Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Saeva Abyssi

Somewhere, Somewhen

There was no such thing as silence in Commorragh, the dark city rang eternally with the screams and wails of the damned, eternal choruses of pain and torment filling the air with discordant tones. This was the basic state of the Dark Eldar, the strong preying upon the weak for their own bitter amusements and the sustenance to endure the greater horror that waited for them all beyond the veil of reality. Yet today the sounds were different, today it was not the music of the strong preying upon the weak that sang forth but of the weak attacking the strong, and winning.

Many eyes, belonging to many different types of being, turned to witness this strange occurrence, seeking the odd note that was souring their bitter harmonies. What they found was a towering black stronghold that rose above the lesser spires. It was covered in spikes, ornate murals and frescos which portrayed unspeakable acts of depravity. This was not just some ornate folly though, for its spires hid cunningly concealed weapon emplacements and the lower levels held barracks, training grounds and combat arenas for hundreds of warriors.

This was the home of the Sundered Lance Kabal, an ancient dynasty that could trace its origins back to the fall of the ancient Elder Empire and whose oldest members could even remember a time before the rise of Asdrubael Vect. The Sundered Lance was one of the prime Kabals in Commorragh, a powerhouse who had endured the rise and fall of lesser pretenders and been responsible for the destruction of many of them. They had been proud, arrogant and superior, as befits a mighty Kabal but today they were the ones burning.

Their great stronghold was in flames, black explosions rising continually from its upper reaches as bodies fell like rain from the heights and laughing Hellions made strafing runs on its battlements. On every level battle raged, woefully outmatched Warriors fighting to the last, but they were consistently and repeatedly outmanoeuvred by invaders who seemed to know their every move before they made it. Time and again the invaders would section off knots of defenders and cut them down in droves, the conquerors showing no mercy and bearing the icon of the Impaled Heart Kabal.

Hovering high above the battle was a Tantalus skiff, cruising serenely above the violence and drinking in the torments from afar. It seemed oddly delicate and vulnerable to be exposed so, but nothing came near it, every shot going wide and every Hellion steering well clear. Standing on its deck were a pair of beings, riding high on the fires of victory and flushed from hard fighting.

The first being was tall and clad in purple armour that glistened like wet blood, he had a gore-smeared sword in one gloved hand and his heart was racing with exhilaration. His name was Athra J'rect and he was Archon of the Impaled Heart Kabal, killer of the innocent, scourge of the stars and architect of this destruction. Close behind him stood another warrior, this one in close form-fitting armour and with a large two-hand Klaive slung over his shoulder that dripped fresh blood. His name was Dramaq and he was the chief of J'rect's Incubus bodyguards, a ferocious killer and a merciless warrior. He had slain twice as many enemies as J'rect but unlike the Archon his breathing was regular, his heartbeat untroubled and he did not seem stirred by the death and destruction all around them.

The pair watched the fall of the stronghold as Athra sheathed his sword and stripped off his gloves, leaving them oozing on the deck for slaves to collect as he declared, "The lamentation of the weak may be pleasurable, but there is nothing like the thrill of defeating someone stronger than you. This deed sends a message to all of Commorragh, the Kabal of the Impaled Heart is now a power to be reckoned with."

Dramaq commented, "The attack went perfectly, we outmanoeuvred the Kabal of the Sundered Lance at every turn. Their warriors will become your slaves and their cattle are yours for the taking."

Athra laughed, "Oh it's so much more than that, the fall of so ancient a Kabal leaves a power vacuum, one the Impaled Heart shall rise to fill. Why soon Asdrubael Vect himself will know our names."

Dramaq stated, "I suspect he already does, nothing happens in Commorragh that Vect does not know about."

Athra gazed down at the destruction he had unleashed with pride and mused, "Tell me, what happened to Fhaeza?"

Dramaq said frankly, "It seems your sister-wife suffered a most unfortunate accident, a poisoned blade nicked her flesh in the fighting. Obviously some enemy was too swift for her."

"Obviously," said Athra with a knowing inflexion to his tone. He didn't even try to suppress his grin as he said, "Still it is no great loss, she was blatantly plotting against me and her death sends a message to all the other would be usurpers."

Their conversation was interrupted as hunched creature approached them, it was a three-armed being with vials sticking out of its back and it was making the sixth gesture of greeting, used to hail a triumphant conqueror. Athra saw the salute and replied with the fourth stance of acknowledgement, used for honoured allies, before saying, "Hail Vl'hyas, I trust your own expedition was fruitful?"

The Haemonculi nodded eagerly and said, "Oh yes, the caverns beneath the stronghold were filled with the most interesting experiments and some genuinely delightful tortures. I have gathered them up for my own collection; I will soon present you with some most titillating amusements."

Athra was pleased to hear that and replied, "I look forward to it, but remember your pets are required for battle as well as the pleasures of my court."

"Why can't they do both?" Vl'hyas said with a grin, "Trust me you will be most pleased with the flesh-sculptures I shall create, why I even found a Mon-Keigh Gene-Bulk in the vaults."

Athra was surprised to hear that, "A Gene-Bulk, that is interesting, I look forward to seeing what you can do with an Astartes. But enough about that, what of my guest?"

Now Vl'hyas glanced to the prow of the skiff, "She waits… most impatiently."

Athra looked ahead, seeing a most unusual figure stood in the prow of the vessel. She was a shining pillar of white amid the black and purple of Commarragh, a beacon of purity in a sea of filth. Her high helm and plumes were unlike anything the Dark Eldar favoured and the graceful sweeps of her armour boldly stood out. Yet it was the shining Soulstone upon her breast that declared her true origin, she was of the Craftworlds, an Eldar of the Paths: her name was T'selia and she was a Farseer. For a Craftworld Eldar the dark city was a place of terror and depravity, a place of ultimate danger and peril, both to body and soul. Every Drukhari desired to inflict surpassing agonies upon their hated kin and news of one's presence would spread like wildfire, without a powerful patron to even set foot here would mean a fate worse than death.

Athra J'rect had desired her from the moment he had first learned of her, the pain and torments he could inflict on such delicate flesh had consumed his mind to become an obsession. Yet once he had met her in person he had immediately realised such banal and temporary torments would not do, not when he had seen a blot on her soul that cried out to him. For all her pride, power and foresight there was a darkness within her, one that threatened to spill out and fill her fair spirit. What was physical pain compared to that, what was fleeting agony compared to the possibility to corrupt a pure soul?

Athra plastered a flattering smile on his face and strode to the prow as he made the first gesture of welcome, reserved for close friends, a sign he had never needed to use before. Before the Archon could even speak the Farseer said in a lilting accent that echoed under her helm, "Save me your flattery, we are wasting time."

Athra was pleased by the impatience and scorn in her voice, signs her self-control was lacking, and he deflected, "Preparations must be made; the Kabal of the Impaled Heart must rise in power and prestige, if we are to change the skein you see laid out before us."

T'selia replied without looking at him, "I did not come here to assist one Kabal over another, but to save all Eldar. Yet all I have done since I arrived is to use my foresight to lay low your rivals and weed out plotters behind your back."

Athra's smile did not fade, "Essential tasks, necessary steps on the path, without my patronage you could not set foot here. My Kabal must be strong or every citizen of our fair city would be after your head."

T'selia sneered and said, "Do not pretend my presence has not elevated your position, word spreads that you have a Farseer on a leash and all wonder how you accomplished such a feat… and plot your downfall. Were it not for my foresight then your warriors could never have entered the stronghold and the Kabal below our feet would even now be breaking down your door to take me away."

Athra was laughing internally: arrogance, pride and contempt, this Farseer was more like him than she could ever know. The Archon replied, "Now we are strong we can begin to steer the patterns of the future in the correct direction. An important task to be sure, but I have to ask why do you need us? Why can't your own people eliminate one pathetic Gene-Bulk?"

T'selia flinched at the mention of her people, a fact Athra carefully stored away, before she admitted, "None of the Craftworld fleets were willing to lend their aid."

Athra raised an eyebrow and said with genuine curiosity, "They did not recognise the threat?"

T'selia gripped her Wraithbone staff fiercely as she stared at the twisted horizon and answered, "The other Farseers rebuked my plan; they recognised the threat but refused to do anything about it. They seek to manipulate and influence when they should eliminate and excise, they allow threats to grow unhindered rather than burn them out."

Athra nodded and said, "So why do you need this Mon-Keigh to die?"

T'selia finally turned to look at the Archon, "I thought you would welcome the death of this particular primitive."

Athra cocked his head to one side, "Oh I would gouge his eyes out in a heartbeat, but that is not what I asked. I questioned why YOU need it to die."

T'selia sighed, "Most threads of the skein are fixed to their course but others are in flux, certain inconsequential nodes that intersect with other fate-lines in occluded ways and change the weft of everything. Considered in isolation this Mon-Keigh is utterly irrelevant, but its destiny is to interact with one whose significance is stunning in its magnitude, what happens next is…. Unpredictable."

Athra commented, "And you want the unstable factor removed from your visions?"

T'selia snarled and a flicker of psychic power flashed up the length of her staff, "I want him obliterated, I want the Mon-Keigh wiped from existence, I want that whole filthy, mongrel race ground into dust and erased from all memory!"

Athra was delighted by the rage he heard bubbling under the surface of her voice and the careless, rash use of her power. Her emotions were broiling behind the thin walls of her self-control, yet the Archon knew he could not risk provoking her until her discipline was overwhelmed by her passion. He needed to build the pressure in her heart; he needed her to become a crumbling dam holding back a tsunami of hatred, then all he required was just the right leverage to shatter her spirit.

Athra drew in a breath and said, "Be patient, the best rewards come to those who wait. Rest assured you have my full might at your back, when the time is right this Mon-Keigh, this 'Toran', will die."