Rise of the Ynnari:
Act Two: Death Comes To Commorragh
"The division of the Aeldari can perhaps best be explained by boiling down to a single issue: the division between soul and body. Our ancient empire had been the masters of the galaxy for untold millions of years. How appropriate then that our greatest nemesis would come from within, our ceaseless need to escape ennui and embrace perfection that stemmed from a forgetting of our own mortality. We learnt long ago that the universe turns upon an axis of suffering; small wonder then that so many of our ancestors, the founders of what we now call the Covens, rose to prominence. We gave so much attention to the fleshshapers, those who had proven they could master the corporeal, that we neglected to factor in what such change might have done to our souls."- Master Haemonculus Bellathonis, formerly of the Coven of the Black Descent
"When the universe ends, Vect will still be alive in the nothingness that comes after, floating in an unbreachable bubble of his own deviousness and sense of self-satisfaction."- A Commorrite saying.
Scene One: Only a Matter of Time
Change is in the air, for the end is coming. Tectonic forces long overlooked have begun to act, shifting and altering the galaxy itself. In the ever-changing Warp, ancient feuds are being set aside as the Dark Gods turn ever-more of their attention toward the Materium, sensing a new stage in their Great Game was about to begin. No metaphor no matter how figurative can fully do justice to the changes being wrought upon the realms of gods and daemons as the 41st Millennium draws to a close. The root of all this is unknown, save to the most learned and least sane, for one concept more than any other haunts the universe: death.
From time immemorial, the fear of death and the desire to avoid it has obsessed the consciousness of countless societies. This fixation had long influenced the Warp itself, that realm mirroring our own shaped by thought and emotion. Small wonder then that psychic races would feel this sea change most of all. For the first time in over ten thousand years, Eldar society of every branch has begun to shift, though at varying rates. Upon the Maiden Worlds, dissension has swept through the clans of the Exodites. In the halls of the Craftworlds, Seers and Warlocks argue over the best course to take. And in the Webway, that realm between realms home to the Dark City of Commorragh, new sources of strife have sprung up.
In the ancient past, Port Commorragh had served as the most prominent, though certainly not the only, military and trading hub of the Aeldari Dominion, projecting its influence across the Webway. Unbound by conventional laws, either natural or societal, Commorragh grew to staggering size, subsuming more and more of the Webway into its orbit under the watchful eyes of its noble houses. The Fall of the Eldar only increased this rate of growth, for no longer constrained by even the possibility of oversight or judgment, the nobility of Commorragh were free to indulge their rapacious appetites like never before.
For nearly five thousand years, the armies of Port Commorragh fought ceaseless wars to claim all other remaining Webway realms, even before the Fall. The scions of the Dark City had retained all the technological prowess of their empire, stealing away entire suns to light their cities while altering the flow of time itself, speeding up and slowing it down so often so as to permanently sever it from conventional causality. Vast arenas overlooked by countless spires held gladiatorial contests on a scale unparalleled, feeding noble and commoner alike with suffering and death, countless, countless deaths. Such was all that fed the Aeldari of Port Commorragh, all that staved off the soul-crushing ennui brought about by the utter destruction of the rest of their race.
Yet this state of affairs could not last forever. For a dozen centuries after the Fall, the Dark City had been engaged in an internecine conflict known as the War of the Sun and Moon, which pitted the fractious noble houses against the Solar Cults who controlled the Ilmaea, the captive suns that illuminated the Dark City. In the shadows, ambitious powerbrokers bided their time, waiting for the proper moment to strike, and there were none more patient than Asdrubael Vect.
Asdrubael Vect
Though his true origins remain unknown, it is undeniable that the being known as Asdrubael Vect was the first of the Dark Eldar, the so-called Eladrith Ynneas. Based on his future actions against the nobility, it is all but certain Vect was a commoner, little better than a slave eking out a miserable existence. His fortunes would change though with his alliance with the being known as the Caur-dorcha, the Black Giant. Though the Black Giant's alliance with Vect was short-lived in the grand scheme of things, together they would lay the groundwork for what would become Vect's private army, the Kabal of the Black Heart.
Over the following centuries, this Kabal would grow in size and power, though it was still a pitiful speck compared to the might of the noble houses. This would change in M35, with the sudden arrival of the Imperium of Man. How entire starships of the Mon-Keigh not only entered the Webway but found their way into Commorragh was unknown, but it seems likely that Vect had a hand in this. Two dozen strike cruisers bearing the unmistakable green of the Salamanders unleashed hell upon the Dark City, reducing the holdings of countless noble houses to ash in the blink of an eye.
As the dust settled, the Kabal of the Black Heart made their move, the only force of any consequence unharmed by the sudden and shocking violence of the Mon-Keigh. Through Machiavellian politicking combined with utter ruthlessness, Vect manipulated, bribed, and threatened his way into becoming the undisputed master of Commorragh. Where once noble houses strove for dominance, now Kabals fought gang wars in the basest form of survival of the fittest simply to keep what they had, lest they lose their holdings just as the nobles did before them. And atop it all was Asdrubael Vect himself, the first and only Supreme Overlord of the Dark City.
For nearly five millennia since then, Asdrubael Vect has maintained his dominance of Commorragh, master of the Drukhari. Every plot, scheme, and attempt to unseat him has failed; the latest of these, the rebellion of Archon Yllithian of the noble house-turned-Kabal of the White Flames, represented perhaps the last, best attempt by the noble houses to undo Vect's stranglehold. Two millennia have passed since that failed uprising, though it has felt like much, much longer in the altered time of the Webway. With his grip secure, Vect has turned his attention toward the Material Realms, unleashing his people to strike fear and terror into the galaxy as they raided and plundered to satisfy their rapacious appetites.
However, this tenuous order, for it is certainly neither peaceful nor stable, is about to come to an end. In the fractured underbelly known as Low Commorragh, in the outer districts hidden in the shadows of the mighty spires, a new power is rising. A social movement unlike any seen before is sweeping the lesser kabals, instigated by a mysterious figure known only as the Thanatiphoros. Though only rumors and scuttlebutt have risen from the confines of the outer precincts into Upper and High Commorragh, it is said this figure cannot die, that those who make a pact with them have their souls protected after death.
Though this figure has said nothing directly against Vect, the Supreme Overlord is nothing if not wary. The concept of a power beyond his own is most distasteful, and for decades now Vect has kept a watchful eye for any chance to silence this Voice of the Dead and its followers, who maintain their anonymity amidst the teeming hordes of Commorragh's citizens by committing suicide rather than risk being caught. Thus when the agents of Vect informed their master that Farseer Eldrad had tried and seemingly failed to manifest a new deity, a god of death known as Ynnead, the cunning Supreme Overlord knew it was only a matter of time before the Thanatiphoros would make a move.
Or rather, a move against Vect, for the Voice of the Dead had already been spotted in many different locations across the Dark City. Though they dared not show their face in Corespur or High Commorragh, the wealthier districts directly under Vect's watchful eye, the lesser spires of Low Commorragh were a different story. It was said that the Thanatiphoros had been spotted conversing with petty Archons and ambitious Succubi from various Wych Cults, that even some Shrines of the Incubi, those mysterious cults of bodyguards who lived only for war, had acted as hosts. Only the Covens of the Haemonculi were said to have rebuffed the Thanatiphoros, for they were said to be offended by the idea that anyone else could retrieve a soul from beyond the grave.
Never one to accept the idea that anyone or anything was beyond his power, and even less enthused by the concept of gods, it is small wonder that Vect's patience was quick to fray. The enforced crawl of seconds, initially enacted to provide the Supreme Overlord with more power over his subjects, had now turned against him, allowing the Thanatiphoros more time to spread their message. To undo this stranglehold personally was beneath him; no, Vect would handle this as he always did, through the effort of disposable underlings. The Supreme Overlord had no shortage of willing pawns eager to earn his favor. However, such a mission would involve being out of Vect's direct supervision for extended periods of time, so only one who could be trusted, as much as that meant anything to the famously paranoid Supreme Overlord, would do. Thus to dispose of this rabble-rouser who presumed to provide an alternate path from Vect's design, the Supreme Overlord called upon one of his most promising up-and-coming agents: Archon Avagddu Shadowbinder.
Archon Avagddu Shadowbinder
Master of the Kabal of the Agonizing Lash, Avagddu Shadowbinder is one of Vect's most ruthless enforcers. For nearly three centuries now, Avagddu's star has been on the rise, efficiently carrying out every task assigned to him. He is particularly adept at taking foes alive, from hunting tyranid bioforms to bring back to the arenas, to abducting the population of an entire Imperial shrine world in a single night, also to bring back to the arenas. Avagddu is a master of finding his targets, of herding his prey by utilizing air superiority to restrict their freedom of movement along with precise murders carried out by the fearsome Mandrakes, among whom he has many contacts. When the target is completely demoralized, penned in by circling jetbikes squadrons, the Shadowbinder at last enters the battle, armed with a huskblade, a fearsome weapon that sucks the moisture from whatever it strikes, leaving foes unable to move as their limbs wither with each cruel strike.
However, the labyrinthine mind of Vect is far removed from the reactionary blindness exhibited by the leaders of the mon-keigh. Long before the first inklings of a rumor began to spread about the Thanatiphoros, Archon Shadowbinder had been dispatched to hunt down and learn the truth of these so-called death cults. Certain of his absolute control over the Dark City, Vect believed someone from outside the Webway must be aiding and abetting the spread of this new faith. Why or how the Supreme Overlord had decided upon this course was known only to him, though some suspected the ever-more morbid spectacles of the Harlequins had tipped him off. Whatever the case, the agents of Vect had long since left Commorragh for realspace, taking on the guise of Anhrathe, the so-called Corsairs.
A fractious bunch, the collections of fleets that made up an Anhrathe armada were well-used to merging and splitting and joining rival fleets depending on the whims of their capricious commanders. Theirs were lives of ultimate freedom, it was held, abandoning the rigid social structures of the Craftworlds while at the same time spurning the need to play politics that a life in Commorragh would entail. Thus none took any notice of the disguised Archon's comings and goings. The final decades of M41 saw Shadowbinder undertake dozens of expeditions, the amassing of exotic goods from countless star systems a mere cover for his sordid activities: the elimination of anyone who might have had any contact with or had any clue as to how to find the Thanatiphoros.
By the waning years of M41, Archon Shadowbinder could be found hidden amongst the ranks of the Sky Serpents, posing as a minor captain. The tawny hulls of this vast armada of raiders belonged to the infamous Duke Sliscus, a somewhat insane renegade formerly of the Dark City who was reputed to be the very soul of caprice. In decades of service, Archon Shadowbinder had never so much as shook hands with the mad Duke, who seldom left his flagship, the Incessant Agony. Not that this bothered him in the slightest, as it left him far more freedom to pursue his true goals of hunting down any rumors of the god of death or his would-be heralds.
Of course, as the galaxy approached the end of a millennium, this meant there were a truly staggering amount of threads to follow. The skeins of fate, the twisted divination method of the Asuryani Craftworlds, were perhaps more tangled than they had been since the days of the Fall. For every ten prophets, there were a score of possible futures, most of them bloody and confusing. Bereft of the calming influence of the Infinity Circuits aboard the galaxy-traversing Craftworlds, the psykers found amongst the ranks of the Corsair fleets and Exodite maiden worlds were of little help. Small wonder then that it was taking the forces of Archon Shadowbinder decades to uncover anything of note.
However, even the over-abundance of doomsaying could not drown out the news of the Crystal Moon of Coheria. Though Farseer Eldrad's plot to awaken the slumbering god of death Ynnead had seemingly failed, the reverberations of this monumental event had swept Aeldari society. Eager to discern the truth, the Mad Duke and his Sky Serpents were some of the first to arrive, entering the system to find little more than dust and echoes. The Webway Gate through which they had emerged was a twisted shell of its former self, covered in a thick growth of strange green crystals, caked in the sundered remnants of what had once been Coheria.
As the Corsairs intruded deeper into the system, they came upon the dying planet of Port Demesnus. The Imperial world had suffered grievously at the hands of the Eldar, a diversionary attack that had killed millions before the children of the stars had abandoned the fight, leaving as suddenly as they arrived. Small wonder then they were ill-prepared for a second assault, for the capricious Duke Sliscus had ordered his forces to learn the truth by any means necessary. Hundreds of lightning-fast aircraft descended through the hazy celadon skies of Port Demesnus, dropping their payloads upon every population center they could find. While the death toll was lower than expected, for the vast majority of the population had already been slaughtered, it was still a grievous blow, one that was answered but feebly by the already-battered defenders.
Such slaughter warmed the parched souls of the Dark Eldar under Archon Shadowbinder's command. Unlike their Craftworlder cousins, the Drukhari were bereft of the protection offered by spirit-stones, constantly suffering a withering blight upon their souls every second they remained in realspace as She-Who-Thirsts attempted to claim her due. In the time they had spent away from the Webway, nearly a third of the Archon's personal forces had become the Parched, maddened wretches that had to be put down. Those that retained their sanity now reaped the rewards, invigorating themselves by gorging upon the suffering of others like twisted vampyrs of ancient myth.
The Shadowbinder himself had a more pressing task however. Accompanied by a retinue of haemonculi, the Archon descended to a point on the surface that according to his calculations had been the spot directly facing the moon of Coheria when it was sundered. Whatever the mon-keigh had built there was long gone, eradicated by the apocalyptic force of a chunk of moon hitting the surface at a not-negligible portion of the speed of light. The crystalline haze that hung over the planet was denser here than anywhere else, and after his first scouts died agonizing deaths by petrification attempting to descend, the Archon and his forces wore thick void-suits.
Their goal was a simple one: discover what exactly had occurred on Coheria before its destruction. Normally, this would involve recovering a body, utilizing the dark arts of the haemonculi to pull a soul from beyond the veil back into its corpse to interrogate. However, try as they might, the lords of pain found themselves inexplicably unable to work their foul talents. Likewise, the suits of the Drukhari scouts began to exhibit strange crystalline growths, outcroppings of pale amethyst creeping over them as if they were sentient. Such curiosities soon became the least of their concerns, for the Shadowbinder had no wish to allow the Mad Duke to learn what they were doing. His forces quickly departed, sealing their tainted suits into an isolated chamber of the ship. Archon Avagddu ordered his forces back to their transports, for sensors showed the Webway gate through which they had entered was exhibiting unusual readings.
It was not a moment too soon, for as the last of the Archon's ships entered the Webway, the ancient gate crumbled behind them, stranding Duke Sliscus and the rest of the Corsairs in realspace. However, the fate of their erstwhile allies were the least of their concerns, for as the sleek vessels soared through the crystalline halls of the Webway, their cargo began to react. The crates full of vitrified grave-sand and psychoactive crystal began to rattle and expand, coagulating into pellucid spines a pale green or amethyst in color: nadirite. Those haemonculi who had been directly exposed to the substance found themselves slain nearly instantly, the dust covering them in a coat of living glass that made a mockery of their supposed resilience to bodily harm. As their statuesque bodies fell to the floor, they shattered, instantly sending out a thick cloud of dust that covered their attendant wrack assistance who were in turn petrified both literally and figuratively by the death of their masters.
Alerted to this new menace, the Archon was quick to attempt to preserve his own hide, ordering the rest of his ships to fire upon the afflicted cargo hold. However, this only compounded the problem, for as the hold shattered under the baleful hits of a dozen ship-grade dark lances, the crystal substance vented, ricocheting out to impact other vessels, as well as the wraithbone walls of the Webway itself. Unreality shuddered as two inimical substances combined, huge nadirite pillars of the same pale green and amethyst as the dust clouds growing from out of the walls. A few unlucky vessels found themselves unable to dodge this sudden intrusion, smashing into walls of unyielding wraithbone and spiraling down to a fiery death below.
Like so many antibodies, swarms of crystalline spiders manifested out of the mists all around, the natural defenses of the Webway reacting to remove this unexpected threat. Yet wherever the dust coated the spiders, they were changed, their luminous white hides tinting the pale green of the nadirite. The spiders began to fight each other, but it was a foregone conclusion, for all the altered spiders had to do was simply pierce the wraithbone hides of their foes to convert them. Altogether more horrifying were the skeletal figures that arose from the crash sites, thousands of corpses animated by some fell influence. Wherever they strode, the Webway was altered, shifting hues and altering the very substance of the tunnels.
Though clearly Warp-based, the changes wrought were not the result of the influence of Chaos. No, the calamitous energies affecting this section of the Webway were borne of the Aeldari psyche, not that the Drukhari had any idea of this. Their souls were shriveled, stunted things, intentionally ignorant of their own heritage and lacking any frame of reference for what might have created this new threat. All Archon Avagddu knew as he fled the scene aboard his few remaining vessels was that these events were somehow connected to the Thanatiphoros he had been ordered to hunt down.
Galling and dangerous as it was to return without definitive proof, Shadowbinder knew he would need to report this to the Supreme Overlord. All he could hope was that the news he bore would make up for his failure to find his target. Of course, none could be allowed to gainsay his version of events, and so as they raced through the corridors of the Webway, the Archon's ship opened fire once more, sundering the engines of his erstwhile allies and leaving them stranded in the misty corridors of the Webway. Whether any would ever escape the twisting halls was immaterial; all that mattered was reporting the news to Vect and painting himself in the best possible light while doing so.
Scene Two: The Grandest Arena
Far and away, hidden amidst the endless halls of the Webway, the Dark City of Commorragh festered, unaffected and unconcerned with the endless strife of realspace. Time passed differently in the hyper-dimensional realms, the years themselves slowed to a crawl by the will of Vect as manifested through arcane engines. It was perhaps vanity on Vect's part, to show he was master of everything, even time itself, but it was all but certain that it also served other, more sinister purposes known only to the Supreme Overlord. At the heart of it all, Asdrubael Vect watched everything, the spider at the heart of an incomprehensibly-vast web that basked in the adulation and fear of the countless Drukhari that paid him fealty.
Of course, a spider does not want his prey to always have their attention focused on it. Fun as it may be to toy with the paranoia of others, when the time does come to strike, it makes it harder to catch the wary. Luckily for Vect, the very nature of the Dark Eldar made them oh-so-easy to divert. The parched souls of the Drukhari race thirsted for pain, staving off eternity with the agony of others, a never-ending attempt to subvert the awful hunger laid upon the Aeldari species by the birth of Slaanesh. Where the Craftworlders wore spirit-stones and the Exodites trusted to the spirits of their Maiden Worlds, the denizens of Commorragh had discovered that they could substitute their own misery by inflicting agony upon others, that by the spilling of blood they could rejuvenate themselves from even beyond the grave.
Thus amidst the spires and subrealms of the Dark City, there existed an uncountable number of coliseums, fighting pits, and gladiatorial arenas. These were the very lifeblood of Commorragh, keeping the vainglorious focused on providing grand spectacles for the crowds which flocked to bask in the suffering produced there. (A less flattering comparison might be that of ticks swarming to feed off a corpse). From duels between Hekatarii gladiatrices, to reenactments of void battles at a fraction of the scale, to entire armies of alien slave-warriors battling for the amusement of their superiors, anything and everything could be found in the arenas of Commorragh.
Control of these sources of entertainment is its own form of power, especially for the Wych Cults who strive to put on the grandest spectacle. The Supreme Overlord has been known to frequent such performances, observing from above in his vast fortress of an airship. His patronage often brings many thousands of Black Hearts, Vect's personal Kabal, into attendance, equally ready to shower wealth as to slaughter those who fail to entertain their master. Of all the coliseums favored with his attention, there is no doubt Vect's eye lingers most often on the amphitheater named for him: the Crucibael.
The Crucibael
It is perhaps little surprise that the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh would ensure that any arena or stadium, those bloody nodes that serve to bind the teeming masses of the Dark City together, named for him would be the most grandiose and ostentatious imaginable. Only the greatest and bloodiest spectacles are on display in the Crucibael, for Vect, or more accurately his minions who seek to impress him, would expect no less. The arena itself is the size of a hive city, countless fields that can be rearranged into any configuration or environment imaginable as needed. Even the legendary Phoenix Lords, those champions of the Aspect Shrines, have been known to fight there on occasion.
To ensure nothing goes wrong, a private security force capable of conquering entire worlds has been tasked to guard the surroundings. Entire fleets of aircraft patrol high overhead, lethally interdicting any who would presume to stray too close. Further down, the gladiatrix-legions of the Cult of Strife alternate between competing for the audiences' praise and testing their blades on passers-by in the labyrinthine alleyways that surround the Crucibael. All this is done to ensure Vect's paranoia does not flare against them, and it is to their credit that no serious disturbance has ever broken out in the Crucibael, a rarity indeed in the tumultuous Dark City of Commorragh.
Fate would have it that as Archon Avagddu raced back to Commorragh, the cream of the Dark City had gathered to honor the Supreme Overlord in the Festival of the Black Heart. This grand spectacle was the social highlight of Commorragh, a gala to mark both Vect's ascension to his rule as well as the formation of the Dark Eldar themselves, for the Supreme Overlord had always considered himself to be the first of the Eladrith Ynneas. Every Kabal of any importance had been invited, or rather, commanded, to present themselves and a suitable contribution to the Kabal of the Black Heart, whose swaggering archons filled the best seats in the Crucibael.
For weeks the spectacle had unfolded, dazzling displays of savage cruelty that could be found nowhere else in the galaxy. Every form of bloodsport was on display, each more spectacular than the last. All manner of savage creatures from a thousand different systems fought tooth and claw, each the last of their species after the rest had been driven to extinction in realspace by capricious beastmasters intent on ensuring their spectacle would be one of a kind. Death-defying stunts abounded as hellions soared amidst jagged spires, sending flurries of blood and gore raining down on the thrilled crowds below as they battled at high speed. Outside, the Parched and those nearing that wretched state groaned, instinctively drawn to the arenas yet unable to get inside.
It was as the greatest of spectacles yet came to a close that Archon Avagddu finally entered the outskirts of High Commorragh, his desperation almost palpable as he made his way through Vect's labyrinthine security measures. Inside, the crowds roared like never before at the sight of a Tormentor Titan, a towering war engine festooned with spikes, clashing with a swarm of Ravagers and Venoms. No more than gnats were the transports, tiny compared to the bulk of this mighty relic left over from the ancient glory days of the Aeldari Dominion, zooming about and stinging its crab-like legs. Its head had been converted to resemble the terrifying mask of an Incubi warrior, baleful eyes glaring down at the pests it attempted to swat out of the sky with the baleful energies of its greater dark lance. The hordes of spectators cheered with each death, and screamed even more loudly as each missed shot struck the powerful forceshields that separated the crowds from the arena floor and certain death.
By the time Avagddu was allowed to step foot onto Vect's personal fortress, the battle had come to an end. One brave or perhaps foolhardy warrior, a Succubus of the Cult of Strife, had leapt from her transport. Her perfectly-timed jump easily took her through the force shields of the titan to land upon its head. Soon enough she entered the mighty war engine, a blur of utter slaughter racing in a mad dash to the control chamber. Once bereft of guidance, the mighty Tormentor titan lurched to a halt, its motility killed from within by the Succubus, and as she emerged covered in the gore of its crew, the madding crowds clamored like never before. Such a spectacle had drawn the attention of Vect himself, pleased by the displays in his name, and so as Avagddu was escorted to the Supreme Overlord's chambers, Asdrubael Vect emerged to bestow his favor upon the lucky Succubus.
Encased in the finest ghostplate armor ever designed, the Supreme Overlord's form was the envy of all who beheld it. Flanked by towering incubi, Asdrubael Vect filled every vid-screen in the Crucibael, his voice resounding as it boomed out across the arenas.
"Tell me, child, what is your name?" Condescension and arrogance dripped from every syllable as Vect spoke. Standing atop the immobile Tormentor Titan, miniscule amidst its spikes, the Succubus spoke, her voice tiny in comparison as she shouted her reply.
"Yvraine, you say. Tell me, Yvraine," the Supreme Overlord's voice seemingly hanging onto every syllable as though it were a prize he was loath to relinquish. The effect was tantalizing, the crowds now deathly silent, for all knew better than to interrupt the Dark Muse. "What boon would you beg of me? What favor do you crave from the bounty of the Supreme Overlord of all Commorragh?" This time, as Yvraine replied, her voice was all too clear.
"Bring me Lelith Hesperax!" Countless heads turned as one back from Yvraine to await the answer. Vect smiled, and as he indulgently waved his arm to signal his assent, the crowds went mad like never before.
Scene Three: To Herald Death
The agility and poise of the Aeldari race is one of their most recognizable traits. Even the most clumsy of Eldar remains far beyond humanity, the oafish and clumsy race they call Mon-keigh. Imagine then an Eldar who is to their own kin as an Eldar is to a human. Such a comparison is but the basest truth when describing the legendary Lelith Hesperax, the Queen of Knives. Where other warriors rely upon thick armor or esoteric energy fields for protection, Lelith uses nothing but pure agility, garbed in nothing but the thinnest cloth bodyglove, simultaneously enticing her audience and enraging her foes. It is said no foe has ever laid so much as a scratch upon her, even the blades she entwines in her barbed hair never coming close to wounding her, and where other Wyches rely upon performance-enhancing stimulants, Lelith's agility and speed is completely natural.
For countless years, Hesperax has graced the Crucibael with her presence, effortlessly slaughtering every foe sent against her. It is said no man could think to command her save Asdrubael Vect, and even the Supreme Overlord speaks to her in a tone slightly less condescending than normal. Poor Archon Avagddu was not so fortunate, and as the arena floor was cleared of the immobile Tormentor Titan and the corpses that littered the ground around its colossal feet, the Supreme Overlord turned his devastating wit upon him. The Shadowbinder was forced to remain utterly silent in his presence, well aware saying the wrong thing would lead to a fate far worse than death.
Of course, Supreme Overlord Vect was completely aware of the effect he had on others, as well as how desperately his minion must want to tell him something to risk coming back without the head of the Thanatiphoros in his hands. As such, Vect ordered the archon to descend from his ship at once, to give the succubus Yvraine a token of his esteem. In the expectant hands of Shadowbinder, the Supreme Overlord placed a single raw spirit-stone. Such relics were rare indeed in the Dark City, for they can only be acquired from the Eye of Terror at great risk. Craftworlders fought to the death to ensure they did not fall into the wrong hands; how this one had got into Vect's wrong hands was no doubt a tale of its own.
Archon Avagddu remained tense as he delivered Vect's favor, stiffly holding the treasure as he rode down to the arena floor below. Unknown to him, though of course not to the Supreme Overlord, Yvraine was not a true Commorite, for she had once been an Asuryani. Though she had long since renounced the rigid structures of Craftworld Biel-Tan, to receive such a present was no less a declaration she held no chance. From the smug look on Vect's face, it was clear he expected Yvraine to die at the hands of the Queen of Knives, and was thus 'honoring' her heritage by such a mocking present.
Though Yvraine knew she could not expect to pay back the Supreme Overlord, Archon Avagddu was not quite so lucky. His shadow-field, the protective device that normally shielded its bearer in a defensive miasma, had been disabled since he was admitted to see the Supreme Overlord. Thus in front of millions of Drukhari, he found himself suddenly on the ground, his unprotected legs swept out from under him in a flash by Yvraine, whose gaze never left Vect's as she cradled the stone in her hands. The Supreme Overlord's sneer only grew wider as Shadowbinder picked himself up off the ground and backed away to his transport, which took him back up to Vect's side as the crowds jeered.
Even once Avagddu returned to the Supreme Overlord's chamber, his discomfort remained. To be in Vect's presence was to be made subject to calculated discomfort. When he was finally allowed to sit, Avagddu found that his chair was slightly too high off the ground, forcing the Archon's feet to dangle like that of a child's while Vect's feet were planted firmly on the ground, yet somehow still higher up. Likewise, his inability to disclose his discoveries burned internally, for Vect kept up a steady stream of information about the goings-on in Commorragh that had occurred while the archon had been gone. At any other time, this would have been an opportunity beyond measure, to learn at the side of the Supreme Overlord himself, but all the humiliated Archon could think about was the troubling news.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Supreme Overlord ceased his speech, for the lady of the hour had arrived. The unmistakable blood-red hair of Hesperax was positively radiant in the blue light of the Ilmaea which shone darkly above, and as she shook it, revealing dozens of blades woven into the braid, the crowds went wild. The Queen of Knives raised her daggers, pointing one toward her opponent, who dropped into a fighting stance, and the other toward her patron. Asdrubael Vect raised an indulgent hand, holding it aloft as he savored the crowd's rapturous gaze upon him, until finally, he dropped it.
The deadly dance began faster than the eye, even an Aeldari eye, could follow. As the millions of spectators turned their heads from the Supreme Overlord's floating fortress down towards the arena, they missed the opening salvo. In that short span, Lelith had crossed the distance between her and her target, and even Yvraine herself just barely brought her bladefan up in time to block the blow. Hesperax wasted no time, following it up with a series of strikes and feints to keep her opponent on the defensive.
Yet Yvraine was no ordinary opponent. After fending off the initial assault, she struck back. In her hands was the legendary Triptych Whip, a legendary relic formed from three agonisers fused together. It took incredible skill and focus just to wield it, but the succubus was no stranger to such acrobatic fighting. Her first riposte was almost as fast as Lelith's, the three tips of her whip cracking out nearly forty times. Yet not a single one landed, Hesperax's acrobatics seemingly effortlessly keeping her from harm's way as she gave ground.
Minutes passed as the two Wyches went back and forth, their combat a work of art as the crowd screamed their approval. Both were feeling each other out, their bloodsport a dance as they sought a flaw in their opponent's defenses. Faster and faster they feinted, dodged, parried, and struck, each gladiatrix a blur. High above, Vect's mobile fortress drifted serenely overhead as Vect and his chosen retinue spared a portion of their attention for the duel. However, the equilibrium was but a facade, for as the two came together once more, first blood was finally taken.
Yvraine reeled back, revealing a thin scratch on her arm from where Lelith's bladed hair had nicked her. Just like that, what seemed an even match was revealed to be a cruel joke. Lelith's speed was revealed in all its terrible glory, darting past every lash of her opponent's whip as she rained a series of blows from every angle. Yvraine's body became a tapestry of blood as each thin slice of Lelith's daggers etched a new stroke in her flesh. Her back was the worst, for though she could not see it, each new slash was a stroke that formed the ancient Aeldari word for death. High above, Vect turned away, now bored by the one-sided spectacle. At long last, Archon Avagddu was permitted to tell his news, revealing the horrors of Coheria and death he had discovered. Yet as the two talked, they missed the birth of a legend.
Yvraine reeled, her confidence utterly shattered by the revelation of Hesperax's true skill. The Queen of Knives streaked by, marking her one final time before plunging her daggers directly into Yvraine's heart. Her only satisfaction was that Lelith's face no longer bore a self-satisfied smirk, for Yvraine had done the impossible feat of landing a thin scratch upon her unmarked face, so thin that even the crowds could not see. As the curved daggers pierced her, Yvraine sank to her knees, and passed through the threshold of mortality to the other side.
As Lelith withdrew her daggers and turned to bask in the adulation of the crowd, Yvraine's soul passed from her body. At the same time, the spirit-stone given to her by Vect began to glow with mystical radiance, soaked in the unfathomable energies of the Warp which reacted as a soul became untethered. The white light shifted hues, becoming a wan green that was all too familiar to the horrified Archon Avagddu, who stared numbly down at the arena. Noticing his minion's sudden change of expression, the Supreme Overlord stopped, turning to see what Shadowbinder was staring at. Vect frowned.
Beyond the mortal veil, Yvraine's soul was halted in 'place', as the eyes of a god fixed upon her. Here was one who had trodden every Path of Aeldari society, one who served and led and guided while inflicting death in so many different ways. From Craftworlder Aspect Warrior to Corsair captain to Drukhari succubus, unleashing death from both up close and personal at the tip of a blade and from countless miles away as the ships under her command battled in the frozen void, to ordering the deaths of others as warriors fought and died under her command.
Yes, here indeed was one worthy to be called a Ynnitach, a Bride of Death. Yvraine found her former cares were obliterated, her very thought-patterns forged anew as the nascent god of death Ynnead transformed her, utterly claiming her as his own. Time and space meant little and less to those of the Warp, and so as the energies of the exploding Crystal Moon of Coheria entered the Immaterium, a miniscule portion were diverted into Yvraine, both her soul and body. This action of the unborn god of death, metaphorical child of Morai-Heg and Khaine that he was, the master of death as the most final end of all things, acted in a way that should not have been possible this day, and the galaxy would be forever changed.
Now, in his Herald, he poured out power, hollowing out her memories and soul to make room for a most terrible geas. Before the eyes of all, Yvraine's body rose into the air, limned in amethyst energies. Her flesh took on a crystalline quality, smooth as stone yet as supple as living skin, and became a sickly green color. Every wound was healed, save for that of the rune of death which had been engraved in her back, now a tattoo, while in her hands, the spirit-stone transformed as well, elongating into a curved blade: Kha-Vir, the Sword of Sorrows, the first of the Croneswords.
Back in the arena, Lelith noticed for the first time the attention of the crowds was not upon her as the cheers slowly died. She turned around, only to be as amazed as the crowds as she gazed upon the nimbus of sickly energy bathing the body of the succubus she had just slain. As the last of Yvraine's injuries faded, a wave of energy erupted out like an electromagnetic pulse, rippling unimpeded through the energy shields to swamp over the stands like a tidal wave. Wherever it passed, the energies of pure death slew instantly, turning those it struck into crystalline skeletons transfixed in place. Far outside the arena, the hooded figure of the Thanatiphoros paused their work, suddenly aware of what they must do.
Yet such death was merely the beginning. The Crucibael had seen uncounted millions slain over the millennia, metaphysically soaking it with the uncountable energies of death. Had it been built in realspace, the walls of reality would've been breached long before to allow daemons to manifest as the collective suffering allowed in the energies of the Warp. Being built in the Webway though had kept it safe from Chaos, but the Aeldari's sanctuary dimension could not keep out the god of death. The manifested glory of Ynnead called upon every Aeldari soul ever slain in the arena as countless shades and spirits erupted into being in all their horrifying majesty.
Every eruption brought forth a patch of nadirite dust that spread like a necrotic growth, coating the arena floor in jet-black dust of death that began to rapidly spread as the restless spirits surged forth. This corruption spread like wildfire across the death-soaked grounds as well as from the stands where the crystalline statues stood as horrific testaments of Ynnead's power. Lelith quickly fled as the first of the spirits turned their baleful eyes upon her, escaping the arena on the back of a sleek jetbike brought to her by one of her retinue.
With a crackle of lightning, Yvraine opened her eyes to reveal pupils now limned with ghostly fire. The armies of the dead flocked to her side, instinctively acknowledging her new sovereignty as the Herald of Ynnead. In the stands, the crystalline skeletons began to move, turning upon the nearing living beings that they could find with tranquil fury. Elsewhere, Anarchy erupted across the Dark City as daemons began to manifest, slipping through tears in the fabric of reality to unleash slaughter. Struck by the energies of the Warp, the collective realms of Commorragh had been hit by a metaphysical quake of the worst sort: the dreaded Dysjunction.
Up above, Vect hissed in frustration as his prized coliseum was ruined. He spat an order to his servants, who swiftly carried it out with alacrity born of desperation. A dozen black beams of energy speared down from the dark lances mounted all around the arena, striking Yvraine directly. Yet when the dust cleared, she appeared unharmed, having effortlessly deflected the shots in a display of psychic power, the kind which Vect had forbidden long ago. The ricochets blasted into the sides of the arena, through which poured a new host of warriors, both wyches and kabalites alike, clad in the ebony of Vect's Black Heart Kabal as well as dozens of other, lesser kabals. Yet rather than attack Yvraine, the assembled Drukhari knelt before her.
From amidst the crowd, an incubus warrior clad in the scarlet armor of the Shrine of the Coiled Blade pushed his way forward through the sellswords. It was all too clear who this warrior was: the so-called Thanatiphoros, the 'Bringer of Death'. Yet he did not introduce himself as such, rather telling the impassive Yvraine his true title was the Visarch as he saluted with his klaive in a gesture of fealty. The mantle of Thanatiphoros was thus passed over to Yvraine, the Visarch and his soldiers swearing everlasting fidelity to Ynnead and his Herald as the hordes of the dead knelt in obeisance. Thus did the Ynnari come to be, a reborn force the likes of which the galaxy had never before seen as the deathless armies of Ynnead were made manifest. With an imperious wave of her Cronesword, Yvraine ordered her forces forth, to kill every living thing that stood between them and her starship, the Lanathrialle which sat docked in the Port of Lost Souls.
Scene Four: The Night of Revelations
To have not only brought a disturbance to the Crucibael, long seen as the height of impertinence, but to have actually damaged it as well, it was no surprise Asdrubael Vect was beyond furious. Long had Vect seen himself as above the gods, as the supreme form of life in the entire universe. The idea of Ynnead and the Thanatiphoros represented an existential threat; the idea that anyone was beyond his grasp was most unwelcome. As his apoplectic fury subsided, Vect returned to a deadly calm, ordering the terrified Archon Avagddu to destroy these interlopers, to utterly annihilate Yvraine and all who dared turn their backs on him to serve her ridiculous fables.
By the time the Archon had gathered what forces he could, primarily from the Kabal of the Black Heart and the Kabal of the Agonizing Lash, his own personal army, Yvraine and her allies were long gone. They had fled the Crucibael, dispersing throughout High Commorragh in a dozen vectors of death that grew in strength the further they went. Every Aeldari soul that had ever died in the Dark City had lingered there in one way or another, for while a select few had been placed in new bodies by the dark arts of the haemonculi, the vast majority had been left to linger, unable to enter the Warp or pass on to another realm such as an Infinity Circuit. Had they been conscious, they would have seen this as a mercy, for to die in realspace unprotected was to be thrown in the clutches of She-Who-Thirsts. As the Ynnari passed, these spirits were drawn to them, growing in power with each soul that merged into the collective.
However, such power was all but invisible to the Drukhari. Long had they intentionally stunted their psychic potentials to avoid the attentions of Slaanesh, and so what Craftworlders would have seen as a blazing green trail of undeath, the denizens of the Dark City could only see the after-effects as panicked calls for help rang out across the communications network. Archon Avagddu was forced to attempt to isolate where Yvraine herself had gone, combing the networks for any mention of the unearthly Herald of Ynnead.
As the Dysjunction continued and daemons continued to manifest, Vect's forces were pulled ever thinner. The Supreme Overlord's fortress had vanished, moved to keep Vect himself safe even if it meant leaving the Dark City to burn. Thus there were none left to gainsay the Shadowbinder, who in his desperation and sadism chose to unleash wholesale slaughter, unleashing metaphorical firebreaks to halt the Ynnari one way or another. With Vect's favor evident upon him, Archon Avagddu vented his sadism upon the Lower City. The Kabal of the Agonizing Lash was new to power, having risen up solely through Avagddu's effort, and thus had many grudges left over from its time in the gutter. Thus when informants spread the word that the Thanatiphoros had been spotted moving about the shanty-towns of Sec Maegra, the Archon was quick to act.
His forces gathered, Avagddu unleashed his vanguard: no less than seven air wings of deep purple Voidraven bombers moved silently into the crowded skies above Sec Maegra. Such an intrusion would have normally warranted immediate attack, but such was their numbers that the flocks of scourges and reavers began to vacate the skies, sensing what was about to unfold. From the decks of his Tantalus skimmer, Avagddu smirked as his bombers indiscriminately unleashed their payloads in precisely-spaced waves. They had been specially equipped for this mission: rather than the conventional implosion missiles, Avagddu had opted for necrotoxin warheads. Thus the constant civil wars of the shanty-towns were interrupted as clouds of choking gas filled the streets.
A headlong rush to higher ground erupted as the inhabitants abandoned their homes and holdings in a desperate scramble for survival. They were encouraged in this by the Archon's second wave: hundreds of Reaver jetbikes swept through the crowds, killing and maiming at random. Their very transports were weapons, festooned with spikes and bladed grav-talons that meted out painful ends to those that had survived the shots of their splinter rifles. More than a few of the riders met gruesome ends themselves in the process, plowing headlong into walls or being crushed by collapsing buildings. However, such losses were insignificant and expected, for these were Wych Cult mercenaries, not truly part of the Kabal and thus expendable.
Avagddu had little faith that such indiscriminate tactics would actually kill the Thanatiphoros; rather, it was his hope that spreading his forces in such a wide net would reveal where his target had gone. This was merely the opening moves of the hunt, a ploy designed to force the prey into a disadvantageous position. Thus as the hours turned into days, he was not unduly worried. Sec Maegra, though it was just one part of the Dark City, was massive, and his forces could not be everywhere at once.
Though not a minute ever went by without a death in one and often many of Commorragh's countless subrealms, the slaughter unleashed by the Kabal of the Agonizing Lash was on a scale rarely seen. Disorder ruled the day as the kabalites clashed with xenos gangs, other kabals, and anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. Meanwhile, daemonic intruders battled all sides, eager to claim the rich bounty of Aeldari souls during the limited time the Dysjunction granted them access to Commorragh. From atop their personal spires, many Archons looked down with disdain and/or envy at the mess Avagddu was making of their city. To the well-established, those whose forces counted in the millions, he was an upjumped thug; to those less powerful, both those losing their lairs and those watching from the sidelines, Avagddu was what they wished they could be. Truly, Vect's favor was a double-edged sword.
However, as the unreal time of Commorragh flowed on with no sign of the Thanatiphoros, Avagddu's patience began to wear thin. Cunning hunter though he fancied himself, and amusing as listening to the broadcast screams of the aliens and wretched poor may be, Avagddu knew full well the Supreme Overlord's favor would be retroactively withdrawn should he fail to produce results. The sheer scale of Commorragh, with its myriad boltholes, tiers, and spires, meant there were any number of places the target could be. A new force would thus be needed, and now that he had access to Vect's arsenal, Avagddu had just the weapon in mind: the Castigators.
Across Low Commorragh, ancient vaults rumbled open as stasis-fields deactivated, the agents of Vect hurriedly running to escape the sight of the monsters trapped within. From these lightless tombs, metal-skinned monstrosities marched forth. The Castigators were the monsters of legend, Vect's ultimate army of remorseless killers armed with distortion whips and mono-claws designed to strike fear in the hearts of traitors and rebels alike. Once they had been wraith-constructs before Vect had desecrated them, binding helpless spirits into bodies of metal and psycho-plastics to serve as fuel sources. Wherever they marched, naught but death followed, for they were utterly impervious to small-arms fire.
Here and there, one or two were dragged down, swamped by sheer numbers, but each small victory was bought with countless deaths. Neither the Ynnari nor daemons could stand up to them, though many thousands of Commorragh's citizens met their end as well. Avagddu did not care, for as time passed, the cries for aid gradually lessened, the silence of the grave enforced upon a vast stretch of the Dark City. Yet Shadowbinder remained uneasy, for still Yvraine and her retinue remained unfound. Nor had Vect returned, and the thought of not having completed his task before then was daunting indeed.
As the Dysjunction ran its course, the tremors shaking the tiers of Commorragh gradually lessened. Now able to communicate again, the Archon reached out to his contacts in Aelindrach, the dreaded shadow realm of the Mandrakes that festered in the darkest reaches of the Dark City. The so-called Shadowbinder had many allies there, whose favor he called on to help locate Yvraine. Yet the Mandrakes also proved unable to find Yvraine, for the Bride of Death was seemingly able to see them no matter how deep the shadows in which they hid. The pale green corpselight illuminated those few spies that did locate the Ynnari, revealing wretched forms that howled as they hurled themselves at their hated foes.
Yet not even the balefire of the Mandrakes could halt Yvraine. Each assault was hurled back with ease by the death cultists guarding her, and not even the Castigators could stop her. When the tortured machines blocked her path, Yvraine gave a chilling smile. Her crystalline skin glinted as she summoned ghastly green energies, a vortex of death. Faced with an inexorable tugging force, the spirits animating and powering the corrupted wraith-constructs were torn from their shells, finally finding the sweet oblivion of death as their essences joined the psychic gestalt that Yvraine had become host to.
Yet the wraith-constructs did not remain inert. The Bride of Death had become an Infinity Circuit unto herself, each burst soul empowering Yvraine and her followers with new vigor. Into their empty shells Yvraine channeled new spirits, those who had been reborn in Ynnead's grasp. The wraithbone of the constructs reacted with the nadirite dust in the same way the Webway itself had, shifting hues to that same pale wraith-green and rich amethyst as crystal spikes erupted from them. Where wraith-constructs lurched, blinded by the misty veil between life and death, and where the Castigators marched with machine-driven precision, the movement of these new Graveguard was almost alive, moving with nearly the same fluidity and grace that a living Eldar might display.
Thus did the composition of Yvraine's forces evolve as they marched. All enemy scouts attempting to disclose their location were swiftly dealt with, and Yvraine was free to move undetected. Conventional wisdom meant Archon Avagddu's attention was focused on the various ports of Commorragh, thinking that the Ynnari wished to escape before Vect could catch them, for that's what Avagddu himself or any living commander trapped in hostile territory would have done. However, Yvraine and her allies were now hosts to goals far beyond that which mortal minds could comprehend. Death itself had become a sacred rite to them, a hideous eschatological fixation far beyond the bloodshed of Khaine or the fates of Morai-Heg impelling them.
No, Ynnead's servants needed the death of all Aeldari, for the prophecies had long stated that only this would bring about the ascension and rebirth of their master to full godhood. Through the winding spires of Commorragh they traveled, up and down and every direction imaginable in the insane geometries of the Dark City. To them flocked the countless billions of Aeldari souls, all those that lingered unremembered. In the wretched dens of the Haemonculi, the dark artisans howled with baffled fury as their test subjects went limp, those on the cusp of rebirth pulled away by the siren song of the Herald of Death.
Soon enough, Yvraine had reached her goal: the Ilmaea. High in the skies of Commorragh, dozens of black suns hung suspended, their light trapped and bound like a flame inside a lantern. Arcane science, the sort of which humanity could only dream of had been child's play to the Aeldari Dominion. In their hubris, they had taken many suns captive, leaving entire solar systems bereft of light. The true size of even a single one would have been enough to immolate whole subrealms of Commorragh in their entirety, and yet there were dozens, strung up like lanterns long ago to illuminate Port Commorragh. Miniscule webs of metal wrapped around them, containing the limitless fires of the black suns to a level Vect saw fit. Their blinding glory, though pale compared to a true star, was more than enough to ensure no Mandrakes would dare follow.
Millennia ago, the rebellion of Archon Yllithian had been dealt with in a single day by using the Ilmaea to devastating effect. Unleashing solar flares, Vect had burnt away entire sections of Commorragh that had been engulfed by Aelindrach, who were allied to Yllithian in his bid to unseat the Supreme Overlord, as well as annihilating the spires and tiers sworn to the traitorous Archon. In his arrogance, Vect had neglected to guard the suns, confident that none would dare to recreate his atrocities. As such, the pitiful forces stationed there were quickly overcome.
High above the Dark City, Yvraine channeled the incredible psychic might of an unborn god as solar flares of blinding black fire were unleashed. Even the ancient shields protecting High Commorragh were no match for the power of a sun, and the towers came tumbling down. Millions of Dark Eldar perished instantly, whether by the unstoppable fire of a star or when falling masonry crushed them flat. Their souls were then drawn to the nearest Ynnari, bursting with energy as they formed a tide of green death that continued their rampage across the Dark City.
However, Vect's forces were not stupid, and by unleashing such a catastrophe, Yvraine had given away her position. Aboard his Tantalus, Archon Shadowbinder raced toward the Ilmaea, accompanied by his chosen warriors as well as extensive forces drawn from the Covens of the Haemonculi and entire Aeries worth of scourges. The winged gangsters had thought to remain aloof atop their towers, disdainful of those who lacked wings, but the fires of the Ilmaea had burnt their lairs all the same. Now they sought vengeance, their hate matched only by that of the haemonculi, who had lost both their laboratories and their experiments contained within by the actions of the Ynnari. Inside the darkened hulls of their transports, the abhorrent monstrosities known as grotesques gasped and groaned as hyper-steroids took effect on their twisted flesh.
As the first of the transports docked with the platforms, the creatures of the haemonculi came pouring out. Met with a withering hail of splinter rifle fire, the grotesques simply roared, bull-rushing through the storm unabated, for they had been made entirely insensate to pain by the foul ministrations of their masters. The Ynnari had picked their defenses well, shielded behind heavy barricades formed from the strange crystals that seemed to grow in their wake, along with a thick supernatural shademist. However, neither walls nor mist could shield them from above, as they soon found out to their horror, for from the skies came the scourges.
The air was soon filled with screeches as the avian warriors swooped down to seize Ynnari in their talons before hurling them over the edge to their deaths far, far below. Dark lance fire soon blasted holes in the defensive embankments, through which poured the forces of Archon Avagddu. Shadowbinder had brought the elite of his kabal with him, entire regiments of Trueborn warriors clad in his personal colors, their livery of deep purple. Soon the landing dock had devolved into complete chaos as the Drukhari battled, no quarter given on either side.
Yet Avagddu had still more cards to play. Into the heart of this battle strode one of Vect's most favored servants, Archon Sythrac the Soul Hunter. Renowned for having never failed his master, Sythrac spent his days hunting down legendary figures, heroes and commanders of every sort. To his master he would bring their heads, and using his thick silver armor he would steal their souls, binding them into his wargear and using them to empower himself. Yvraine would be just one more victim in his long reign of terror, and so he mercilessly strode straight for the highest spire, none able to withstand his relentless march, followed close behind by Avagddu and his retinue.
None that is, save for the Visarch. The scarlet-clad warrior had not left his mistress's side since the arena, preventing any foes from drawing near her so that she could reserve her power until it was truly needed. It took great psychic focus to direct the solar flares of the Ilmaea in useful directions, channeling the molten fury of the heavens into vectors that would cause the most death. Thus while she stood motionless within a ritual circle surrounded by howling amethyst winds, the Visarch defended her, casting down any foe who dared approach.
It then came as a great surprise to the Visarch as he found himself hurled back. Sythrac was an unstoppable juggernaut, smashing into him from the side with a strength more akin to that of a hulking ork warboss than his slender Drukhari physique would otherwise suggest. Each movement brought forth a wail of pain from the souls trapped within his silvered armor, their vitality leeched to invigorate Sythrac far beyond anything the Visarch had expected. Only his incubi training, harsh and cruel, kept Yvraine's champion in the fight, tirelessly suffering each wound in silence as Sythrac drove him back.
Further up the spire, Archon Avagddu skulked, watching as the grotesques crested the summit and began to claw at Yvraine. A nimbus of emerald energy surrounded her as the bestial monstrosities attempted to tear her to pieces, struggling to penetrate her shields. It was clearly taking a toll on the Herald of Ynnead, for the solar flares erupting from the Ilmaea were doing so less and less frequently as Yvraine was forced to defend herself by diverting more energy to her barrier. The rest of her guardians were either slain or on the verge of death themselves, outnumbered and outgunned by the forces that the agents of Vect had brought to bear.
Finally, with a wailing groan, the emerald field collapsed, and the first of the grotesques swatted the Herald away from her ritual circle. As she struck the ground, her left arm at an unnatural angle, the coterie of horrors pounced upon her, blind with pent-up fury as they tore and mangled her body. Yvraine attempted to fight back, her bladefan slicing deep gouges in the flesh of the grotesques, but it did little and less, for their altered flesh ensured the creatures felt no pain from even the most savage cuts. The Visarch watched helplessly out of the corner of his eyes, sorely wounded by Sythrac's relentless strikes. He attempted to fall back, the sworn sword desperate to reach his master, but it was no use. Sythrac caught him in a gauntleted grip, hurling him aside with contemptuous ease to crash into a nearby wall.
Sythrac approached the mangled body of Yvraine, the grotesques loping back to their master's side now that their task was done. From the shadows, Avagddu stepped forth, his huskblade still covered in ash from his last victim. The two Archons stood above their ravaged foe, one contemptuous, the other gloating. All around them, the tumult of battle was lessening, the last of the Ynnari pinned into ever-shrinking killzones. Avagddu kicked the fallen Herald; when she didn't move, he planted a boot upon her body, then turned toward his fellow Archon, ready to gloat.
A sudden scratching sound made both Avagddu and Sythrac jump, quickly turning to face whatever this new threat was. Yet all they beheld was the dying form of a wych, her body half melted away courtesy of a blast from a liquifier gun. As she crawled forward, the wych pulled out a small knife, stopping when she saw the two foes between her and her mistress. The wych stared at them, hatred in her eyes, then spoke in a voice thick with blood.
"My life… for Ynnead." The wych slashed her own throat open in an apparent gesture of suicide. As her thread was cut, a burst of energy shot forth, the shriveled remnants of her soul slipping from the wych's lifeless body. It was invisible to Avagddu but not to Sythrac, whose enchanted armor made him far more psychically-attuned than the average Drukhari. Yet rather than fading away, the soul of the wych shot straight for Yvraine's body, and as it entered the locket around her neck, Yvraine's eyes opened.
Before the Archons could react, Yvraine rose up, surrounded by coruscating teal corpse-light. She let out an unearthly rasp, her mutilated throat making a mockery of the fell words, but the effect was no less devastating. With unerring accuracy, her Cronesword flew straight into the chest of her foe. The potent death-magicks contained within Kha-Vir instantly whittled away the soul-bindings engraved on Sythrac's armor, and suddenly, like a breach from a dam, a colossal wave of spirits burst forth. They surged like a tidal wave toward the Herald, the unbound souls called to the words of the phoenix pouring from Yvraine's mouth. As each joined her, her wounds were undone, empowering her with the accumulated lifeforce of every victim Sythrac had ever slain.
His armor now powerless, Sythrac could barely move, unable to lift the absurdly-heavy suit. Yvraine did not wait, slashing his throat open in a spray of blood with her bladefan. She strode down to the fallen form of the Visarch, murmuring soft words as she healed his wounds. Archon Avagddu attempted to take advantage of her momentary distraction, bringing his huskblade down in an attempt to behead her as he leapt through a plume of smoke. However, the blow never connected. Yvraine's succubus reflexes easily allowed her to dodge the attack, following it up with a kick aimed at Avagddu's midriff. Such a counter-attack was merely cursory, designed to push him back. Yet it did far more, for rather than shielding him, Avagddu's shadow-field, an ancient relic that should have kept him invulnerable from nearly any attack, gave out. Why it did, none could say, but the effects were devastating. Knocked off balance, the Shadowbinder was sent toppling over a railing, screaming out in impotent fury as he fell down to the burning city below.
With both Archons eliminated, the remaining mercenaries began to flee. Avagddu's Trueborn were the first to go, his Dracon lieutenant claiming the mantle of Archon as he led his diminished forces back to the ship. Others chose to surrender, pledging themselves to the cause of Ynnead. To each of these, Yvraine touched their face with the tip of Kha-Vir, crystalline growths forming into runes as the nadirite infested them. Their loyalty now assured, Yvraine and her followers made for their transports, swiftly overrunning a small fleet of raiders that then bore them across the ravaged landscape of High Commorragh.
Down and down they descended, until finally they reached the Port of Lost Souls. There they rendezvoused with her starship, the Lanathrialle, and took off, making for the nearest Webway artery as they fled the Dark City. The cause of Ynnead had been advanced greatly this day, billions of souls gone to join the nascent god of death. However, they still had a long way to go, for She-Who-Thirsts had glutted upon countless trillions of Aeldari souls during the Fall. Into the misty halls of the Webway they went, leaving behind the burning ruins of Commorragh. In time the Dark City would rebuild, for it was like a cancer at the heart of the Webway, but for now, no pursuit came. At least, not from Commorragh…
"Well now, I see you're finally awake" an all-too-familiar voice grated in his ears. Avagddu opened his eyes, blinking away tears at the sudden burst of pain. The archon tried to glance down, but found he couldn't. "Oh, do stay still. My dear Urien went to such trouble to bring you back from beyond the veil, but even his skill takes time to work." Vect's voice was deceptively calm. Around him, Master Haemonculus Urien Rakarth and his acolytes worked feverishly, ministering to dozens of other sarcophagi.
Vect floated up to hover directly in front of Avagddu's face, as if mocking gravity itself. The Supreme Overlord reached out a clawed talon, the tips digging painfully into the archon's face. "You failed me, Avagddu. A shame, really. You held such promise. However, I'm not in the practice of rewarding failure. Now you will see plainly that my will cannot be undone, my favor cannot be regained, and most importantly for you, dear Avagddu, my wrath cannot be tempered." Vect released Avagddu's face, holding out a hand into which one of Rakarth's supernumerary prehensile limbs placed a small box and a set of tongs. The Supreme Overlord opened the canister, revealing a pale green crystal that Avagddu recognized to his horror, thrashing as he attempted with all his might to get away.
"Oh no, you aren't going anywhere…" Vect gently picked up the crystal using the tongs. In one swift motion, he thrust the nadirite into Avagddu's chest, which began to sprout with horrifying speed. Soon the archon was covered in a thin layer of crystal, petrified in the most literal way. A pair of wracks lurched forward, wheeling away the still-living statue out of the room as they prepared to move it to the vast, vast gallery that held the rest of those who had failed the Supreme Overlord.
Vect turned back to Rakarth, disdain etched in his features. The Master Haemonculus mirrored his expression, sharing in their mutual hatred of the Whispering God and his Herald. The delicate balance of power in Commorragh had been upset, but it was nothing the Supreme Overlord couldn't handle. No, the idea anything was beyond his reach was far more irritating. The very concept of one dedicating their life to a myth such as Ynnead… No, Vect had no time for such delusions. It was mere psychic trickery that enabled his foes to do what they did.
"A god? Don't make me laugh. When I find Yvraine, her suffering will be endless. She damaged my city. She damaged ME, for I AM COMMORRAGH. She will beg for the embrace of her false god, but I will deny her. I will make her see the futility of her quest. After all, what fool would plan to defeat their enemy by dying themselves?"
A/N: IT LIVES! Reborn by the power of Ynnead, the Leonine Heresy has returned from seeming death to astonish, delight, and hopefully entertain you all once more. It's been a while everyone, and for that, I'm sorry. Life has a way of coming at you fast. Between moving and changing jobs, I have not had a lot of time for writing these past few months. Likewise, 40k tenth edition has all but killed my interest in actually playing the tabletop game, which had been one of my main sources of inspiration to write (my poor, poor Custodes). But the writing bug can't be kept away forever, and so in less than a week, the one thousand words of this entry turned into eleven thousand, and I have the outline for Part Three (the Fracture of Biel-Tan, hint, hint) all ready to begin writing.
So Part One as you may recall was the battle of Port Demesnus, as taken from the Death Masque box set, and focused primarily on the Harlequins and Corsairs to a lesser extent. This entry obviously focused on the Drukhari, leaving the Craftworlders for last. I'll save the bulk of my analysis of Ynnead for next chapter, but I will say that the forces of death (both Nighthaunt and Bonereapers) from Age of Sigmar were a big source of inspiration for my take on Ynnead and the aesthetic of the Ynnari in general. My goal with this will be to evidence just how different (and scandalous) the Ynnari truly are, because really, what they're doing to birth a god would send out insane alarm bells for the rest of Eldar society given their experience with the last goddess they created.
Anyway, I am back, and I hope to go back to releasing at least one entry a month, as I have a tentative schedule worked out for the next few stories. As always, please leave comments and thoughts, as I love to read them. Sharrowkyn, out.