Pi: 3.147

Malus Darkblade had not slept for two score years. It was not that he no longer yearned for rest, there had been times when he was so very deadly tired. And yet he was not allowed to sleep again, ever. Sorceries and potions both forbidden and dangerous kept him awake at all times lest he be taken over by Tz'arkan. The Slaaneshi demon was entwined with his life and soul in such ways that they could never be untangled. Would Malus let his guard slip just for one night his body would go on, his soul be a plaything for Tz'arkan for however long the demon wished.
Both had been so very close to the Chaos Desert this year and the demon had tried his shackles more often than usual. Malekith's chosen general had hoped that this would cease when his army retreated towards Naggaroth.

Tz'arkan had thought of himself as close to a god, once. He had had such plans, once. It had taken a full coven of mages and beings of untold powers to bind him, once.
Now he was bound to this mortal, a single soul with no insight of the world beyond the veil. Oh, this Malus Darkblade was quite extraordinary, when it came to a complete lack of morals. His planning was cunning and free of the many restraints that mortals bound themselves in. And he had the most extraordinary luck he had ever seen.
But now there was the chance to end this ignominious situation once and for all. And given that Malus Darkblade commanded such a powerful force there were such delectable opportunities to be had.
The demon had bathed in the Chaos energy that wafted in from the Chaos Desert like a fog, becoming thinner with each step one took away from it. Now it had risen to a power Tz'arkan had not felt for a long time.

And so, he opened his assault on Malus Darkblade's soul when Malekith's chosen general was as distracted as he could be.
The trick in such a takeover was to isolate the soul from the body that served it. Mortals were so taken up with their flesh, were defined and constricted by it. Especially those who had no sense for the Empyrean became as helpless as babies in a cradle.
The Demon shaped the forces of the Warp to his liking. He could not have named the molecules and cells he touched, but he managed to change the exchange of chemicals and the flow of ions. Instead of reporting what the senses told them and sending commands back to the limbs Malus Darkblade's nerves just transmitted an unintelligible hash to him.

Tz'arkan savoured the moment. Now he could avenge the many years he had been in this fleshly prison. Now he could reduce Darkblade to a whimpering entity that looked helpless from his own eyes as a prisoner while the Demon would use his flesh.
Tz'arkan pushed a needle of energy into the place where the soul had to be. The pain it would cause would just be the beginning of a payment….The needle penetrated Malus Darkblade's soul about as well as a metal needle would pierce stone: not at all.
The demon unleashed more pain, more suffering just to find his intended victim either bearing them with the tolerance only a Druchii could show or not feeling them at all.

The voice was Malus Darkblade's and yet it was not, as it did not need such crutches as pressure waves.
"You stole my soul once, remember? I had to kill my father without paying him back what pain he owed me to make good on that on top of running all over Naggaroth. Do you think I would not do that job properly and let you do it again? You have no entrance here."

Tz'arkan would not let such a statement stand by itself and tried to pierce and torture the Druchii into submission. The dry chuckle he got in response hurt.
"I am not sure about you, but I regard standing still on a battlefield as not conductive to continued existence. Maybe you should let me back at the helm or we will both perish."
It was of course the wrong thing to say to a frustrated Demon and Tz'arkan's attempts at besting Malus Darkblade started to threaten the body they both inhabited.
The battle was at a stalemate until it was decided by the third party unwilling to sit out the battle. Neither conscious in the conventional sense nor intelligent in the way biological beings understood, the Warpsword was very, very powerful.

It tried to nudge the battle the way it liked. Yet, it was a weapon, a tool of destruction, not of healing or improvement. Burning down the defenses Malus Darkblade had erected about his soul as well as whatever means Tz'arkan used to attack it left ruin in its wake. The two beings inside Malus' body would not have been viable by themselves. Both did not want to end and were hurt so much that they were looking for any way out. They found one that the sword really liked and fused.
The burning creature that stepped down from the wagon lifted the sword to the uncaring stars. Its scream echoed in the real world as well as in the warp.

"WE BURN"

PI: 3.147

Barak ar Varbadaudassoda was losing warriors at a frightful rate, but finally, he gained something for the losses. Before every assault was wading through fire, trying to cut through spikes, the damned wire, and guessing when the avalanche would come. If he had been very, very lucky he would take the dandelion eaters' position. For that, he would gain the grand prize of trenches and foxholes in the snow and a few bodies once in a blue moon. If the fell gods smiled upon him his troops might find a few weapons that would quit working once their ammunition was done. More likely his warriors found the bodies were laced with traps to kill a few more of his men.

Now he lost a warrior for every step forward. Now his very entourage died at his side at a frightful rate. Now his own armor had dents and gouges left by the Druchii rifles. One of these bullets was lodging somewhere in his body. It might have slowed a mortal, but his flesh obeyed different rules. All of that was worth it, as finally, they could slaughter the damned elves. The two lines they had formed had been broken in many places, leaving groups of Druchii in ever-shrinking squares. Any elf that was caught outside one of these was torn apart by the Daemonettes on their steeds. The squares that endured were centered on the never-sufficiently-damned machine guns. Groups of dandelion-eaters were deadly, taking down Chaos Warriors regardless of strength or skill. A machine gun team was a frightening thing, something that could turn a charge with the blood up into a bloody failure all by itself. And now one of them turned its attention to Barak and his entourage. Glowing tracers sped through the night killing warrior after warrior starting from Varbadaudassoda's left and coming ever closer. There was a battle of rage and fear in the general's chest as he had rarely felt in a very long life. And when Sodalane received no less than four hits into his mighty chest the mélange of fear and rage gave Barak the strength to do what needed to be done.

Letting his axe fall into its sling he grabbed his old companion by collar and belt and pulled the dying warrior between him and the enemy. Rage gave him the strength to continue the charge, fear made him hold on to the corpse. It jerked and shuddered with each impact and still stout armor and dying flesh slowed the bullets down till they flattened themselves uselessly against his plate.

Barak ar Varbadaudassoda had not been with a woman for many lifetimes. The moment when he was among the Druchii, when he dropped the corpse and lifted his axe reminded him a bit of those times. He finally got his fulfilment that had been kept from him for such a long time. Mere bayonets and cloth would not stop him, not now. His axe pushed the slender rifles away and parted limbs, armor, and flesh with equal ease. Covered with blood and gore Barak could not remember when he felt this great.

Pi: 3.147

An hour ago, Malus Darkblade had been an exceptional swordsman with a magic sword that made him a better fighter and ignored most armor. None of these things made him an important factor on the battlefields in the new world the Germans had wrought. His leadership and his ability to gather the best weapons and supplies had mattered. The Warpsword was a badge of status and a threat to his underlings, not to the enemy. His sharpest weapons had been the binoculars and the wireless set.

That had been an hour ago. Now Malus was more and less at the same time. All the parts that made him Malus were still there, but new ones had been added and made themselves felt in so many ways.

He did not care about that, he did not care for the future, for his army or his own fate. He cared about the killing and there was so much of that to be had.

The world around him moved so slowly, as if the battle around him was taking place underwater. He had all the time in the world to step aside and let an oafish Chaos Knight pass him by. His sword was now a part of himself as were his arms. It went through both shins with ease, leaving a legless corpse-to-be. Coming up the blade went under an arm, passed through the weak chainmail, and removed the limb with all the ado of pulling a chicken leg.
None of the enemies around him managed so much as to touch his armor. Once or twice an arrow aimed at something different glanced off or a bullet forced sparks from it. None of it really mattered.

What mattered was that each kill invigorated the being that had been Malus Darkblade. It fanned the flames that seemed to live in his chest that that emerged whenever he opened his mouth to shout his elation to the world. The Warpsword funneled what life energies were to be had from slain enemies, the Demon made use of them and Malus picked the targets.

It did not matter whether the enemies were Daemonettes, Chaos Knights or Hung warriors. He did not even spare the Druchii who were so insolent to be in his way as such sensations were to be had. The resistance of flesh when the Warpsword parted it, the screams that were so deep in this slow world. The look on the faces of Hung who one moment thought themselves safe and faced death the next. The energies the sword liberated from Chaos Knight armor filled with the ashes of the men they once were and sheer Chaos. The screams of a Daemonette he left limbless in the snow. The rush when he killed faster and faster.

He managed to step behind a double column of Chaos Knights and lopped off head after head before the warriors registered any threat. Whatever had powered them was now at his disposal. The claw of a Daemonette drew a line along Malus' arm. It filled with eldritch light where blood would have been expected and closed fast. Before it ceased to bleed light the Daemonette was missing her arm and most of her torso, while her ride was headless. Malus could not say if his senses were becoming even faster or if the world really slowed down the more he killed. He did not care, not one bit.

One of Darkblade's soldiers changed a magazine while Malus attacked the rest of the Daemonettes. He spent the time to look as the warrior disengaged the catch that kept it in the rifle while he ran the Warpsword through one steed and halved the Deamonette when he pushed the magazine forward and down. He stepped forward and removed a claw-bearing arm that might have been dangerous when the first gap appeared between the rifle and the box. The magazine had barely cleared the shaft when he vaulted over the lowered head of a ride, taking the head of another Daemonette. He used the ride's back as the starting point of a jump that ended on the next rider, the warpsword pierced a chest and slowed Malus down enough so that he could land safely. By now the Druchii had released the magazine to grab a new one, the old one tumbled as it dropped into the snow. Before it buried itself in the red-speckled whiteness two more victims died.

When the being that had been Malus Darkblade turned away in search of more victims his skin dropped off in black flakes. It revealed orange embers and flames flickered whenever Darkblade moved. He left in search of better prey, the footprints he left in the snow contained flames for a moment before they died.

PI: 3.1471

N'Dhama was an Exalted Keeper of Secrets , a favorite of the Prince of Pleasure. The Prince himself had elevated him to such a lofty position for two reasons: S/He was able to partake in excesses of pleasure and pain mortals could hardly fathom and still possessed a core that never changed. S/He consumed drugs that opened the mind to such otherworldly realities and sensations. N'Dhama could use them when s/he liked and had powered through any withdrawal symptoms with ease. S/He could love with wild abandon and murder her partners the next day. S/he could see the world as it was and enjoy it to excess. That was rare enough, but a being that did all of that and fulfilled the Prince's commands with neither failure nor distraction was a price to behold.

And Slaanesh's command had managed to be both challenging and dreary. He was to support this Barak ar Varbadaudassoda, who was not even able to decide which god to pay fealty to. A good warrior and a decent enough general, even by the standards of the Chaos Desert, but so boring.
He had given the general Daemonettes, Marauders and all other manner of beings the Lord of Excess commanded just to keep up an extended siege. Instead of ending this boring, painful exercise in an orgy of bloodshed and magic he had to play at being an underling of Barak boring ar Varbadaudassoda. And all of that so that the best Druchii army was bound far away from Naggaroth and consumed ammunition.

This was so that the Prince's real plan in Naggaroth could commence without meddling by Malus Darkblade and his army. N'Dhama had done as he was asked, but now the Druchii retreat had given him an excuse to end the charade. Now he would indulge in the pleasures that he liked to give most: pain and death. And there were enough Druchii around to provide quite a bit of that. The Keeper of Secrets was about to end a duel with a Druchii assassin when something fast and burning entered his view.

Pi: 3.147

The being that had been Malus Darkblade counted two swords, a claw and a near-human hand holding a whip. Malus was without a shield, had melted and burned most of his armor and his weapon was now part of his body. No problem at all.

He used a corpse as a jump-off point and hurled himself at the Demon like a bolt shot from a catapult. He turned slightly sideways and bent his legs to avoid the swords that were moving oh-so-slowly. His sword cut a glowing wound into the Keeper's torso. It was not deep enough to kill, but certainly, enough to hurt mind and body. Malus dived under the claw that wanted to pluck him from the air and rolled forward with the impact. Turning he resumed his attack from a sprinter's stance running so that that all of the Keeper's slow attempts to block were far away from him when he added a deep cut into a leg to the demon's injuries. He had such momentum that he needed more than a few meters to slow his charge, leaving a wet trough in his wake that quickly filled with ice. This time he stayed on the ground, this time he met blade with blade. Putting his blade against the side of the Keeper's sword he pushed up and to the side. If he were fighting a true elf his blade would now point at the enemy's face, here it plunged into the demon's belly.
The scream that reached his ears was off, sounding too deep and slow to convey the agony that his blow had to cause. It slowed his enemy down enough that he decided to make a stand. The Warpsword left the Keeper's belly in time to intercept a claw that went for his face. Instead of burying itself into Malus' head, the appendage dropped into the snow that had all colors except white.

Darkblade had all the time in the world to think about whether he wanted to cut the Keeper's throat or make another incision to extend the suffering when something wrapped itself around his legs.
The world had slowed so much since Malus had become more than he was before. Now he had all the time needed to lament his own stupidity. He had forgotten about the whip used by the Keeper of Secrets. It now coiled around his boots and legs, the barbs on it biting deep into the limbs. His legs were pulled upwards, tilting the world around him on its head. Something in the whip tried to poison Malekith's general and burned before it could do any additional damage. Still, Malus was helpless to evade the strikes that were sure to come.
The whip did not immobilize his arms though and he struck at the first target that presented itself. He had one chance to wound the Keeper's of Secrets sufficiently and aiming was difficult in his position, so he went for center mass. The Warpsword went for the point where it would do the most damage all by itself.
Time seemed to slow even further for Malus and he had the opportunity to watch the sword go for the red, glowing jewel that hung from the Keeper's harness. Something was not right about this and he was about to pull his arm back when the tip of the sword met the jewel. Then it was too late to do anything.

Most of the army that N'Dhama had led from the Chaos Desert were denizens of the warp. Their ability to exist in what mortals called "reality" was strictly limited. Slaanesh had allowed for this and had given N'Dhama a gift like no other. The jewel that had been sewn into the Keeper of Secret's chest was a direct conduit to the Warp. It gathered untold energies there and transported them to this plane of existence. Within a few kilometers, it allowed the elder Children of Pleasure to act.
Now it was pierced by a weapon that cut both in the mundane world as on the other side of the veil.

Malus Darkblade's world had slowed down so much that he could perceive the initial stages of the jewel's eruption and experience a measure of fear. He was no longer around when a mushroom-shaped cloud hid most of the battlefield.

Neustadt, Naggaroth

Kouran Darkhand had taken the halberd from the hands of his predecessor after he had killed his old mentor in a duel he had manipulated the old Druchii into. He carried it for more than a century now and had used it for training and combat every day of this time. Missing a target with it was as unthinkable as voluntarily stopping his heart. The blade smashed the thin metal protecting the innards and spilled them on the floor. Buttons, multicolored cables and batteries dropped into the snow.

The Black Guard's commander fixed the fortifications before him with a long gaze before retreating back to his lines.

He was watched by several humans through several binoculars and at least one high-powered telescope. Torsten Breitkop's shoulders heaved and a breath left him that he could not remember holding. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his back he turned towards the others in the observation tower.
"That was hardly unexpected, wasn't it? Still, worth the try. Let's get on with it then. You people call me the second something changes over there, will you?"

There were several variants of "Yes Patron" and the German made his exit accompanied by Anja. All those who remained were more than happy that their patron had not sent anybody to negotiate with the Druchii and had provided a field telephone instead. Breitkop was still making his way towards his office cum headquarters when "I still don't get it." left his lips.
Anja, who might not know a screw from a bolt, but wise in the way of men beyond her years decided that stewing in his own thoughts would do her lover no good.

"You don't get what my love?"
"Why Kouran Darkhand and by extension, Malekith refused my offer. I am no general, but even I know that they cannot afford another front. And even they have to see that if they manage to take Neustadt they will kill so many workers and damage so much equipment that they will receive less than what we offered. "Ship us raw materials and semi-finished products and we will make as many weapons and ammunition as possible." That would work best for them and they can "take care" of us when they are finished with the Chaos Stumpies. But no, the high and mighty Malekith has to have it his way or no way. So yes, I do not understand. Is it just because they are Druchii?"

Anja's laugh was like a crystal bell and world-weary bitter at the same time
"No, it is not because they are Druchii and therefore different than us. It is because they are torturers. The human kind is no different and I would think the same goes for any other."
Breitkop's forehead creased impressively and he stopped his stride to look at his lover.
"And now I do not understand you as well. Am I getting old?"
"No, not that. It is just that you lack experience in some things and that is a very good thing. We have our little games lover, but their goal is to excite each other. A real torturer would despise them or think them of a mockery. Excitement for him or his victim is usually the last thing on his mind. Every time he or she hurts a victim, binds them or humiliates them, it is about control. They want to control every movement, every sensation and every breath so that they get inside their victim's head. They want to remake them in their image. They try to make them afraid of doing anything their "master" forbids them, of spilling every secret and betraying every friend they have. That is common to all of them, but the bleeding Druchii made this the core of their society.

The boss regularly tortures his underlings so they are too afraid of coveting his position. Fathers try to educate their children by such punishments that they will quake at the thought of murdering them. Even arguments in their marriages are settled that way. They crave control, because they have made themselves a world where those without control at all times are bound, hurt and humiliated. They cannot relinquish it voluntarily as you cannot stop breathing."
Anya searched for understanding in her lover's face and found the beginnings of it. And the resolve to deal with it, no matter what.

"Jesus, I should know how fucked up they are, but trying to wrap my head around it is still difficult."
"Not so difficult when you have been the victim of their ministrations, believe me."
"And they will never do that again. Let's go where its warmer love. Did you hear anything from Germany this morning?"
"Nothing of any substance. It is up to us for now."