision exploded, birthing a galaxy of twinkling stars behind my eyes and it was at that very moment I did something heroic and slumped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 1 New beginnings

"Cruelty, thy name is Fabius"-neverborn daemon Canathara

The chirurgeon clicked and hissed as it worked, efficiently slicing flesh and muscle with its scalpel-arm appendages. Its precision was pinpoint accurate, each incision performed with data-slate schematic perfection. Still, it would only be trusted to do the "grunt work" thought Fabius. He would perform the delicacies of the procedure himself, actions that required the finesse of the kind one could only hope to gain through centuries of experience. With his free hand, he completed one such action, the re-connection of a bundle of nerve fibres, painstakingly connecting the severed ends individually. The intricacies of such a minute process could not be left to a tool such as the chirurgeon. Fabius Bile stared down at the forearm splayed out before him with cold detachment, the skin folded apart revealing the arms inner workings. A pair of nano suction devices hovered on mechadendrites over the veins, ready to remove any excess blood with tiny intakes of air. There was, however, no excess blood. In fact, there was no blood to be seen at all. A testament to his surgical skill in such procedures. It was just as he liked it. If blood was to be spilt it was to be spilt in anger or not at all he thought to himself, satisfied with the experimental work on his right forearm. Over the centuries he had almost grown fond of the self-surgeries his accursed bodies always required. From the moment his stored consciousness was thrust into a new shell of meat and bone it inevitably began to decay, and the time it took to do so was steadily decreasing. He preferred to perform these self-surgeries without anaesthesia or numbing stims, as a kind of penance for his many many sins. Plus, such substances could cloud one's mind and leaden one's touch. Qualities he would rather not have diminished when he himself was the subject. Across the apothecarium, the semi-circular doors irised open with a hiss of pneumatic pistons and in strode Arrian and approached the Chief Apothecary. In the long-forgotten early years of the Legions, such blatant flaunting of medicae protocols and the resulting breach of the purity seals in place would have had led to severe repercussions. Such things no longer held the same importance in the new millennium. The world-eater came to a halt a handspan from the Chief Apothecary. In such close proximity, one could have put a hand on the distracted clonelord. Choked, stabbed, eviscerated, what's the difference thought Fabius, noting where Arrian stood. Trusted Arrian, as Igori addressed him. It was true, Fabius did trust him as much as one could and more than most aboard the Vesalius. He had proven his loyalty many times with words and actions. Indeed, Arrian had bled for the manflayer and he had no doubt he would do so again, probably sooner than he would like. Among his crew, only the World Eater and Igori ever received his trust. A healthy dose of paranoia had kept him alive over the centuries. A large number of clones in various secret locations spread across the galaxy aided his survival also. That helped. Arrian stood, oblivious to the look Fabius shot him, his chains and skulls clinking quietly together. All the same, Arrian took an unconscious step back before handing over the data-slate. Fabius didn't even bother looking at it, he already knew the status of the vessel. "the Vesalius is happy" the ships overseer Wolver had told him and Fabius's lips turned up into what might have been called a grin at some private memory. The Chief Apothecary was sorely lacking any real sense of joviality these days, there was no place for it. In a flash the half-smile was gone, hidden from sight. "was there anything else, world-eater?" he asked, in an attempt to mask his near moment of mirth. It would not do to show even the slightest sign of weakness, even to those few loyal to him. As if to make a point, Arrian smirked knowingly and he knew he had failed. "nothing at all, I was simply observing your work. I assume it was you who re-connected those nerve bundles? You didn't allow that, thing, to operate on you? He glanced up disgustedly at the chirurgeon who still busily whirred and clicked as it began to las-seal the flesh of the forearm back together. Bile grunted in reply "there are some aboard this vessel who could learn a thing or two by watching this "thing" work". He patted the mechanical symbiote affectionately. It remained unmoved, however, perched upon his shoulders hastily finishing its task. It was Arrian's turn to grunt as his sharp eyes appraised the strange warp-touched thing's work. "It appears the "thing" has a lot yet to learn, the third and fourth sutures are off and untidy" he pointed out leaning forward to scrutinize further. When he almost touched the forearm the Chirurgeon let out a hiss. In half a second, razor-sharp blades had unfolded from within its chassis, coupled with mono-molecular daggers, circular bone-saws and a host of various other vicious-looking pointy things. It raised them protectively in defence of its master. Was it jealous?

The sinister creature resembled an arachnid in exoskeletal armour made of dark metal. Surrounded by a swarm of clacking appendages and snaking mechadendrites, it arched aggressively forwards in challenge. Arrian's hands were instantly on the pommels of his falax blades as he glanced towards the Chief Apothecary, who merely shrugged in response. Arrian let out a derisive snarl, making no attempt to hide the flicker of rage flaring up as the butcher's nails began to bite. "slay the filthy Xenos creature" said the voices in his head, urging him to violence. Pragmatism eventually stayed his hand, for to strike the creature would be to strike Fabius himself and no good could come of that. The Chief Apothecary considered the strange creature an extension of himself. The world eater quelled his murderous thoughts lest he end up as the next specimen on the operating slab. "by your leave, Chief Apothecary, there are many tasks I have yet to complete".
The primogenitor dismissed him with a flick of his free hand and Arrian exited the room. Only when the apothecarium doors had cycled shut did the chirurgeon retract its arsenal of weaponry, folding them away neatly into its carapace. With curiosity, Fabius noticed a few new tools among them that were not his doing. This time, he did actually laugh at the absurd thought of the chirurgeon going about upgrading itself while he was in between healthy bodies. He would not have put it past the creature to be capable of such a thing. With its work completed it now slumped motionless across his shoulders and Fabius vowed to investigate his suspicions further, but for now, it could wait, he had other business.

Igori hunted. Stalking the dark spaces of the lower decks, moving with purpose. On a vessel the size of the Vesalius, there would always be prey, if one knew where to look for it and there would always be places to hunt such prey too. The bowels of the ship were a sanctuary for the failed experiments or the "vatborn". The first of these creations had been created sterile, incapable of reproduction, but this had changed over the long centuries. Genetic mutations had seen them eventually become able to reproduce, giving birth to whole litters of voidborn wretches in a population explosion. As population numbers swelled with each new generation, the finite living space available had dwindled until the creatures began to cull themselves out of necessity. This culture soon spawned a whole new breed of murderous wretches who knew they would have to kill or be killed. They made their homes in the damp darkness of the lowest decks, living and dying amid the rancid squalor. Their entire meaningless lives were lived out within the confines of the ship without even imagining the vast world beyond the hull plating. The diseased mutants lived a truly pitiful existence in eternal fear. Death could come for them in a myriad of forms, and hunted for sport by the gland hounds was just one of them. Igori spat in disgust. She loathed them. Would execute every last one of the maggots given the chance, spineless gutter-spawned filth. Not a shred of honour among the lot of them she thought. Their continued existence as the benefactor's failures offended her.

Flitting from shadow to shadow, Igori moved unseen and unheard, scant inches away from the oblivious creatures, all the while biting back her contempt. Better not to come amongst the creatures like a predator among a pack of prey, patience would better serve her purpose. And so she chose not to alert them to her presence yet, employing stealth over brute force. Still, the temptation to cleave the passing mutant bodies into bloody bits was constant in her mind but the matriarch knew discipline and self-restraint better than most. She understood she was now past her prime and her time would soon be at hand. Her position as first would be usurped, wrenched from her grasp. It would probably be Mayshana, her daughter and a cunning, skilful fighter. That would be fitting she thought bitterly. Putting distractions aside, for now, she made her way towards the central hub, a vast cargo storage vault a half a kilometre wide. The flesh market was the one location where mutants and freaks gathered in their numbers to trade and barter, plot and scheme, beg steal or borrow. Silent as an autumn leaf, she stole into the vast, dimly lit hold on the overhanging skywalks, searching for the perfect spot for what she had planned. It didn't take long to find it. Behind the main bulk of the flesh market, off towards one corner, was a horseshoe-shaped enclosure. Around 40 dark shapes gathered in the den, lounging around their rotten smelling hookahs, blowing tendrils of blue smoke into the air where it hung in a cloud. The stuff would kill them no doubt. That and the low-grade chemical stims shortened their lives considerably. It did not do it fast enough for her liking. She crept forward on the walkway until directly overhead and listened. The mutants chatted in their crude native tongue, a combination of primitive, grunted slang and hand gestures. Groups of them gathered to play some kind of game involving bones and lots of spitting, hunched over as they gambled whatever passed for currency down here. Other individuals stood apart offering their wares, surrounded by collared individuals for use as slaves or as raw material for experimentation. Possibly as food too, they seemed not to care either way. At the single narrow entranceway stood a bull-headed brute, his bovine torso scarred and covered in coarse thick hair matted to his muscles with sweat. Deformed antlers perched unevenly atop the bulbous distended skull. Igori guessed this was what passed for security down here. An irritation at best she thought, rolling her shoulders and wakening her aching muscles. She had spent a long time confined to the main apothecary chambers not so long ago, while her wounds healed. Wounds she had sustained when she had stepped in front of the Fulgrim clone and taken the blast meant for him. And all for nought. The Benefactor had promptly 'given' the false primarch to the Necron known as Trazyn the collector along with the rest of the unwanted mutinous Emperors Children, including that devious sycophant, Flavius Alcanex. The exchange had been a necessary one, the benefactor has said. Fabius himself had operated on her wounds, and she was thankful for this. She had healed well, the time in the apothecarium had been a frustrating period but ultimately worthwhile. While far from peak condition, she would be more than a match for anything the wretches below could muster. They would be dead before they even knew it. With that final thought, she fell into their midst, a drop of acid rain that brought only the promise of pain and death. Landing on one unlucky creature she unsheathed her blade and drew the pistol she had claimed from a fallen harlequin. She glanced around, seeing her appearance had caused panic and terror within the rabble.

The wan light glinted off the edge of her curved hunting blade as she strode with purpose towards the brute at the entrance. His yellow eyes looked up at her just as she plunged her blade up through his jaw, embedding it to the hilt. As the light in his wide eyes flickered and faded, she wrenched the blade free in a torrent of warm visceral fluids. Taking position in front of the only exit, with blood splattered across her in a swathe of crimson, she drew her shuriken pistol, snarled her challenge and began to slaughter.

From a secluded walkway high above, eyes watched the unfolding drama with cold curiosity. The ageing glandhound still fought well thought the watcher. Her body had become a whirling, slicing cyclone that killed without effort. With bodies piling up, Igori stood behind the mound of flesh lost in murder. From her vantage point in the rafters, the lone watcher saw what Igori could not, however. The mass of mutants was moving as a pack, a herd ready to stampede in their desperation. Individually they posed little threat but the sheer numbers would overpower the ageing matriarch. She watched as Igori spun and moved between mutant bodies, a dancer dealing death with each strike of her blade. Yet still, she did not notice the oncoming tide of hunched figures as the net closed around her. Mayshana saw this and knew she could easily prevent Igori's inevitable death, yet still, she watched and considered quietly. Down below, a lucky strike had dislocated Igori's shoulder and the arm now hung uselessly by her side. Even with only her Eldar pistol, she was still a terrifying sight, roaring with pent up fury through gritted teeth. Still, Mayshana did not move to aid her, nor warn of the impending danger as the mass of bodies made their bid for freedom. With a simple shrug, Mayshana, firstborn of the glandhound matriarch, daughter to Igori, sheathed her blade and faded away into the gloom of the ship without a word.

The Vesalius cut its way through the void of realspace effortlessly, its sleek prow piercing the ether with the silent menace of a poison-tipped dart. It's outer hull shielding cast eerie reflections, seeming to swallow the light, twist and distort it, then vomit it back out. The bulk of its main body was all smooth flowing curves and sweeping contours that streamed almost unbroken from nose to tail. In appearance, it was quite unlike anything the forges on Titan or Mars churned out in vast numbers. Those hulking brutes were mobile fortresses of stone and metal, bristling with gun turrets, sensor arrays and auger detectors that clung to every inch of surface like barnacles to a whale. Rather, the Vesalius gave the impression of being an organic hybrid craft and one could not help but draw comparisons to the wraithbone vessels grown by the Eldar bonesingers. At the ship's stern, huge dorsal fins swept-back forming a circular vent that held main engine thrusters, currently haloed by plasma burning hotter than a new-born star.

The ship's interior continued where it's exterior left off. It positively thrummed with latent energies and showed striking similarities to the organic design of a living body. Possibly one of the reasons Fabius had grown so fond of the vessel.. Power cables spread out like a network of arteries from its main core reactor, the beating heart of the ship. Kilometres of thick communication cables and cooling pipes snaked overhead in thick metallic bundles, serving as the ship's systema nervosum. Fabius placed his hand against the inner hull plating and could feel the energy pulsing through the ship to a steady beat. Its machine spirit had evolved into that of a huntress, or a savage apex predator, ever eager to hunt, always quick to anger. Even the pessimistic rationale that was Fabius Bile could feel its presence though it pained him to admit it.

He worked his way deeper into the ships cavernous interior where dark things grew in numbers. More and more signs along the corridors showed the evolution of the ship. Wraithbone growths sprung from the framework in eerie white fingers as if holding the Vesalius in a vice grip. Fabius knew the wraithbone reached deep into the ship, all the way to its core, The architect of these changes was a strange Eldar being known as Key who dwelled in a secluded section of the vessel surrounded by the Kacophoni or noise marines. The wraithbone growths shrouded themselves in the gloom, encroaching on ceiling lumens to stave off the light, creating an overwhelming feeling of being observed. To the Chief Apothecary whose eyesight was still pin-sharp, this meant little. The further he walked into the ship's depths the more it's passageways resembled a network of arteries. Scores of secondary capillaries branched off in all directions, known as "cur-roads" Hanging walkways were strung above and offered varying routes to the same destinations. Once, in the past, Arrian had studied the ship's original schematics and found the blueprints next to useless. Things just weren't where they were supposed to be. And even more alarming, things didn't stay where they were supposed to be either. The crew had accepted the ship was an unsolvable puzzle, an ever-growing enigma. Thus it was easy to lose oneself within the labyrinthine interior, depending upon the mood of the ship. New crew members had found out this at a perilous cost. Today, however, the Vesalius seemed to be on its best behaviour and the Chief Apothecary found very few surprises as walked. He passed some of the assigned private quarters which were little more than spartan sleeping areas with only the most basic of facilities. To the subhumans of the consortium, this mattered little. They needed little sleep and an hour of snatched rest would suffice for days or longer. When the Legiones Astartes finally did rest, it was not done in the same manner as the baseline humans did it. A space marine slept with half their brain still awake in a semi-cataleptic state, always watchful so as to never be caught off guard. One amongst a plethora of gifts bestowed upon them by the false Emperor.

Fabius passed through this whole section without encountering a single soul, steadily making his way towards one of the laboritoriums spread across the lower decks. He took a side passage that was hidden so well as to be nigh on invisible to the naked eye, the entrance secreted behind a massive cooling shaft only visible from the perfect angle. When he emerged he stepped out onto a walkway suspended across a vast chasm that dropped off into the depths like terra's oceanic shelves did when it still retained the luxury of oceans. The deck-plate undulated as his heavy boots stepped onto it, his flesh cloak flapping around his ankles as he moved briskly across the span without hesitation. Beneath him, the shaft plunged through clouds of steam and chem-fog, disappearing from sight. He knew not what was down there or where it led and nor did he care either. The ship was entitled to a little mystique, and some places were better off remaining unknown. He stepped off the walkway and slipped back out onto a corridor he felt the auto-turrets tracking his movement as he walked. His armour emitted his signature I.D and the gun emplacements ghosted away into the ship as if they had never been there. Fabius noticed this behaviour and stopped to examine the sunken niches in the deck plating and wall panels. "Interesting" he mused to himself before continuing. A further three steps down the corridor and the deadly plasma cannon array in the ceiling whirred to life, unfurling smoothly in a matter of seconds. The autonomous tracking followed his progress, keeping him locked in their targeting reticules and swivelling their long polished barrels as he passed. Fabius made a mental note to have them re-calibrated to increase their reaction times. While humans would be obliterated before they even reached for a weapon fellow Astartes would not. That fraction of a second would be all a Legion warriors would need to take advantage. After passing beneath the fourth pair of turrets, the corridor ended at an arched doorway, flanked by mutant guards on each side. The sickly looking things were more scabs and scars than flesh and bone, both wheezing into re-breathers that had seen better days. The laboratorium beyond belonged to one of the many apothecaries under his wing. Wasting no time on pleasantries he ignored the mutant guards, who stood unmoving as he stood between them. The vox unit built into his armour hissed with static and a moment passed in silence while the locking mechanisms disengaged, retracting the tri-panel doors in a series of circular, horizontal and diagonal motions respectively.

Fabius was met by a foul, chemical fog that seeped out from within. The green mist brought with it a wave of heat that washed over Fabius with the lingering caress of a wet kiss. It seemed that the laboritorium had a climate of its own, a microcosm of dark dense atmosphere and cloying fetid humidity that clung to one's armour for hours. The walls dripped with moisture and were carpeted by some form of organic matter, brown and slimy to the touch. The floor was littered with storage canisters and cargo crates piled so high they touched the ceiling, obstructing the air-recyclers. The cooling pipes running across the walls and ceiling were covered in growths and fungi that evicted clouds of microspores as Bile passed. The spores hung in the air then drifted lazily, glittering in the shafts of diffuse light like emerald snowflakes. Shelves and cabinets filled to bursting with a cornucopia of apparatus, chem-units and hundreds upon hundreds of vials, most of which were unsealed and looked to have been stagnating for a long time. When Bile made to examine the layer of organic matter with a fingertip it reacted to the touch of his finger, rippling around it in concentric circular patterns like the fabled crop circles of ancient Terra. Curiously, everything organic seemed to be sprouting secondary growths that mushroomed as they spilt over each other as it spread. In one corner a stack of heavy gun-metal grey chem-drums rusted, spewing viscous liquid from holes in the corroded metal, forming a neon puddle on the deck plating. The noise was indescribable. Machinery whirred, generators sparked, vents hissed out steam overlaid by the constant burble of simmering chemicals, as well as other unidentifiable sounds. Fabius moved down one long aisle towards the stack of chemical drums. At his approach, the drums began to shake and vibrate before something scattered them across the floor. The thing that had emerged came bounding towards the Chief Apothecary then sprang up towards his face. Without sparing it a second glance, the Clonelord's hand nonchalantly gripped the "thing" by what might have been its neck, and held it contemptuously at arm's length in the air. "Khorag, restrain your beast or I will do it myself" rasped Fabius with menacing intent. From a nearby alcove, he heard movement and strode towards the sound with the snuffling beast still in hand. "Chief apothecary Fabius, Paz'uz merely wished to welcome you I'm sure." said Khorag, "feign ignorance and he goes off chasing nurglings" he added in a conspiratorial whisper, stepping out from the shadowy niche. The grave warden stood taller than Fabius by more than ahead, clad in ancient terminator armour that droned like a swarm of insects as its servos ground into motion. Bile still held the creature in his unflinching grip and it had ceased struggling. It panted and from one of its many anatomically incorrect orifices came a pair of serpentine tongues, snaking out independently of each other. Bile assumed they came from the beast's maw but could not be certain. The slavering tongues gave a wet, slurping lick that left a viscous acidic drool covering his gauntlet. With a look of disgust, he slung the bloated, warp-creature aside with a casual but not unkind flick of his wrist. The thing was running even before it bounced off the deck, chasing something unseen without breaking step. "you see, he likes you" Khorag insisted with a wet burbling chuckle, the sound like flesh caught in a chainswords teeth. Fabius remained silent while he removed the creature's saliva with a rag. From somewhere the beast grunted as it lumbered noisily into something else, eliciting a chorus of tiny giggles. "what is it you wish of me, Chief apothecary, I assume this is not a social call" Khorag enquired. "An opportunity has presented itself to me, one that I simply cannot refuse. It will be a perilous journey" replied Bile, giving nothing away.
"and you require some form of weaponized pestilence I assume," Khorag said, confident he could provide what was needed. "I do not require A weaponized contagion, I require the weaponized contagion, grave warden. In bolter shell form as well as darts for my own pistol" Fabius stated. Khorag remained placid but there was a spark of interest in his dead eyes, just as the Clonelord knew there would be. "It will not come cheap as I'm sure you are aware" the former Death Guard added slyly. "It never comes cheap" snapped Bile in reply. Again, Khorag chuckled with a knowing expression on his weathered face. Fabius nodded "I need it ready in ten cycles" he stated, before adding "and it must be utterly, utterly lethal". Khorag stroked his hollow cheeks thoughtfully as if considering the offer. "is not everything I produce utterly lethal?" he answered in mock offence. He would be happy to oblige. After all, was this not the very reason he had joined "the consortium" as the other apothecaries had named it. The consortium was a mismatched collection of traitor legion apothecaries, gathered under the tutelage of Chief Apothecary Fabius. Among the unorthodox and volatile group were space marines from the Night Lords, Iron Warriors, Emperors Children, ~Sons of Horus, Alpha Legion, World Eaters and a useful if somewhat reluctant Bearer of the Word. Over-inflated egos and bitter rivalries could and would blow up like a melta bomb at any given moment. But for all their many differences they had all wished to learn from a master. Fabius Bile, formerly Chief Apothecary of the III Legion, self-titled Primogenitor, "manflayer" to some, "clonelord" to others, was undoubtedly a devious, cunning genius.

When Khorag spoke after a minute of silent contemplation his voice was low and deadly serious. "you understand the magnitude of the task you ask of me?" he said "Indeed, that is why I gave you ten cycles grave warden" replied Fabius as he strode from the chamber. Over his shoulder, he added tersely "Oh and Khorag, do prepare a vaccine this time". "For what I have in mind, there will be no cure" Khorag chuckled to himself, musing over the murderous ideas brewing in his mind. He unplugged the mass of cables that snaked out from the base of his skull into his armour and sighed. A wisp of noxious gas vented from beneath his archaic rebreather, which he also removed. The face beneath was pale and gaunt, sunken lifeless eyes gave him a withered and worn look. The tiny pressure pads sunken into hollow cheeks to aid breathing did little to improve facial aesthetics. His mutations were relatively slight when compared to many of the grandfather's children.

Beneath his armour, it was a different matter entirely. Much of his genhanced flesh had fused to the ceramite plate and other internal components of his armour, entombing him within the biomechanical shell. It hadn't been removed since the end of the great crusade, after the siege of Terra. What other space marines thought of as an affliction, however, Khorag saw as a blessing from the plaguefather himself. After magnetically sealing the locking mechanism and sure of his privacy, he began to work. With one massive boot, he depressed a pressure-pad set in the deck plating and a column rose from the hidden compartment. Coolant gases flowed like liquid smoke off the cryo-canister that emerged and Khorag reverently laid it on its side. For long moments he stood staring at the object like a child would with an Emperor's day gift. In appearance, it was nothing more than a mass-produced container built for storage at sub-zero temperatures, common on many worlds. Cast in a dull metallic alloy with a simplistic set of keypads at each end it was an uninspiring innocuous thing. Appearances can be deceiving" went the ancient Terran proverb. What the frosted cylinder contained was nothing short of an ancient menace, a true relic of aeons passed. Khorag allowed himself a low chuckle at the havoc and mischief contained within. Carefully, he tapped in the 24 digit code into the twin digital keypads and handles flipped out at each end of the cylinder. Holding them deftly between the thumb and forefinger of his outsized gauntlets he twisted the top section away.

Behind him, a small crowd had gathered. Stumpy, chittering squelchy things jostled for position at his feet. One of the things plonked itself unceremoniously down on the bench beside him, farted and grinned. Khorag patted it with surprising gentleness and it beamed proudly at the gathered group. "come to watch" he said softly and the nurgling nodded vigorously in reply. More of the little creatures watched from within the shadows, their tiny emerald eyes wide with wonder. "As is your right" he intoned. The nurglings, as the impish creatures were known, were the grandfathers most blessed of children and should be treated thusly. The gathering crowd made "ooohing" sounds at his feet and fought to get closer. Some stamped their feet and sulked in a childish show of petulance. Squabbles and fights broke out between them. The one sat on the desk blew a wet raspberry down at the others. Sinj chuckled. He was glad they had come to watch. Under his breath, he gave thanks to Papa Nurgle for bestowing such feculent gifts upon the faithful and with a slow deliberate motion, he removed a rune-etched vial. "Nurgle's Rot" he whispered and the gathered nurglings gasped and "ooohed and ahhhed" quietly. The one sat closest clapped its chubby little hands in uncontrollable glee. Khorag held up the vial and examined the contents for a moment. Pale light radiated from it, a sickly green bio-luminescence that pulsed like the beat of a heart. Part liquid, part gas, the warp-born contagion roiled and cast itself against the thick green glass of the vial as if it sought to break free. "soon my pretty" Khorag soothed the vial. "soon"

Chapter 2 Commorragh

Torturers and sadists, a nightmare made real, the dark Eldar are evil incarnate. Cold and beautiful,slender of bone, their lithe appearance belies their deadly talent for slaughter and cruelty.
From the hidden city of Commorragh, the dark Eldar launch their lightning raids into the depths of realspace, sowing terror and leaving devastation in their wake.
They hunt for slaves,fodder for the hell-pits and the petty amusements of their lords who draw sustenance from thebloodshed in ritual battle. For in this hellish realm, living flesh is currency and Overlord Asdrubael Vect rules above all with the greatest share.
Beneath their supreme master, the archons of the darkling city murder and cheat to keep one step ahead of She Who Thirsts. For the dark Eldar harbour a terrible curse, a wasting of theirflesh that can only be slowed by the infliction of pain. Life eternal is the reward for this soulharvest,
and the favour of the ancient haemonculi can extend an Eldar s mortal coil yet further... for a price. The alternative is damnation and endless suffering, a withering of body and mind until all that remains is dust.
But such hunger cannot ever be sated. It is a bottomless pit of hate and depravity that lurks within the Dark Eldar, a vessel that can never truly be filled, even with oceans of blood. And when the last drop has bled away, the soul thieves will know true terror as the daemons come to claim them...

"The Dark City"

The Dark City sits precariously on the interstice between the void of real space and the seething malevolence of the warp and has done so for thousands of years. Its inherent darkness festers like a weeping, gangrenous wound, infecting the webway with its evil and corruption, devouring all it touches. Over countless millennia, Commorragh has swallowed up all its surrounding sister-realms, becoming the swollen, predatory leviathan it is today. Think not of it as a city but a collection of cities on an impossibly vast scale. Portals link the Dark City to many others, accessible in an instant, though their actual location in space and time may be light-years distant. Almost all of these sub-realms are inherently evil and their connection to Commorragh fiendishly complex. On the outskirts of the city, lie powerful eldritch runes of warding to keep the Commorites of the Dark City from the seething daemonic hordes of the Empyrean. A flimsy stasis at best and one that cannot hold forever. On the outside of the barrier, the warp roils and seethes like a tempest of evil, a maelstrom of immense dark power. Cursed and vile, the neverborn who dwell in the warp search tirelessly for signs of weakness, a chink in the Dark City's armour to exploit. They are relentless and they are legion. Yet, despite all this, it is on the inside of the runic barrier that the true devils lurk, plotting and scheming with murderous intent. The Commorrites or "Drukhari" who call the Dark City home, are monstrous beings of a truly dark nature. Their vampiric existence leeches parasitically on the belly of the galaxy, grown all the more bloated from feasting on the souls of the dying. To stave off the one they call "She Who Thirsts" when they die, the Dark Eldar feed upon the souls and raw emotions of the dying, feasting on agony and suffering to sustain their vitality. In doing so they prolong their already long lifespan and cheat Slaanesh out of the eternal souls of the deceased. Yet they remain in a perpetual state of hunger and seeking evermore innovative forms of torture.

No matter which side of the veil one searches, evil will always be found and in plentiful numbers. The fate of the Dark Eldar, indeed the fate of billions, teeters on a chainblade's edge, uncertainty clouds "how" and "when" the balance will tip. But inevitably, tip it shall. An event the Dark Eldar have become more than familiar with in recent years. These events are kept fresh eternally in the mind of all Commorrites, festering like a raw, open wound. When the runic wards keeping the warp at bay fail and Commorragh is breached, the Dark Eldar pay a dear price. A price paid in blood. Such catastrophic events are called "dysjunctions", the most recent of which is known simply as the dysjunction. It had begun as a trickle of warpspawn into the city but soon became a surging tide of daemonic entities. The tsunami of foul creatures had crippled the Dark City almost entirely. Almost.

High atop the Dark City, the Corespur alone had remained untouched by the invading warp-spawn. Untouched, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Asdrubael Vect. In Commorragh, nothing went unnoticed by him, indeed nothing happened without permission from Vect. His word was law and obedience to it was all that mattered. It has been this way for over six millennia. Supreme Overlord, Asdrubael Vect holds Commorragh in his vice grip, dominating through savage ruthless force of will. His cunning intelligence and devious scheming nature are unmatched across the webway by any of the surviving Aeldari. His meteoric rise to power from slave to Archon of the Black Heart Kabal and Supreme Overseer of Commorragh had been a masterstroke itself, but the real genius of Asdrubael Vect lay in remaining alive long enough to wield his newfound power. A feat Vect achieved and continues to achieve to this day, some 6,000 years later. Death in Commorragh is never more than a heartbeat away, waiting to pounce from the shadows at the slightest sign of weakness. The Dark Eldar pose a constant and very real threat to his position, and yet Vect still avoids the claws of "She Who Thirsts" to this very day, A single slip or a moments loss of focus will see his thread cut, of this there can be no doubt. Vect envisions his potential end in the face of every one of the Dark Eldar below, from his most trusted Incubi guards to the lowliest wrack. Murderous spiteful intent is deep-seated within the Dark Eldar race, woven into the tapestry of their very souls. To be Dark Eldar is to dance intimately with the shadow of death every day of their lives. Is it little wonder why the potential to erupt into violence lies ingrained within them. Vect suspects everyone, trusts no-one and takes no chances. Attempts on his life have been numerous, as is to be expected. What he had not anticipated was the sheer lack of creativity in the methods used by the assassins trying to dispose of him. Poisons, hidden blades, overwhelming brute force, dark magicks, mono-molecular nets., filaments of crystal hidden in food, explosive devices and chemical weapons. These and a hundred other murderous methods had been tried in vain unsuccessful attempts to remove him from power. Vect sneered at the thought of all the weak efforts to usurp him. There isn't an Eldar alive he can't send screaming in pieces back to She Who Thirsts, should he but wish it. Meticulous in his planning, he never made mistakes. Mistakes were for other lessers to make and for him to laugh at. At this thought, he spared a glance across his chamber to where a crystalline statue stood hunched in the corner. Once it had been Archon of the White Flames Kabal, one Nyos Yllithian. That was until Vect had thrust his soul into the petrified husk of a glass plague victim. For nearly 1,000 years Nyos Yllithian has stood as an unmoving ornament. Yet he is far from dead. Beneath the calcified layer that encrusts the shipwreck of his body, Yllithian's mind is as alert and aware as it had ever been. Not exactly in the prime of his life of course. Vect allows him the barest scraps of the many, many dying souls to prolong the turncoat's agony. While all around him gorged on the rejuvenating energies syphoned from the dying, he stands and he hungers. Throne! how he hungered. Vect knew this. This was how Asdrubael Vect dealt with traitors and rebels, or any who would not succumb to his will. He crushed their very essence into submission, mind, body and soul alike. Let Nyos Yllithian be a lesson to any wishing to oppose him. Although his amusement with Yllithian had dwindled some 800 years ago he still kept the fallen Archon alive. Sometimes he would smile at the horrors Nyos Yllithian must surely be feeling, forever bound in his tomb of unbreakable glass, as the passage of time slowly withered away his very soul. And the boredom. The sheer, mindnumbing, endless unthinkable boredom! Vect stifled a laugh. In a moment of spite, he had the statue turned to face the wall and there it had remained for the last 700 years. Yllithian's entire world for the last 7 centuries had been reduced to a small patch of dirty stone wall. An act of uncharacteristic mercy he thought.

In his first weeks entombed inside his glass prison, Vect had Yllithian watch as he systematically tortured then obliterated his entire bloodline and remaining Kabal, down to a man. The Supreme Overseer's haemonculi were truly the masters of their dark torturous crafts. Their victims wailed for days, their pain exquisite, their suffering delicious, laid upon them in ever more imaginative ways. On Vect's orders, some were flayed and left hanging from meathooks, still alive and writhing, their screams echoing through his court. Others were left in pairs to rot until, starved of souls and desperately hungry, one would murder the other to consume their companion's soul. Some, the haemunculi turned into abominations of flesh and bone. These grotesques were fused into a living writhing mass of flesh. Vect called it the 'wall of a thousand tears'. These and a plethora of wicked and terrible forms of torture were visited upon individuals for the simple crime of having known Archon Nyos Lithian. Unspeakable revolting acts, more suited to the creatures of the warp.

The warp itself remained a realm of daemons and gods, monstrosities and nightmares. A vast, unending ocean of unimaginable horrors. Most prominent were the "ruinous powers", the four lords of chaos undivided. Vect spat on them all. He gazed down from the Corespur, upon High Commorragh with nothing save the llmaea above him and billions of scuttling vermin eeking out their existence beneath his feet, where they belonged. A visual reminder of his superiority over every single wretched soul who languished in the dirt below. Soon they would be reminded of their places. Vect had thought up something to make even "She who thirsts" seem tame. Something indulgently evil. But not to appease the gods, never that., perish the thought. He cared not for their machinations and schemes they meddled in. He was above their tiresome treacherous games. What he would set in motion wasn't even to make a point. No, Asdrubael Vect would bring death to the masses below simply because he could.

Far below the Corespur, in the seething squalid depths of ynnealidh, Low Commorragh, a hooded figure made his way past drug dens and flesh markets that inevitably infested the bowels of the dark city. Like exotic fungi, buildings sprouted and clambered over one another, reaching ever upwards into the toxic atmosphere above. Walkways and overpasses linked towering spires, crisscrossing in sector-spanning spiders webs. What little light the captured dark suns radiated could not pierce the canopy of stone and metal and hardly any reached the surface. The one or two stray beams that found a way to punch through to terra firma were quickly bled away to be consumed by hungry shadows. Low Commoragh was a realm doomed to exist in a state of perpetual murky twilight. The Dark City lower levels were dark, but there were much much darker districts. The shadowy sub-realm known as Aelindracht had once spread its inky tendrils deep into the city as if seeking to conquer and claim it as its own. as it encroached on the city's boundaries. With its approach came a host of foul creatures. The shadowy wraith-like mandrakes swelled from within the blackness. A swarm of infected, disease-ridden ur-ghuls had gathered in plague-like numbers breaking like waves over the shocked Dark Eldar when the shadow realm invaded. Many stories and legends had been woven after the event, growing ever more grandiose with each telling. One such story claimed Supreme Overlord Asdrubael Vect had used the Ilmea to sear the land clean and forcing the shadows back from whence they came. Aelindracht and its tide of horrors had been repelled, that much was obvious. Quite how far from the truth the tales were now was anybody's guess but the traveller knew the fact from fiction. He had been there to witness it.

The traveller turned into a vast courtyard enclosed by towering stone architecture. The massive outer walls of the keep rose into crumbling arches that barely held up a cracked dome high overhead. Upon the domes underbelly, a fresco had been painted. The artwork was faded and had many patches missing. Still, he recognized the figure depicted in the fresco. Kaela Mensh Khaine, Aeldari god of war and battle was a hard thing to miss, even with most of the face absent. Painted stones had paled to a bone white colour that made him look like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing. Khaine surely would not have approved of it. The remaining parts of the god had been painted quite brilliantly in extraordinary detail. Khaine stood with arms spread wide, his posture making it seem like he was offering to embrace the mortals below. From the tips of long-clawed fingernails, blood flowed in rivulets. Tiny rivers of crimson trickled down the wall before becoming murderous looking raindrops that glistened as they fell. Red rain cascaded onto the scene beneath in an effortless transition, blending one exhibit to the next. A massive obsidian monolith balanced on two smaller, but no less impressive slabs of black stone. The larger had been etched with ancient crimson runes on every inch of its surface. Atop this makeshift plinth stood the avatar of Khaine, magnificent in full battle armour. Polished bronze and silver had been skillfully rendered to make it seethe with molten fury. One handheld aloft the blade, widowmaker, Khaine's immense battle sword. Some foul sorcerer or wych adept had wreathed the legendary sword in actual warp magic to give a true likeness to the one wielded by the god himself. Whoever the creator was, they had gone to exacting lengths to recreate the god of war and his avatar. Why they had chosen this particular location to pay homage was anyone's guess. It was merely a courtyard of no importance, a hidden grove nestled in the bosom of low Commorragh.

Gargoyles and harpies stared down at the courtyard, surrounding it on three sides like a bad-tempered audience. Each was set in its own alcove, sunken into the stonework so that they appeared to be watching from the shadows. A hundred pair of eyes glared down at those below. Were they staring at him, thought the traveller, daring a look. Sure enough, they were seemingly focused on him, moving their eyes to follow his path. With an effort, he averted his gaze. "Are they watching you, mister? for a copper, I'll tell you their secret" came the voice from a nearby bundle of rags. A dirty face with pointed ears suddenly appeared from the folds of the fabric and looked up in earnest. Taken aback by the youths sudden appearance, the traveller wondered at just how obvious it was that he wasn't a "local"
"stick out like a chopped thumb you do," said the boy, answering the unasked question. With a shrug and a little sleight of hand, a coin materialized in the stranger's palm. Casually he flipped the coin towards the urchin who plucked it from the air as if it were made of gold-dust. Not to be outdone, the beggar promptly made the coin vanish beneath his tattered rags and then spoke again with a laugh. "trick of the light is all, they don't watch anyone, theys statues"

Feeling a little foolish the stranger quickly moved on and the boy became a pile of rags once more, curling into a fetal ball. More and more Dark Eldar milled into the square through archways set off centre in three of the four walls. Over one of the archways, a portcullis loomed, half-lowered. It appeared to be made entirely from poisonous thorns that writhed sinuously. Evil positively bled from this place, from cracks in the granite walls, from the overbearing god-like effigies and most of all, from the Dark Eldar themselves. In an effort to blend into the crowd, the stranger pulled his tattered cloak tighter around him and followed the flow of traffic.

His route took him past many curiosities, vendors offering unidentifiable chunks of flesh on skewers, cooked or raw and still bleeding. One deep hut contained humanoid shapes hung from barbed hooks by their ankles. Muffled screams called out from the depths but if anybody heard them, they did a good job of pretending they hadn't. A pair of Incubi stood by their Archon who was involved in a heated debate with an unknown trader. When things inevitably turned violent, the huge Incubi bodyguards silently flanked him and dealt their own violence to anyone who attempted to interfere. Archon Cythrax, Lord of the Slashed Eye the stranger noted, wondering if Port Carmine had finally fallen under the control of the Slashed Eye cabal. It would explain the archon's presence in Low Commorragh in person. The Slashed Eye had been locked in a bloody, long-standing feud with their bitter rivals, the Kabal of the Stolen Conscience, with Port Carmine as a prize to the victor. It had been ongoing for centuries with neither side prepared to back down or even make mutually beneficial compromises. As profitable as Port Carmine would be to the one who controls it, the question was "is it worth a century of violent war and daily bloodshed? Two decades earlier, a young craftworld noble had asked Cythrax that very same question in an attempt at playing peacemaker. Cythrax had fed hin to the rabid wolf packs he kept in the "hunger pits" under the cabal's towering spire. The Archon had snarled as he watched the youth torn apart "I am Drukhari you snivelling worm, murder and death is what I do". He had very much enjoyed feasting on that particular soul.

The traveller had gone out of his way to steer clear of that one and slipped out under the portcullis on the opposite side of the courtyard. Better to risk those wriggling poisonous thorns than get in the angry Archon's path. Trying to become just another of the Dark Eldar that littered every street or hung around in dark alleyways to make dubious purchases. He had pretended to be interested in a batch of Dreamweaver synth-stim being offered to him on a tiny golden saucer. The merchant was huge even for a Drukhari and didn't want to take no for an answer. He looked every in the drug-peddler he was, one blood-red eye and tattoo's across his alabaster skin. He was making a show of proclaiming the quality and grade of his wares and doing so loudly. This was the last thing the traveller wanted. "finest in the sector, make you forget your own name" he barked in a voice that indicated he was used to sampling his own wares. Leaning over he took a pinch of the shimmering powder between thumb and finger and lifted it towards the stranger's nose for him to inhale. "Bah, your kind are not welcome here" he spat, jerking his fingers back, and slyly reaching for his splinter pistol. After a few seconds of groping blindly beneath a stack of crates, the stranger asked "looking for this"? The pistol swinging around his extended finger. "I.. I.. want no trouble" the dealer stammered, bringing his empty hands back up. "There will be none, if you have any sense" the hooded harlequin replied, offering the pistol to him hilt first. The second the dark Eldar merchant had the weapon back in his hand he aimed at the stranger and spat through gritted, pointed teeth. "foolish clown, now die". But where there the stranger had been stood there was now only empty space. Bewildered, he scratched his scalp with the pistol's barrel and scanned the crowds but found no sign of his target. Barely ten paces away from him the strangers form winked back into being behind a wall, drawing attention to himself with his sudden appearance. Cursing, he slipped between piles of junk piled up in the narrow alleyway and took an ascending flight of stone steps up onto a veranda. Should anyone be looking for him they would never find him, for nobody ever looks upwards when searching for someone.

Silently he stepped onto the next balcony, actually passing over the drug peddler's head to reach it. Eventually, he emerged into a dark cloister overlooking the street and he took a seat on a pile of rubble that had once been some sort of statue but was now more like a headless bust. Yet another shrine to minor gods he thought, noting the trio of candles burning in a niche next to the doorway. Whoever the unknown entity had been he probably wouldn't have seen the funny side of a backside perching on his likeness. Such disrespectful antics thought the stranger and hopped off, brushing it down with a hand that caused more damage than good. And so he moved on, discarding the hooded cloak. He had been seen, it would be of little use to him now. Underneath he wore a skin suit that at first glance seemed to be grey. On closer inspection, however, it was made up of tiny interlocking diamond shapes of alternating black and white, giving the whole ensemble a confusing appearance. He moved where his instincts told him without a backward glance, a right turn here, a stairway there, climbing, always climbing. Up through the strata of Low Commorragh, down passageways, over catwalks. The skywalks were a labyrinthine mess, sometimes the path ahead was clear, other times he forged his own path, over dwellings and through cracked stonework. Every once in awhile a hellion or scourge would burst forth from the murky air, one usually in pursuit of the other in their aerial combat games. Games was definitely the right word, well at least to the Harlequin. Life was one big game to him though. What would a game be without a little danger? Could it even be called a game? He watched them for a while, looking up through the cloud-clogged atmosphere. Swarms of winged scourges met gangs of hellions on their skyboards, little more than specks at this distance. The murmurations darted at one another, scattering the packs to isolate individuals from the flock. Any that became separated were chased down mercilessly by hunter-packs that cackled with glee as they hunted. Such was the way of things in the Dark City, you were either predator or prey there were no in-betweens, Commorragh had little sympathy for them and gobbled them up.
The aimless ambling gait he had adopted down below was now gone, and as he travelled he whistled a jaunty tune he didn't know the words to. He had heard it on a craftworld he knew that much. As he progressed higher into the city, he was forced to cross between the towering star-scrapers more and more. Wherever he could he used the bridges and precarious skywalks but they were becoming more infrequent the higher he climbed. Eventually, he came to a precipitous ledge with no apparent way across the yawning chasm before him. When he peered down it was at the tops of cloud formations, not up at their belly's. He guessed his elevation to be well over a kilometre high and a quick glance upwards told him he was only a fraction of the way toward his goal at Commorragh's peak. It would not do to keep him waiting the Harlequin thought, no, it would not do at all.

Taking a lazy run-up the traveller leapt out. He would fall short of his intended landing spot by metres, this he knew already. At the apex of the leap he triggered the flip-belt he wore at his waist and bounded into a second and then third leap, impossibly using the empty air as a buffer. With a grunt, he threw himself into the final leap and at the moment he began to fall, phased in and out of reality and reappeared safely on the other side of the drop.

The road to the Corespur would be fraught with obstacles and he was depleting the flip-belts batteries at an alarming rate. He noticed that he did not go unobserved. Suspicious eyes looked out at him from behind darkened glass windows and observatories but they took no action to move against him. To be safe he crept in the shadows, which was fairly easy to do almost anywhere in Commorragh. Where there were none, he used the holo suit to scatter the particles of his image. When he moved he was a blur of motion, flitting like a wraith, in and out of the shadows. And always climbing, always upwards, crossing walkways and vanishing under arches seemingly at will. When he pulled himself onto the very pinnacle of one of the taller star-scrapers he could see he'd made an error. Leaning to peer over the edge, he teetered and wobbled, wheeling his arms to right himself. He knew he was being observed by many eyes now and his display of vertigo had been for the benefit of the observers. He laughed out loud to himself about how absurd it would be for a Harlequin to lose balance, sheer madness! Among the Harlequins, indeed all Eldar, clumsiness was an unknown concept. Speed and preternatural agility made the Eldar exceptional in close quarters combat, moving with the fluidity and grace of a dancer. To no-one in particular, he wagged a finger and spoke aloud. "thought I was a goner didn't you?". No reply was forthcoming and the smog swallowed up his jest. From his vantage point, the expanse stretched out before him. The nearest spire in any direction was about half a mile away. It was obvious his flip belt would just not cut it. Even when he looked upwards at the overhanging architecture it was an impossible leap. There was, he knew, a whole city above that now seemed tantalizingly out of reach. Nimble vessels zig-zagged through even more aggressive-looking structures. Vicious barbs juttied out meters into the air to catch out the unwary. Jagged towers spiralled high into the night sky. All utterly out of reach. Dejected, the Harlequin sat with his feet dangling over the edge. His brow creased in consternation, deep in contemplation.

When the movement came he saw it in the corner of his eye, at the very last second. A swift, black shape darted upwards from below. Without even considering it, Motley pushed off the ledge and then began to fall.

Somewhere far above, among the towering starscrapers of high Commorragh, Lady Malys, Archon of the Poisoned Tongue Kabal, sat surrounded by a storm of agony and death. Yet she remained, figuratively, on the edge of her seat in anticipation. It would have been unseemly for one of such high station to actually be sat on the edge of the seat. Also, the technologies fitted around the Darkspire Sky Arena rendered it a pointlessly unnecessary action. Never the less, the enigmatic Mistress of the Poisoned Tongue sat enraptured by the spectacle unfolding before her. Truly she felt would feed well this day. The coming main event would be a rare spectacle indeed. Her pure Eldar blood coursed through her dark veins and she positively bristled with anticipation. Outwardly, however, she maintained her decorum, wearing a placid, calm visage for all to see, even her chosen companion. Next to Malys in the shadow, sat a cowled figure. Though conservative at first glance, the elaborately woven, shimmer-silk cloak he wore was of exquisite quality. As was the rest of the attire beneath it. The warrior was impeccably dressed and silently, Malys approved. She glanced sideways to sneak a look at Sliscus the Serpent. The Duke sat bedecked resplendently in what was sure to be the very height Commorrite fashion. Yet the Duke went unnoticed for the most part and this anonymity pained him to the core. The shiny black cloak rippled with dark energies that silently danced across the surface of the material, seeming to have a mind of its own, forking like lightning bolts. Malys knew it was almost certainly rune warded with numerous powerful sigils, against scrying. It was fastened at the collar by a shining platinum clasp shaped into the rune of protection. In high Commorragh there was no such thing as too well protected. Sliscus the serpent did indeed have a great many reasons to remain unseen and protected while visiting the Dark City. An extremely sizeable bounty had been placed on his head, enough to last a mortals lifetime, or so the whisperers said. On the day of his departure, the Duke had left high Commorragh with a 3 vessel escort. Unfortunately, those ships were Kabalite flagships and none belonged to Sliscus. The highly prized vessels had belonged to a trio of Archon high lords. Indeed, Sliscus was more than a prize bounty, he was the prize bounty to end all bounties. Of course, Sliscus revelled in his outlaw status. Thus, it had taken something extraordinary for him to willingly return to the Dark City. Yet, here he was, in the flesh. His sharp dark eyes flicked to the side, caught the look Lady Malys had given him. "exquisite, is it not?" he asked, in the liquid voice of someone highborn, the epitome of refinement. "Quite" she replied, her voice a feminine honeyed purr. "One could be forgiven for thinking you had given up your piratical ways was I not more reliably informed" she continued in a clumsy attempt to cover up being caught looking. "ah, dear Malys, your poisoned tongue flatters me" he replied, reaching over and stroking a carefully manicured finger across her cheek, eliciting the tiniest speck of dark blood. Malys slapped it away unconvincingly, feeling a most intense icy prickle of pleasurable pain cresting within her. "Do not make me warn you again about your manners, Sliscus" she flushed, feeling the pulse of blood warming the flesh of her cheek. "and not for the first time, and from one who calls himself Duke," she added as her venomous genes tore the invading neuro-toxin to pieces. Sliscus's held the elongated fingernail to his chest in mock offence. "my sincerest apology's Mistress of the poisoned tongue" he replied to her weak rebuke, then added with a sly smirk "it is divine though, is it not? "Indeed" she answered, turning back to face the arena. The poisonous touch from the Duke's fingernail would have put down a herd of full-grown bull grox. To Malys, it was but a scratch and hardly troubling. It was the etiquette or lack of it that irked her. The serpent got away things that she would have disembowelled others for. Shrugging off her irritation, Malys reflected on his surprise appearance this day, for it had indeed been a surprise. True, she had invited him, more out of courtesy than anything but she hadn't truly expected him to turn up. In high Commorragh no less. The last time the two had met it had been at Sliscus's request to join him on a rather enjoyable frolic into realspace, a raid that had been most profitable. The Duke's hunt had struck like a cobra on a savage world of fire and ice. Alas, the hunt had eventually been cut short when the raiding party encountered a group of space marines. Many slaves had been captured by the time of their uninvited appearance and the raiding party had taken few casualties. And so the Dark Eldar had cut the hunt short, laughing their way back to the webway. Malys had fed well that day and her slave count had numbered in three figures before leaving the savage world.

"I never did offer my thanks for your hunt the last time we met Sliscus, it was most profitable," said Malys, snapping out of her reverie. "The pleasure was mine good lady. A rather beneficial day for all I believe. The fighting wasn't up to my standards, though one opponent did male a small fight of it. Did I tell you of the savage I bested in single combat, a space marine no less"? replied the Duke, his dark eyes shining with eagerness to share the tale. Malys had indeed heard but she allowed him his moment, no doubt to embellish the story in his own words. "a space marine you say? I was unaware you fought such vermin" she said in mock surprise, an invitation to elaborate she knew he could not resist rising to. "why yes, such a feral brute of a thing, all claws and teeth and a great mane of shaggy orange hair. had the tenacity to stow away on board my ship and attacked as I was about to enter the webway. Pityful. So I cut out the beast's heart as he watched and flushed his dying corpse into the void." he explained matter-of-factly. "no more than I expected dear" was her reply.

Down on the arena sands, a scene of intense gory violence was unfolding. The pure dazzling white of the arena's sandy floor was being bathed in rivers of crimson that ran into dark pools before being absorbed. The arena had seen an ocean of blood spilt on its sands since its creation. An ocean that grew larger by the second. Scattered lumps of body parts littered the floor, oozing dark fluids. An eviscerated limb had landed so close to Malys she had felt a speckle of blood land upon her pale skin. With a sensuous flick of her tongue, she had tasted the final moments of the fallen warrior, his misery as sweet as nectar.

The Dark Eldar fed on the tortured souls who, in death, would be sent to meet She Who Thirst, the chaos god Slaanesh. The slaughter arena's provided the Commorites with the souls they needed to sustain their massively extended lifespans. The torturous barbaric manner of death was merely for their own pleasure, plus the dying victims heightened emotions made it all the sweeter.
Malys had seen the warrior's soul swell to new heights with the hope of salvation. It had been a trick of course and in the next moment, when the deceit had been revealed in all its perverted glory, his soul was crushed down deeper into despair beneath the boots of his accommodating hosts. The deceased's despair flowed like rivers of fire that Malys had fed on. It had been exquisite and her body and mind were now singing with vitality. To know such debaucheries, such vicious carnal pleasures, was to know the truth of the Dark Eldar. When Malys had opened her eyes to face the arena, the wych executioner had taken a slight bow. In response, Malys inclined her head in a show of acknowledgement that the female wych returned with her own barely perceptible nod. A surreal moment amid all the slaughter and death. Then the wych had broken the trance and plunged her hydra gauntlet into a slaves jugular, sidestepping his brutal swipe without missing a beat. "such decadent death. you honour the wych with such praise, good lady" offered the Duke when she sat back. "Nought but a drop in the ocean compared to what's to come" she replied, to which Sliscus could only agree. Indeed the promise of such epic bloodshed had been the deciding factor for why he was taking such risks this very day. On request and at no small cost, Duke Sliscus had been drawn out of self-imposed exile by a temptation too good to ignore. He had considered the possibility it was a trap, of course, he had. It was not a trap and the prize far outweighed the risks.

Among those who fought and died in the arenas, one name was spoken of above all others. Whispered words, talk of a living legend, the succubus Mistress of the cults of strife, Lelith Hesperax, who would perform today in the flesh. To watch one such as Lelith Hesperax in action, along with the inevitable tide of death that followed in her wake, was a once in a lifetime opportunity. And the Dark Eldar had long lifetimes indeed! Some of the lesser archons, rulers of Kabals lower in the complex hierarchy of Dark Eldar society, would be happy just to gaze upon the unbeaten champion of the blood arena. They would leave with a story to pass down the generations! "I was there when Lelith Hesperax performed in-person" they would brag and boast, no doubt. For this was how stories became legends, one exaggerated word at a time. Tales grow grander with each telling, and reputations are built, egos are inflated and men become monsters.
The majority simply wished to feast on the dying souls, to gorge themselves on them. Those nearest the centre of the gladiatorial arena where Aurelia Malys and Traevelliath Slyscus sat, were of the elite echelons. Their position was befitting of Lady Malys's station. So close to the killing, drinking in the delicious agonies of the dying would be akin to being reborn anew in. Those privileged few would leave the arena with mind, body and soul singing with renewed vitality. A rare chance to stave off the hunger that cursed their every waking moment. Or possibly not. No future was set in stone, although the chances that Lelith Hesperax would bring forth torrents of pain and suffering were extremely high. "they say that she fights without any enhancement or battle stims, none!" Malys spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. Sliscus, who considered himself a mighty warrior in his own right had just opened his mouth to reply when the arena fell silent. From vox speakers around the arena, clinging to the underside of each tier, a quiet hiss of noise issued followed by an announcement in a rich sonorous voice.

Without pomp or embellishment, the slender figure of Lelith Hesperax appeared. She moved like a feline with graceful prowling steps, hips swaying sinuously as she took to the sands. Luscious red hair cascaded down her shoulders and back almost reaching the arena floor. Glimmers revealed deadly crescent-moon shaped monomolecular blades woven into her hair. She wore only the scantest whisper of armour, midnight black and barely concealing the taut flesh beneath it. Thigh-high boots that peaked in vicious barbs covered her long legs and flexible gauntlets covered her deceptively muscular arms, leaving thighs and stomach exposed and little to the imagination. Smoky black wisps of tattoos underpinned her piercing eyes as she stood looking out at the crowd. In each hand, she carried two finely crafted blades of elegantly simplistic design. She raised them to the heavens in a salute that brought an earsplitting roar from the arena crowd. Never one for theatrics, Lelith Hesperax, Harbinger of death, Scourge of the arena, turned her gaze to the rising portcullis and in a gesture utterly alien to her, smiled. She spoke a single word at the sight that greeted her from within. "Mon-keigh"