Raid of a Gud Time

It was a bog-standard day on the Big Rok. A bunch of gits had set fire to the boss pole once again and the courageously stupid lot of the BRPD had made short work of the bunch. The kaptin and his lot were already on their way back to the HQ, a few extra teef heavier, when they came across a certain farseer, just happily walking about the place, browsing some of the assorted stalls of merchandise, which never seemed to be too far on the Big Rok.

As they came to a stop, the other polees boys instinctively started searching for any food to buy, while the kaptin greeted the smaller, but no less killy, eldar, who still needed a new helmet:

"Oy, Miriana! 'Ow ya doin'?"

She answered with a smile:

"Oh, quite well. You know me, just browsing through the trinkets. Yourself?"

"Me and da' boyz be done clobberin' 'eadz for now, so we'z thinkin' of gettin' some rest. Really, dis day be rather fine, all in all."

It was then, as if to mock that very statement, that the day turned sour, as a field of red energy engulfed shimmered into existence without so much as a warning, splitting the group and, indeed, the city itself. If one looked up, they would see it was akin to some hellish dome, erected over its hapless victims.

The kaptin and farseer, as well as a handful of boys, found themselves on the inside. Snogrot stared in disbelief from the other side. Ugu tried to jump through, only to get shocked by eldritch energy and sent to the ground. The two commanders already had their weapons drawn.

"Kaptiiiin!"

"Wot iz diz?!"

"Some sort of foul sorcery! But who-?!"

The answer came within seconds, unbidden, unwanted. Figures materialised through one-way passages through the Warp itself. They appeared in squads, tall, slender figures, their brought to its peak through untold millennia of advancements. Sleek, designed for maximum mobility, yet adorned with spikes for added ferocity.

Such a squad appeared dangerously close to them, but did not seem to notice them at first. What they assumed was the squad leader of sorts, wearing no helmet, his face tattooed with various Eldar sigils and emblems, shouted at his lot:

"Quickly, grab some prisoners and let's," he turned his head slightly to the left, finally noticing the several hundred pounds of ork muscle towering above them, "go?!"

Bessy whirred to life within moments, decapitating the poor sod in a single mighty swing. The rest of them, unprepared as they were at the moment, did not last much longer, especially when Miriana lended a helping hand. Standing above the remains, the big ork commented:

"Oy, dis be friendz of yerz?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Woteva'. Snogrot," he turned to the rest of the polees, still safe on the other side, "go get da' tek'eadz, dey will know wot ta' do!"

"Yeh, kaptin!"

The squad scurried off at the speed of an angry bomb squig.

An explosion suddenly sounded from above. A large hole had been blown into the hulk's ceiling, still under the protective dome, and dozens of skimmers started pouring through. Small dagger-like hoverbikes were escorting much larger transports. Scattered among them were figures on what seemed to be bladed hoverboards, surfing the aether like fallen angels.

"This is a full-scale raid."

"Wot dat mean?"

"The opening over there leads to a raid ship. They'll kidnap large amounts of the populace, bring them there, then vanish. I imagine this field is also their handiwork."

"Right, dat ain't gud. We'z can't let 'em do dat."

"Agreed. I propose this. Divide and conquer. I'll try to get on the ship and sabotage it in some way. You provide a distraction."

"Iz suppose I'z an attentiun-grabbin' sort. Got it."

"I can only wish you luck. And," a faint smile appeared, "be careful, okay?"

He responded with a massive, toothy grin:

"I'z got skin dis 'ard fer a reason, ya' know."

And then, she darted into one of the alleyways, ducking behind cover to avoid detection by enemy squads. His mind raced for a few fleeting, revolutionary moments. It was time to create a proper distraction, but he also felt like making an impression. And there was one really proper way to make a good impression. Going kommando.

The shopping aisle of the store was just high enough to hide his hulking form. The ground was covered in a mixture of various cooking ingredients and blood, the result of a brief firefight with local polees orks. These eldar were dead killy, that was for sure. The squads assembled in the store, which he had gained access to through a convenient back entrance, were ready to escort about a dozen unlucky sods to almost certain torture, doom and death. Not necessarily in that order. A propa' kommando like him wasn't going to let that happen, though, no siree. And then, a voice echoed throughout the store:

"Whose footprints are these?"

He looked down at the ground, noticing his massive boots had left quite the evidence in all the spilled ingredients. He muttered under his breath:

"Worr, didn't expect dat," he audibly sighed, already reaching for good old Bessy, "zog it. Kommandoin' be too 'ard."

The invaders were quite surprised when the massive ork suddenly burst through his previous cover, roaring as loud as a squiggoth, and causing an equivalent amount of damage. For all their killyness, these ones were still eldar. Squishy and crunchy, with a satisfying crack whenever a dismembered body part flew through the air. He still could not verify whether they tasted like old grot, though.

The raiders did not last long and with one final skull-crunching stomp, the skirmish was over. He looked over the captives, mostly tau and human, and asked:

"Oy, you lot okayz?"

"Only thanks to you," spoke one of the humans, missing a nose, but otherwise fine, "you need to be careful, captain, this lot means business."

"Gud. Dat'll make dis real propa' fun."

Their bounds were cut and they slipped out through the back entrance just as Gorasho stepped outside the shop. A bolt of plasma flew about a foot to the left of his head, turning part of a wall into a fine, non-nutritious paste. There was another dozen of them or so and this time, they were ready for fighting. Good. He would have died of boredom otherwise.

Racket sounded from afar, the sounds of intense battle. Several of their squads withdrew to answer this new crisis. Excellent. Left her with more manoeuvring space. The prison transports were steadily being filled and escorted back onto the main ship. About thirty prisoners per transport. That was much too many endangered souls for her liking.

Her plan was to tag along to the source of the trouble. For that, though, she needed to find a reasonably secluded set of transports. A few of her fallen kin walked by. There was, however, also a straggler, trailing behind by a good few feet. That was her chance. She struck from her hiding place like a jungle squig, grabbing hold of her spiky prey and dragging it back into the shadows. Before the captive could let out a sound, her father's dagger closed around the neck joints of his helmet:

"One peep and I sent you straight to Her."

The sod immediately froze and spoke back in a whisper:

"W-what do you want?"

"Information. Your kabal, troops, movements. Weaknesses."

"Black Steed, a thousand in total, most deployed here under the archon. The ship only has a few squads left to defend."

"And the transports," she pressed the blade harder, drawing some blood, "I need an unguarded one."

His answer was almost immediate, panicked:

"A-across the big market square. The squads there were redeployed to deal with the resistance."

"Thank you."

And with that, she bashed his helmet against the wall, audibly cracking it. She left the fallen one there, knocked out cold at the very least, and cautiously continued towards the square.

"Hmmm, this is indeed peculiar," the lord's armoured finger tapped against the warpal dome, which retaliated with several bolts of forgotten elements, "very resilient, I imagine."

"Yeh, not even a beamy gun could get through," Tekbrain sounded as disappointed as a regular commissar, his tool-arm switching through its addons in rapid succession.

"Wez need yer skelly tech, youz real gud at killin'." Ugu chimed in with a bark-like snort.

"I cannot deny that. Our wars have always been won through technological superiority. I may have just the device, though, it is not fully functional. If you can help carry it into position, I guarantee it can bring down even such a field."

"If I may enquire, what is it?" asked the only honorary eldar gearhead in the galaxy.

The lord wished he had a bit of facial structure left so that he could grin:

"Have you heard of the so-called Doomsday Arks?"

His otherwise rudimentary clobberin' and choppin' was interrupted by a horrific roar from above. It was the surfers from before, crouching slightly on what were actually miniature one-man skimmers, with added spiky bits. In their hands, they wielded large, double-bladed polearms, which they swung through the air with frightening speed.

The first attack only barely missed his hat. Such a scenario was already unacceptable, so he casually reached upwards and grabbed hold of one of his assailants, his arm staying in place like an impervious fortress. The sudden stop catapulted the pilot from what little safety harness there was and right onto a most unluckily placed metal pole, which proceeded to skewer him like a piece of bacon. Delicious, spiky bacon. Seeing as he still held the board, he decided to chuck it at another of the flying pack.

Thankfully, his throwing aim was better than his shooting aim and the mini-skimmer's bladed side embedded itself within one's chest. He spun out of control, ramming into another of his kin, who in turn proceeded to slash wildly with his blade, decapitating a third. As the last of them was turned into little more than a pretty fireball, Gorasho allowed himself a chuckle.

In the distance, he noticed something interesting. An abandoned jetbike, its owner's parts probably somewhere around his boots. Heck, was there a better distraction than that? No, replied his inhibited brain functions. Inhibited by the rule of cool, of course. And besides, how hard could it be?

The square was unnaturally quiet, with not a single entity in sight. A mere hour ago, it had been full of life, bustling with mercantile activity, both above and underground, as the merchants also had a small system of tunnels right underneath the area, as evidenced by many small vents and access hatches. Her new necklace had been bought in one of the now-vacant surface stalls, if her sorcerous source was to be believed.

But where the eyes showed nothing, her mind told a different tale. She was being watched by two distinct groups, their minds radiating similar, but subtly different energies. The first group revealed itself soon enough, as a stall to her far right was obliterated by a charging warrior. Five figures appeared in total from discreet hiding spots, four with mighty battle roars, one with only a devilish grin, standing apart from the rest like a mere observer. Each bore a highly ornate, revealing suit of armour, which did not, however, impede their movements. Such a limitation would mean death in the combat pits, after all.

The gladiators closed the distance in seconds, each armed with a deceptively primitive weapon. As she ducked beneath the first swing of a halberd-esque blade, she managed to take note of the very rare metals and exquisite craftsmanship used in its construction. Even a brief glance left no doubt as to the effectiveness of the other arms, a vicious barbed whip, two blades polished to an almost mirror-shine and a mighty, two-handed battle axe.

Her fallen sisters were relentless, aggressive without pause. Attack after attack was sent her way and it was only her immediate precognition that allowed her to dodge them ever so narrowly. It was the same precognition that revealed a brief opening in their defences. The whip indeed attempted to grasp her foot, accompanied by an overhead swing of the axe. A timely roll evaded both and Miriana rose back swiftly, her spear going right through whip-bearer's neck.

The other wyche shrieked with rage and renewed their assault. This fury, while increasing the speed and power behind each blow, also made each attack much less... refined. Sloppy, a human would say using their limited language. The battleaxe embedded itself into the ground, leaving the user wide open. Not taking advantage of that would have been insanity.

The subsequent moments were a brief, bloody breather. Two down, three to go.

The machine attracted a crowd of mixed origin, united in utmost curiosity. A lesser race would have called it a giant, black cannon. But a Doomsday Ark was so much more, it was in essence, the representation of Necron military might and tactics, the pinnacle of destructive engineering, its almost unmatched power often the tale of legends.

The one they had, though, was less impressive. Its skimmer-like modules not functional due to extended disrepair, it really did turn into little more than a big gun, carried by a whole lot of burly orks. It had taken them some time, but it was finally in place, propped against what remained of a grot hovel and aimed right at the dome. All was not well.

"What do you mean, it doesn't respond?" the skeletal Thebes-Ra did not take very kindly to inefficiency.

The pilot, or cannon operator in this case, was equipped with hardware advanced enough to actually answer, his voice void of any sign of emotion or even gender:

"Main system not responding. Connection error. Physical connection detected, problem related to systems."

The lord shook his head and turned to the other gearheads present:

"Sometimes technology irks me. At least when wielding a simple club, it is guaranteed to fulfil its primary function."

"Is it possible to repair the problem?" the eldar spoke out.

"Yes, however, it will require modifications. I will have to make those myself. Good thing I took up 'Systems Repair and Maintenance 101' during my imprisonment."

The pilot was rather unceremoniously shoved out of his seat and the lord got to work. His movements on the holographic control panel were lightning fast, as his superior mind processed all of the information with insane speed, much like a real computer. Some of the files the other two managed to glance were very... peculiar.

"Tomb Lord 7?"

"Oh, that one's good," he did not even pause his work, "very in-depth economic strategy game. The tomb scarab simulation is a little wonky, though."

"Oooh, an' wot'z diz? Defenciez of da' Old 'Unz?"

"Rage inducing, yet addictive," a second later, his voice spoke with a hint of delight, "ah, I have it. Now just a few fixes here and we should be golden." the celebration was interrupted by a glowing, red window, "oh, this is worse than the Silent King. Time for a manual override."

A swift kick was delivered at a precisely calculated angle and landed with a clang of metal on metal. The error was somehow repaired by this ancient, advanced ritual and Thebes clapped his gauntlets together. Almost immediately afterwards, the weapon started charging.

The other two wyche were dealt with. It was now down to her and their supposed leader, who was still grinning. The more she stared at her face, the more she noticed the utter lack of any sign of battle or age. It was perfectly smooth, the peak of perfection. Her eyes belied her true nature, though, as they stared at the farseer with a hunger beyond more regular predators.

No words were spoken as they both readied their weapons. Singing spear and a pair of combat claws, shimmering with a blue hue. They charged, their gazes forever fixed into the other's eyes. Within the very first moments of their clash, it became apparent that she was no match for this gladiator.

She was fast as lightning, with no wasted movement or opening in her defences. Precognition told the farseer what was coming, but her body was unable to prepare for the blows in time. The worst part was, the other wasn't even trying. One slash could have easily beheaded her, yet only took a few strands of her hair. Another could have dismembered her arm, yet only tapped her lightly on the shoulder. It was a game of cat and mouse, except the cat was instead a warpal beast from beyond one's darkest nightmares.

As swiftly as it had began, it ended, as the enemy reached for a disc-like weapon tied to her waist. It was thrown with pinpoint precision and exploded mid-air, wrapping the farseer in a set of surprisingly strong bonds. Her spear was on the ground, her hands kept in place, unable to move at all, but she remained standing, at least. The game was over, though, and the cat was hungry. Fiery, bright red eyes stared into her own as the arena champion commented:

"Not too bad, farseer. You were a warlock once, weren't you?"

Her grin was countered by an intense scowl:

"Like I'm about to tell that to a sadistic freak."

"That's not very nice of you to say."

She could sense the dark eldar's mind reach out to her bonds. A moment later, an intense shock was released, wracking her entire body in pain. Screaming out, she nonetheless managed to keep standing, if barely. Satisfaction was the last thing she planned to provide.

The succubus moved closer, each step carried out with a grace unseen even among the eldar. As she came to a halt mere inches away, the utter perfection of her visage became ever more apparent.

"Oh, you act so high and mighty, yet we are cut from the same cloth."

"Don't flatter yourself," immediately, she received another painful jolt.

"Oh, such a feisty one. I like that. I've had my eye on you, you know. We've been watching this hulk for a while now. I know quite a bit about you, farseer. And your… temptations."

The succubi's claw brushed through her silver hair and moved downwards without leaving so much as a scratch. It lifted up her necklace, a silver, eight-pointed star:

"Vanity," down her left arm, the dominant one. The one that always carried her spear, "wrath," it twisted suddenly towards her belly, "gluttony," and finally the claw moved upwards, to her chest, where it pushed down a bit more forcefully, "even desire and lust," her face was even closer, violating most personal space standards, "so tell me, oh great farseer, how are we so different?"

She could feel the other group much more clearly now. They were closer, though, whether they were scavengers or mere observers, she could not tell. At the moment, however, she was not in the mood for a fruitless conversation. Her response was therefore quick and to the point. Using what little movement she was permitted, she surprised the gladiator and thrust forward with a reasonably strong headbutt.

The cult leader reeled back in pain and she was immediately treated to a massive surge of electricity, finally bringing her down to her knees. The other was clutching her nose, blood trailing down her neck.

"You bitch! If this leaves a mark… I will make sure several haemonculi get a turn on you!"

She drew a barbed whip similar to that of her subordinate's, and prepared to strike. Miriana closed her eyes, waiting for the pain. Hopefully, she wouldn't hit the eyes. The blow never came, due to unholy intervention.

"What is this?!" screamed the elite wych, prompting Miriana to open here eyes once more. The scene before her was most certainly unexpected. A small host of daemonettes was gathering in the square, springing from the vents and trapdoors to the lower tunnels. Three were already latched onto the dark eldar, preventing an attack. As the number grew to something over a dozen, they finally managed to overpower the elite gladiator and bring her down to the ground.

A blade-like hand suddenly sliced at her bonds. Looking to her rescuer, she received an unsettling grin and even... her weapon.

"Here's your spear-thingy!"

"Ahhh, I... thank you."

They most certainly did not seem hostile to her. How did that human saying go? Don't look a gift equine at the teeth? Something of the sort. Stepping over the pinned succubus, she spoke, the daemonettes listening intently:

"It is the nature of all that lives to possess urges. The difference between you and me," she raised her spear, holding it tightly with both hands, "is that I have learned not to let them control me. I am not as weak as you."

With a single stab, followed by a muffled shriek, it was over. And while another would have merely seen the death of an enemy, she could sense it. The soul being violently torn out and carried to She who Thirsts through universes.

The daemonettes cheered in unison, giving each other modified high-fives, as some of them did not possess any digits to speak of. Miriana waited for their giggling to die down a bit:

"Ummm, thank you for your assistance."

One, possessing a freakishly long, backwards-curved horn, possibly their equivalent of a leader, responded:

"Anything for the farseer, right guys?!"

A perfectly-united 'Yeah!', undoubtedly practiced over several sessions.

"What are you all?"

"Easy! We are your official fanclub!"

"W-what?"

"Yeah! Cost us a good few shinies, too, but having the permission to add 'official' to our name was worth it!"

She was almost without words:

"W-why do I have a fanclub?"

"Dance performance at the concert, of course! You were amazing!"

Some of the others stepped closer, confusing and unnerving her in different degrees:

"And you're also real pretty!"

"And smart!"

"And real strong!"

"Just dreamy overall!"

"Much better than their sort," a prehensile tail-tentacle pointed towards the now-dead foe, "the Mistress doesn't like them as much, their souls are impure."

"Yeah, end up tasting worse than nurglite stew!"

"Riiiight," she then shook her head, realising there was still a lot of work to do, "again, umm, thanks for the help, but I need to go. This raid won't stop itself."

She immediately took off at a light jog and their leader screamed out:

"Wait, can we get autographs?!"

She sighed to herself, then shouted:

"After I'm done, okay? I swear."

The fanclub immediately turned for an impromptu meeting. They needed to choose the best picts to get autographed, after all.

It was actually much worse than a brief initial inspection had implied implied. First, the seat itself was much too small for a creature of his size. Second, the steering stick was much too sensitive for his massive hands. Third, there was no big, red, shiny button in sight. Fourth, he could not seem to stop screaming at the top of his lungs. He almost wished to be in Tekbrain's deffkopta' again. Almost.

It was a wonder that he was still airborne, actually, considering how many large, tower-like structures were present in the area under the dome. Any attempted steering away from them usually resulted in the craft also doing insanely complex pirouettes and other assorted manoeuvres. This, while utmost terrifying to his orky sensibilities, did have the benefit of avoiding the storm of projectiles constantly trying to hit him.

At least a dozen other jetbikes were on his tail and had been ever since he took to the air. And while they were undoubtedly the better pilots, they could not seem to even scratch the paint. An idea occurred to him, undoubtedly crazy, but fittingly orky and downright hilarious. A brief click of a button on the steering stick confirmed that it was the fire button, as it unleashed a small hail of searing hot projectiles. It was time.

Pulling the stick towards himself as hard as he could, he swiftly turned the skimmer around like a chaotic tornado, holding the button down with all his strength, as if that would help. The chasers attempted to swiftly part to prevent a crash, yet his own shots managed hit an unlucky pilot, who then fell to the ground like a comet.

The pursuit resumed and this time, something started beeping. The little dashboard screen had some writing on it. Not propa' orky writing, though, so he couldn't read it. Oh, maybe he was too heavy for the jetbike? Nah, it would have noticed before... right? He fumbled along his belt, looking for something relatively heavy, just in case. Ah, a stikkbomb. Made of reinforced titanium, for some reason. Tekbrain's supplies were rather questionable sometimes, much like Tekbrain.

Without another thought, he chucked it over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to him, a missile had been fired from one of the more upgraded reavers. Unluckily for them, the stikkbomb's and the missile's trajectories overlapped and the resulting explosion caused a few crashes, taking out another five jetbikes. All in all, it was a gud larf.

It didn't last too long, though, as a few lucky shots finally struck true, igniting the entire rear of the vehicle. He tried to steer away from any buildings as best as he could and wondered if the damn thing landed better than the deffkopta'.

Sneaking into one of the transports had been child's play. And the captives, while quite ecstatic to see her, knew how to play along. The trip to the raid ship was brief, the landing procedure even moreso. Finally, there came a hard knock on the door.

"Alright, you worms, time to get out."

As soon as the door opened up sufficiently, a spear impaled the kabalite right through the visor:

"Don't mind if I do."

Three others were nearby, unarmed and shocked, obviously not ready for such an incursion. They tried to run, but did not get very far, overall. She released the prisoners from her own transport:

"Go free the rest. And find anyone who could reliably pilot a skimmer, we need to get them off."

"Understood." the tau in question immediately relayed her orders.

She headed towards the nearest doorway, just as a ship-wide alarm system was roared to life. She could feel figures rushing to a nearby room and dashed in its direction. She arrived there just as the defenders exited, now fully armed. She ducked behind a corner as shots filled the air, melting a nearby wall in the process.

She closed her eyes, feeling the space around her, mentally invoking the runes etched into her armour. When her eyes opened again, they shone brightly with psychic power. She rushed around the corner, singing spear ready to strike. Her form was wreathed in a field of energy which redirected the fallen's firepower elsewhere harmlessly. They never stood a chance.

The room itself proved to be a quite extensive armoury, though, only for the lower ranks, as no exotic weaponry was present. What was present, however, was a rather large deposit of explosive weaponry, some of them undeniably plasma and melta-type. Oh, the possibilities! Now she just needed to find the bridge and one of the more crucial parts of the ship, say, the generator. And maybe disable the armoury as a whole, too. In fact...

This raid was a disaster. First, uncannily large initial resistance, then an incredibly troublesome ork and now, they were battering the field with some sort of powerful weapon. He could feel the artefact tremble more and more with each passing second. A test of your skill, the Lord of Commorragh had said. Or a covert assassination. He hated political games so much. Sometimes, he wished he had been born a female and could have tried his hand at becoming a wych. Then he'd just have to behead people. Simplicity itself. Ach, well, not like it could get any worse.

It was then that his previous fears of warpal conspiracy were realised. A message from the ship. He expected the usual incompetence, yet as soon as the image on his command console stabilised, he saw a panicking, bumbling idiot, with three more barricading a door in the background:

"My lord, she's on the ship! You must return swiftly!"

"What," his tired voice truly showed his age, "who? Speak clearly, you're more useless than a half-born!"

"T-the farseer, my lord! She managed to get on the ship, somehow, we can't stop her! We need reinforcements!"

He wanted to crush the worm's neck right that instant. Irileth wanted that one... what was the universe coming to, when you couldn't even count on a succubus to be mildly competent. It was then that another fool shouted, while pointing towards their entry point. He turned and gazed in utter stupor as their transport skimmers started leaving their ship. Knowing his luck, they were loaded with those they had just abducted. A lone figure was the last to leave on one of their hellions.

And then, fire consumed the entire entrance. The connection to the ship was immediately lost. Of course, why would she not cause critical damage to his ship, as well? At least he still had his heavy skimmer, he could go down fighting, maybe even kill the blasted eldar. Another shout pulled his attention in another direction. A screaming, flaming fireball, once a jetbike, was heading their way. Its massive, green pilot was already jumping to relative safety. Not a bad plan, all things considered.

Oh, what nostalgia! She had almost forgotten how it felt to have the wind ram into her as she soared through the air. It brought with it a strange sensation of freedom, of power. Oh, to spread her wings once more and fly with fellow aspect warriors, that would be the day! For now, though, the hoverboard would have to suffice, limiting as it was.

She swooped down, swiftly approaching what was now the wreckage of a large, heavily-armed skimmer. A large hill of green muscle was already audibly laughing beside it, while a lone enemy was slowly getting up. She decided to join such a reunion.

She dismounted the board right above them and landed on her feet. The would-be archon finally rose to his, just in time for a strange item tied around his shoulder to shatter. A beam of emerald green energy shot through the sky above and the warpal dome could be seen shattering and dissipating.

The kabal lord gazed at the beam as it finally died down, then at the duo before him. His eye was twitching uncontrollably as he roared loudly to the sky and charged, activating a set of power claws. With a smirk at each other, the two heroes charged to meet him.

A short, deliberate clobbering later, the kabalite was thrown against a building, spitting blood and cursing profusely in ancient dialects. His last chance to do something, anything of worth on this miserable day. He swiftly grabbed for his belt, where a sleek pistol rested. A prized gift, its plasma-based payload more than enough to dispatch almost any foe.

Aiming for the farseer, who was already preparing a throw, he pulled the trigger. Click. As the spear embedded itself in his chest, he used his last strength to look down at the gun. On the handle, a message was inscribed:

"I had it cleaned. Love, Vect."

So it was an assassination, after all. Typical.

As soon as the fallen leaders's last dying breath escaped his lips, she issued a mental command. The spear ripped itself out of the corpse and flew right back into her outstretched hand.

"Fancy trick ya' got there."

"It is a perk, nothing more," she breathed out in relief, "what a day."

"Youz can say dat againz. Gud larf, all of it."

She shook her head and looked over to the wreckage. To her dismay, they were already there, tails wriggling, horns mysteriously twitching and voices squealing. How could anyone put up with this? The fanclub encircled her, leaving a very confused kaptin on the outer side.

"Oh, my Goddess, you were perfect! Surfing in the sky and everything!"

"Yeah, we got so many new picts!"

To demonstrate, one of the daemonettes raised a box-shaped device, dominated by what looked like an organic eye, and snapped a pict of Miriana's overwhelmed state.

"Come on, now! You promised!"

With a sigh, she accepted one of the photos. She looked pretty good while surfing the air, she had to admit.

"Fine, fine, get in an orderly line or something. Do you have a writing tool of some sort?"

She received one in less than a second. It was a bit sticky. She decided she didn't want to know.

In the twisted, darkened heart of the Webway, was a city beyond equal. Its structures defied laws of physics and reason, jutting out from whatever surface and stretching outward, often taking on irregular shapes. Such was Commorragh, the City of Raiders, sole seat of the Dark Eldar.

And only one could rule. Deep within his halls, the Lord of Commorragh sat upon his throne, surrounding mostly by personal slaves of varying gender and state, but also a single unchained figure, one of the few who had the luxury of remaining neutral in the kabalite conflicts, much like the imposing bodyguards stationed along the chamber's walls.

"Oh, this is rich," he viewed the happenings via the proxies of his proxies, while casually receiving various treats from his entourage, "a little backstabbing is always a good show, wouldn't you agree, Malun?"

"Yes, my lord," the advisor eyed a cup of liquid brought before the lord.

"Oh, my, what is this," he sniffed at it and almost giggled, "oh, Nightshade extract! How adorable! I grew immune to that millennia ago."

"I believe we received a shipment of drinks from the Tainted Coil not long ago."

"Oh, the new kabals are always so funny. Much like this one," oh, there it was, the good old cleaned gun trick. Oldest in the book he had written himself, "hmmm, I do wonder, what would happen if we created an equivalent to this 'polees' force?"

"You have done that before, lord. If the hidden archives are not mistaken, that was just over three millennia ago."

"Oh, that's right! I remember now. Initial successes, with gradual usurpation of power, leading eventually to a kabal alliance against such measures. Oh, yes, I'd fancy a bit of urban fighting," and nobody would know to stop it beforehand, as they were all too young to have even heard of it. Perfect, "Malun, make the necessary arrangements."

"As you say."

As the advisor slowly strolled out of the room, Asdrubael Vect, eternal lord and master of Commorragh, drank his would-be poison and laughed. Oh, the joys of the political knife.