In the depths of Commorragh, home of the Drukari, otherwise known as the Dark Eldar.
Cralmien sat at his desk, he was nearly done. The vile in his hand was full of his grey concoction that he had been working on for a the past week. Each day he had bought a new human subject to test his creation on, and each day he had got the mixture wrong. At least, wrong by his standards, it was always too strong or too weak, always resulting in the subject dying without the perfect amount of suffering.
Cralmien did one last inspection of the vial and judged the shade to be correct. He brought it over to the human chained up in the corner of his room. "Wake up human," he said to the man, tapping his face lightly.
The man raised his head up to see what he was doing, Cralmien reached out to hold the human's hand, but the human pulled his hand back from the eldar. Cralmien grabbed the human's hand once more, but this time held on tight, the sharp shapes of his metallic gloves holding fast and drawing blood. The human did not have the strength in him any more to fight back, he was half starved and had given up hope long ago. Cralmien got his dagger from his side and sliced open a small wound in the palm of the man's hand. This small act brought a small smile to the face of the eldar. Vial in hand, Cralmien then splashed its contents over the human's open wound. He then whipped his own hand away as not to get any of the toxin on himself, he then retreated to watch the results.
The human recoiled at first from being released from the grip of the eldar, then he began to hyperventilate as the toxin infiltrated into his bloodstream. He watched in horror as blackness spread from his wound and started to envelope his hand. He started to scream in dismay and agony when the rotten black flesh of his arm spread. It began to lose moisture and break up. He stretched hopelessly as if to get away from his own arm, animal instinct taking over where logic would tell him that it would make no difference. The blackened flesh on his fingers became so dry and rotted that it fell away from the bone, bit by bit, creeping up his arm.
The human took one last sharp inhale before losing consciousness.
'He's still alive,' thought Cralmien. Having a subject slip into unconsciousness before the end was not the desired effect, the subject needs to be awake for the entire experience, right until the end; or this new poison would be of no particular merit; he added to his notepad, "more adrenalite."
"Benjamin, Grax, come and clean this up," ordered Cralmien. Before the slaves could get in there was a knock on the door. "It's unlocked," he called. Cralmien knew who it was going to be, he was expecting word from the Wych Cult of Ruinous Virtue very soon.
A winged figure came into the room, having to maneuver his wings in order to get through the small door, "Greetings, Scourge," said Cralmien.
"I was told to seek out the head of your order," replied the scourge, he was formal, perhaps wary of the reputation of Cralmien and his Alchemists.
"You're speaking to him," said Cralmien.
"Lord Cralmien," said the scourge, bowing his head in acknowledgement.
"I am no lord," said Cralmien, "I'm just an alchemist like the rest of my order. I do apologies for the mess, I've been trying to recreate the effects of a husk blade using nothing but poison. A little hobby of mine. How can I address you?"
"My name is Dresarieth," he said, "I hail from the Shard Rain. I bring a message from the Wych Cult of Ruinous Virtue. Lady Arielle requires the Alchemists of Yor for a raid on…"
"Lady Arielle," interrupted Cralmien. "That is not a name that inspires confidence."
"Be careful what you say," said Dresarieth.
"Why?" asked Cralmien, "Noone is listening. Why do you think I live down here in this tiny apartment? The anonymity. Intimidation is the key to success in Commoragh but anonymity is the key to safety."
Dresarieth smiled a little, he could see the sense in his logic.
"Noone is listening to us, the only ones who know about this conversation are you, me and…" Cralmien looked around the room, "Benjamin! Grax!" he shouted.
A human and a kroot slave rushed in to clear up the remains of Cralmien's test subject.
"Interesting taste," remarked Dresarieth when he saw the kroot.
"He's more useful than you would expect; he's strong, loyal and more intelligent than you might think. Very good with language skills, better than the human, actually."
"How do you deal with the smell?"
Cralmien grabbed a bottle from his desk, took aim and sprayed a sweet smelling substance over the alien. "It's not only poisons that we make."
Dresarieth gave a smile, but quickly changed back to his formal tone. "I need to send back word to Lady Arielle."
"I have already been briefed on the planned raid and on behalf of the Alchemists of Yor; we will not be joining you on this raid."
"Lady Arielle will not be pleased," commented Dresarieth.
"That's not my problem," argued Cralmien, "has The Shard Rain been roped into her plan of attack?"
Dresarieth nodded, "We will be joining the main force."
"Then a word of warning to you. The last time the Alchemists of Yor were under the command of Lady Arielle, we lost half our number and returned with nothing; no doubt this has not been made known."
Dresarieth shook his head.
"I thought not. She is an incompetent leader, and shares none of the leadership qualities of her mother. I wish you all the best, but I am not coming with you." Cralmien turned back to his experiments, inspecting the vial of adrenalite that he had procured a week before.
Dresarieth left the alchemist to his experiments.