Incubi

Quote :

I wouldn't even know where to begin to get that sort of job.

Keep an eye on BL's website. Every so often they do something known as a submissions period. You submit a short story that meets that window's guidelines and they get back to you. If they like it they work with you on getting it published by them. If it gets good feedback you can write novels.

I probably shouldn't meddle, but I really want to add something:

Firstly, I think that the 'fluff' in the codex is meant to be a superficial outline of the dark eldar. Superficially, they may seem like psychotic killers who care for nothing but inflicting death and pain, and from the outside they would certainly seem that way. But if you're going to write stories about them, you need to delve deeper into their motivations, feelings, and hopes; in short, humanity. Not that you couldn't write a story about simple psycho killers going 'death! pain! mwahaha!' all the time, but it would end up being silly and get dull very quickly. Characters need some complexity in order to make us care enough to read about them.

It's not that they aren't cruel and murderous, but they have to be something more than just that.

Secondly, there is no point in parroting what someone else has done before. If Thor's dark eldar are the same as Brandon Campbell's dark eldar, which are the same as Andy Chambers' dark eldar, why would we bother with one or the other? Every author needs to bring their own perspective to their work. We should think of the 'fluff' as a framework on which to build, not as a cage to which we are confined.

Thor665 wrote:

I prefer to think of them, mentally, like criminals.

I personally think of them as inhabitants of a sinister wonderland (not that the original Wonderland isn't quite sinister itself!). Fairies, basically.

Cavash wrote:

Quote :

I wouldn't even know where to begin to get that sort of job.

Keep an eye on BL's website. Every so often they do something known as a submissions period. You submit a short story that meets that window's guidelines and they get back to you. If they like it they work with you on getting it published by them. If it gets good feedback you can write novels.

Explains why so many do pro-Imperial stuff   

The bells cut through her battle meditations and made her look up. Zak had paused as well, halfway through showing Tymeon how to manage a better counter thrust after a parry. He frowned as he considered the noise, more horns sounding. He glanced at her, both of them recognizing the sound for what it was. The bells of the temple would ring for many purposes; to signal a call to prayers, to note the beginning of practice, to summon them to the eating hall. But this particular melody had one meaning and one meaning only.

The temple was under attack.

Around them the temple seemed to come to sudden life. Robed students darted away from their exercises and to their assigned stations. Instructors and other full Incubi moved calmly, yet with deft speed, through the courtyards and across the high walkways, their black armor dull, their klaives gleaming and bright, and their grinning skull masks turned upward to appraise their foe.
“Return to the temple,” Zak motioned them back towards the nearest entryway,” Purples are to gather in the Hall of Weapons for arming when the battle bell tolls.”

“What about you,” Obessa demanded as Welv and Tymeon fell back. Zak bore his klaive, but was not in his Incubi warplate, wearing only his loose black practice pants.

“An Incubi with his blade is always ready for battle,” he offered with a slight smirk as he turned and ran towards the nearest spiral access stair to the upper walkways.

“Bessa, are you coming or what?” Welv and Tymeon had paused at the entrance to the inner temple, looking back at her. Obessa paused a moment, her eyes flickering over to the small bundle of supplies Zak had brought to the training session where she knew he had brought some sharpened klaives, including her own. He usually only allowed the students to use them in solo practice, so they could get used to handling a klaive properly and learn not to slice off their own legs or fingers when executing some of the more complicated maneuvers.
He would not be happy with her.

Obessa sprinted towards the bundle, her hand finding the handle of her klaive, the grip feeling good and sure in her grasp.

“Oh Muses, she’s doing that thing again,” sighed Tymeon as she took off after Zak.

“And we’re about to do it too,” grunted Welv as he rushed towards the other klaives, “you with me?”

“Very well, I suppose there is a good song and some ample pain and glory to be had,” Tymeon darted along in Welv’s footsteps, groaning, “but I’m planning to blame you and her if we get in trouble!”

The other two caught up to her as she neared one of the outer walls. Obessa had already drawn up short when she’d seen the livery on a passing Raider, the sleek jagged-nosed craft proudly flying the mark of the Cult of Bloodied Kiss. Ten wyches hung on the craft, their eyes agleam as they cruised past, their hands on their weapons. Some were already letting out war whoops, or gesturing to their battle mates their intended accomplishments. That was when the voice boomed out over voice projectors attached to the vehicles;

“Greetings Obsidian Lethe, I am Kyssindree, the Flensing Laugh, soon to be Succubus of Bloodied Kiss. I have come for a package in your possession, a package that belongs to my Cult. If you do not hand it over immediately, then I cannot be held accountable for what happens next. You may sound a signal to surrender now and lay down your arms, failure to do so will result in consequences.”

“They won’t attack,” Tymeon smirked, “it’s just a show of strength, you’d have to be insane to attack an Incubi Temple. The repercussions on a political and military level…”

Obessa glanced over at him, frowning. “It’s Kyssindree, she’ll attack. She wants to attack.”

The bells of the temple remained silent. Obessa glanced up at the simple squat structure and saw Zak there, standing alongside a pair of blacks each arming themselves with dark lances, setting up the powerful cannons to give them clear fields of fire at the circling Raiders and Venoms. Zak had his arms crossed, staring without fear or concern at the enemy.

She gripped her klaive tighter. Above them, the Raiders and Venoms circled eagerly, the wyches crowding the vehicles wore eager grins on their faces as they eyed their prey.

“Time’s up!” Kyssindree’s laughing cry of glee echoed through the courtyards.


==============================================


Xulfryn’s expression had showed no warning of his intent. The man moved like a hunting cat, lightly springing over the negotiation table as he came at her. Mor’osez reacted on instinct, going for a dagger on her belt, though even as she drew it and began to raise it he was on her, grabbing at her wrist and twisting it as he wrenched her arm around. She rolled with the motion, preventing him from breaking her arm and twisting herself free, though he retained control of her dagger, snatching it from her hand in a deft move. Mor’osez came up to her feet, already working at unslinging her chainsword from her back, she loved the weapon dearly, but it wasn’t the quickest to prepare for battle.

Ryldnar already had his klaive in motion, one of her wych escorts lying on the ground dead at his feet and two more already sorely pressed in battle with him. Klarz’ay had sprung forward as well, to meet Grexel. She nimbly danced away from his wide, sweeping blows as he tried to cut her down, her hands at her sides, daggers twirling around her fingers as she looked for an opening to exploit.

Xulfryn was on her again in a fraction of a heartbeat, his oily red eyes agleam. The man moved like lightning! Mor’osez forgot her sword, weaving away from a brutal knife slash and responding with a quick jab with curled fingers at his throat that he easily sidestepped as he attempted to plunge the dagger into her liver.

“What did you expect,” he snarled, “to kill me in negotiations, like a cowardly back stabber?”

“That makes no sense,” she responded coldly as she ducked under his guard and almost managed to land a clean uppercut to his kidney, but he managed to barely spin out of the way first. She took the moment to assess the battle. Grexel continued to hold her own, but Ryldnar had accounted for four of the six other Wyches that had accompanied her to the temple, and looked to be intent on finishing off the last two quickly. If he did so he could add his skills to aid either Klarz’ay or Xulfryn and things would get…complicated.

“Greetings Obsidian Lethe, I am Kyssindree, the Flensing Laugh, soon to be Succubus of Bloodied Kiss.” The mocking voice roared out of amplifiers mounted on the Raiders and Venoms. “I have come for a package in your possession, a package that belongs to my Cult. If you do not hand it over immediately, then I cannot be held accountable for what happens next. You may sound a signal to surrender now and lay down your arms, failure to do so will result in consequences.”

“My answer to her will be your head mounted on a spike.” Xulfryn took a few more quick cuts with the dagger at her, Mor’osez was forced to give ground, he was too good with the blade for her to deal with quickly bare-handed, if at all.

“You’re a fool,” she finally offered. “How can you possibly think she and I are aligned?”

“You’re both from Bloodied Kiss,” he snapped quickly.

“Right, and my master plan was to come here, with everything I needed to get you to just hand over the box, and then to attack you anyway?”

“You…” Xulfryn paused for a moment, his eyes still narrowed suspiciously and the blade still ready in his hand, but he stopped attacking her for a moment nonetheless. “You…” He frowned and suddenly stood up straight, barking out a sharp order. Both Ryldnar and Klarz’ay suddenly backed away from their opponents. “You are correct, it doesn’t make sense. Why are you here?”

“For the box, just as I said, and so is she, but clearly for reasons that run against my own interests.”

“What are your interests?”

“I-“ Mor’osez paused, wondering how to answer that question.

“Time’s up!” Kyssindree’s laughing cry of glee echoed through the courtyards.

In the skies overhead there came a howling roar, the screaming sound of Reaver Jetbikes, Kyssindree’s favorite vehicle of war and pain. At the same moment the Raiders spun about in tight circles, unleashing pulsing blasts of dark matter at key defensive emplacements whilst the Venoms swept in low, already disgorging their passengers while laying down a withering hail of splinter cannon fire.

“We don’t have time to debate this here,” noted Ryldnar tersely.

“Agreed,” Xulfryn motioned to her, “there is only one question I have, answer wrong and you die here. Did you support or oppose Irbreena’s death?”

“I did neither, because I didn’t care,” Mor’osez answered, “but before she died she revealed a mystery I am obligated to solve.”

Xulfryn’s oily red eyes narrowed slightly, his lips twitched, and then he nodded. “Follow me.”

Mor’osez did as she was asked, Grexel and the last two surviving wyches falling into step at her heels. Klarz’ay and Ryldnar moved in around them, their klaives still drawn, their eyes still watching the wyches carefully. Mor’osez unstrapped her chainsword as they all ran for cover. A passing Venom sprayed a few splinter rounds at the group, forcing them to duck and weave for cover, and during that period she took a moment to slip her hand into a pouch on her hip.

She’d left Cordus the other end of the comm crystal so that he could warn her that he or Faeth’lyn needed her help, it slightly galled her that she was going to need to be the one requesting aid, but she suspected the situation here could quickly spin out of control, and she needed to make sure someone had her back if she was going to get out of here with answers…and alive.


==============================================


“Reavers! Get off the walkways!” Obessa shouted the warning as she spotted the jetbikes sweeping down from above in spiraling corkscrew attack patterns. With their speed and baldevanes the mobile jetbikes were the perfect tool to sweep the defenders off their narrow walkways and away from all their heavy weaponry, thus allowing the Raiders safe points to land.

“Purples?” Master Jarrow came trotting towards them, a spear resting across his shoulders, and a bright blue sash tied around his slim waist. Behind him came Master Myrl, grim and silent, a klaive in his hands. “You’re not supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be arming yourselves in the Hall of Weapons.”

“Master, get down,” Obessa lifted an arm in warning as she spotted one of the Reavers sweeping towards them, the rider was already calling out her kill of Jarrow and Myrl by means of a double decapitation. Jarrow turned around almost casually, hefting his spear and letting it fly straight and true with an expert cast that caught the Reaver pilot square in the face. Bereft of her steering, the blade covered jetbike spun out of control and careened down to crash in a violent explosion in the Grove of Vaul.

“What are you three doing up here?” Jarrow turned back, as though hardly caring about what had just transpired.

“We’re doing whatever you’d like us to do,” offered Tymeon with a shrug and a smile.

“We already armed ourselves,” offered Obessa, “we were coming to help.”

“The fight on the walls is meaningless, the Cult has more than enough firepower to shoot us to pieces,” said Jarrow, “you should already be in position to fall back to the lower levels.”

“We’re retreating already?”

“Retreating?” Jarrow laughed, “we’re simply offering them a choice. Either they withdraw, or they continue their siege by leaving their guns behind and entering the halls and tunnels of the temple to attempt to defeat us in hand to hand combat.” Jarrow drew his klaive. “Not many have the stomach for dealing with Incubi in that manner.”

Behind them there was a violent explosion, the bell tower was blasted apart by a combined flurry of dark lance fire. Obessa could see Zak and one of the Blacks leaping free of the explosion, both landing on the walkway below and starting to run towards her and the Masters. If Zak had any opinion about seeing her there he gave no indication, instead already shouting information to Master Jarrow.

“They have skirmishers forcing their way into the main gate, looks like little more than Blood Packs or street gangs, none are wearing Cult colors.”

“Hired mercenaries? How shameful,” noted Jarrow as he motioned for everyone to follow him.

“It says that this attack isn’t fully sanctioned by the Cult, otherwise why bother bringing lesser warriors?” Obessa turned back towards Zak, and he nodded in agreement of her assessment.

“That should make things easier,” laughed Jarrow, “a full Cult might be an issue, but a half planned attack like this? We’ll bleed them dry.” He sprang up over the edge of the walkway, dropping down into the courtyard. Myrl followed at his heels, landing surprisingly lightly for one of his large frame. “Zak, get the children inside, Myrl and I will delay the initial rush and meet up with you and the others.”

The opening attack by the Raiders and jetbikes had focused darkmatter shots on two points, cutting open the entry gates and blasting apart the few gun emplacements that the Temple sported. The use of hired street bravos as battle fodder was a time proven and honored tactic, and Kyssindree had clearly spent a few chits on beefing up her assault force with willing fools. Obessa could already see a wave of heavily armed warriors streaming through the courtyards towards Myrl and Jarrow. The two masters seemed unimpressed. Myrl crossing his arms over his chest while Jarrow dropped down into a sitting posture, leaning up against Myrl’s leg as he examined the edge of his klaive with a critical eye.

“Are they serious?” She glanced at Zak who shrugged.

“Jarrow is a bit of a showman at heart, but they are both masters, do you think you and I could walk through that tide?” She glanced down again, assessing the approaching warriors. They were many in number, all armed and ready, but none particularly looked overly talented in their approach. She smirked back at him and he nodded as he motioned for her to follow.

As the five of them darted along the walkways, keeping an alert eye out for any other Reavers attempting to sweep across the walkway, a Raider roared overhead, its dark lance blazing as it sent arcing beams of darklight down to tear asunder one of the main temple doors for a waiting horde of hired sellblades in the courtyard below. At the same instant ten figures dropped off the Raider, landing neatly and with acrobatic artistry between them and the access portal Zak had been leading them towards.

The leader of the wyches was a thin slip of a girl with long silver hair in a pair of sweeping ponytails. She wore a blood red beret, and gilded emerald and onyx armor with a short half cape and thigh high leather boots, a pair of ornate dueling pistols were strapped around her muscular and bare midriff, resting on her smooth hips. She smiled as she considered them, licking her brightly painted lips as she started to point at Zak, calling out her prey, but then paused as she spotted Obessa. She paused, a smirk forming on her face.

“Oh, wow, you simply must be Obessa, that dour, dumb expression is exactly how Kyss described you!” The girl laughed merrily, but there was a hint of sadistic madness in the sound. “Well, now I simply have to kill you…or, actually, I dunno, I suppose I should probably capture you alive, Kyssindree would probably be pissy if I killed you off myself, wouldn’t she?”

“Are you kidding?” Obessa was appalled, “Is that what this is about?”

“Oh, posh, no, of course not,” the young wych laughed, waving her hand in dismissal. Around her, the other wyches with her laughed as well, busy in striking their most intimidating poses prior to the start of the bloodletting, a few already singling out their chosen targets. “This is really nothing more than a glorified shopping trip for a Succubus, but, hey, we get to do some mayhem along the way, and I get to kill you, so what’s the harm? It’s really just like a bonus gift!”

The girl almost moved too fast for Obessa’s eye to follow. In one smooth motion she went from waving her hand dismissively to suddenly dropping it to her waist and drawing out a splinter pistol. She flicked one of her ponytails back from her face as she snapped it up and let fire with a round straight at Obessa’s chest, only a sharp shove from Zak spared her, as he knocked her aside, the deadly poison crystal shard snapping through the air she had occupied but moments before.

“Wow, cute and fast…delicious!” The wych laughed. “Kill them all, and make it painful.”
The wyches attacked.

Zak sprang straight forward, his eyes locked on the female wych with the pistols, clearly figuring her as the leader and most dangerous, and thus his by right. Another wych charged Obessa, a sour faced female with a wild mop of orange hair and a deadly looking array of razor sharp spikes adorning her leg armor. She ran forward, snapping out a sharp snap kick that Obesa barely rolled to the side to avoid, almost taking her over the edge of the walkway. The wych rotated quickly, a wild roundhouse aimed at Obeassa’s face. Obessa shoved backwards, rolling back up to her feet partway through her tumble. The other wych was right there, unleashing a sharp kick at her left knee. Obessa sprang into the air, her klaive singing into her hands as she aimed a downward cut at the female’s head, looking to end her quickly.

A pair of matched longswords caught her weapon in a defensive lock as a lush female with sinuous curves, radiant golden hair, and a leering daemon face painted over her own blocked the attack. She advanced quickly, a sharp series of attacks coming in from a handful of different directions. Obessa blocked each in turn as she retreated backwards. Then the blonde was ducking low as her companion sprang over her from behind, aiming a sharp kick at Obessa’s face. She barely lifted her klaive in time, sparks hissing off the blade as the jagged leg armor spikes struck against it. The kicker spun with the blow, twisting around behind her as the blonde rose up, renewing her attack.

Obessa knew that with two such deadly opponents on either side of her she would be easy prey. She managed a half glance at the rest of the walkway, and the situation looked grim. Welv fought two wyches, one with a spear and another with a knife and pistol who were harrying him effectively, he already bled from a few minor wounds. Tymeon had got his back against a wall, limiting his movement but increasing his defensive position. Two screeching females slashed and tore at him with their dueling knives, and he looked hard pressed to keep up. The Black had managed to cut down one of the wyches attacking him early, but now was looking sorely wounded. A lean female with a white Mohawk circled around him, a whip crackling with eldritch energy snarled in her hand, the Agoniser capable of doing everything from shutting down the nervous system, to inflicting unending pain, to making muscles spasm so badly they tore themselves apart. He had clearly tasted it once, and it was either a credit to his durability or to the mohawked wych’s cruelty that he still stood. Zak fought both the silver haired gunwoman and a broad shouldered bald female with blue facial tattoos armed with a jagged blade and pistol, they were using their guns to try to keep him back, and without his armor Zak was being forced to fight more conservatively than he otherwise might, which was hampering his ability to kill them.

Left this way, they would probably be cut down one by one, only able to score minor victories, and every wych victory would compound the danger for the others as it would add to their foes. Obessa snarled as she swung her klaive in a wide arc, forcing her opponents back long enough to give her a bit of room. She then sprang towards the closest other fight, the Black dealing with the mohawked wych with the Agoniser. Obessa came in fast, lowering her shoulder as she lacked the time to bring her klaive to bear, and slammed into the back of the female, sending her squealing over the edge of the walkway to land in an awkward way on the gravel of the training yard below.

“Take the kicker,” she ordered as she stepped away from the Black to face the two wyches chasing her. She approached the blonde, and this time met her with focused fury. She had seen her attacks already, and had found them wanting. She led in with a few sharp cuts, forced the girl’s arms a little too high, and then cut down and across, her klaive tearing across the wych’s abdomen and splitting her open. The blonde howled in pain as she collapsed, and Obessa sprang over her to rush towards Welv. He saw her coming, and timed his attack well, spinning away from the spear wielder as he lashed out to the dagger and pistol armed wych. The spear wielding wych drew back, seeing an opening, but Obessa, coming from behind, cleanly cut her head off in one slice, the klaive shearing through flesh and bone with barely any feeling of resistance, the keen blade making the blow easy.

“I’ll help Tymeon,” Welv announced as he chopped the leg off the wych he fought, leaving her howling in pain and shock on the walkway as she bled out in spurting gushes. Obessa nodded and ran for Zak. The silver haired wych had seen the reversal of fortune though, and spat in annoyance.

“Withdraw!” She let out her shout even as she sprang backwards off the walkway, somersaulting in mid-air to land with perfect grace on the ground below, already raising her arms and continuing to fire at them. The Black was hit in the throat, dropping to the ground, trying to scream but only able to manage a gurgling hiss. Welv was clipped in the shoulder, snarling in pain as he ducked for cover through the doorway deeper into the temple, Zak and Obessa at his heels.

“Wyches, they always pick the poisons that cause more pain and slower deaths,” Welv snarled as he slumped against the wall, his shoulder already starting to discolor.

“And you should be thankful for it,” offered Zak as he opened a small access panel and extracted a first aid kit. He tossed Welv an all-purpose anti-venom stimm, there was a decent chance it could defeat the toxins, and if not should at least keep him alive long enough to get to a proper medical facility. “We need to get down, into the undertunnels, Xulfryn will be gathering forces at the main altar.”

The quartet fell into a comfortable pattern, Zak taking the lead, Obessa walking alongside Welv to help support him, and Tymeon in the rear watching for any pursuit. The first few levels fell away quickly, Zak moving them underground via a few back stairwells. They could hear occasional rumbles as dark lance fire tore holes in the ancient structure, but those soon faded away. Zak finally led them out into a broad underground hall that ran the full length of the temple and served as an excellent means to quickly access any part.

Obessa paused as they entered, sniffing at the air. Zak glanced quizzically at her and she shrugged. “I smell blood.”

“That might be me,” noted Welv, eyeing the dark pustules forming on his shoulder.
Zak glanced around, assessing where they were and then walked down the hall to peer into a dark nook. He frowned. “Someone killed the guards here, a single cut each.” The others walked up to eye the two corpses, both were full Incubi, one of them hadn’t even managed to draw his klaive, meaning they had been taken unaware.

“No wych did this,” Obessa offered, “they would consider it unsporting not to toy with their victims first.”

“The cuts look odd,” Tymeon leaned down and inspected one, “like a powerful clawed animal mauled them, but with perfect precision in the strike.”

“The wounds were caused by a Meantokath’s Claw.” Zak glanced around again, his eyes narrowing in thought. “We’re near the vaults. That Craftworld Exarch is back, and he’s still focused on getting the package Ryldnar and Klarz’ay received from the wych.”

“Perhaps the assault above is just a distraction,” offered Tymeon as he stood, “a means of focusing the Incubi’s attention outward?”

“If so, it would be working,” grunted Welv, “no one is going to bother guarding interior halls while the enemy is at the gates.”

“I will deal with him,” Zak turned to Obessa, “get Welv to a medical station and aid in the defense.”

“Like hell I will,” she stepped forward, “you haven’t seen that thing fight, I’m going with you.”

“I’ll go too,” offered Tymeon, “I suspect it’s safer staying near you than wandering off alone with an Exarch in the halls.”

“Do you think I will need the help?” Zak glanced at her calmly.

“You’re the one running round with no armor on, I don’t think that’s as likely to be as effective on him as other sparring partners you have.”

“As you wish,” Zak nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “we may need to test that theory afterwards though. Let’s go.” He turned and started down the hallway, his bare feet moving silently over the polished stone passageway. Obessa, Welv, and Tymeon followed, already starting to glance at shadows uneasily, wondering which of them might house the deadly Eldar Exarch.


==============================================


The hall was filled with mostly students of the Incubi, robes of gray, purple, and black. Only a tiny handful of the figures in the room wore the black armor and skull masks of full Incubi, though most of these bore the trappings and regalia indicating them as Klaivexes or Masters of the Order. There had been some general discord, uncertain mutterings, and even a few fearful glances. However, when Xulfryn entered all of that stopped, and Mor’osez had to admire the simple way his presence commanded instant respect and silence. Oily red eyes darted over the gathering as he took in the scope of his troops.

“Jarrow, Myrl.” At their names two of the Masters stepped forward. One a slim and coy youth, with a grin on his boyishly handsome face, his hair colored a vibrant shade of icy blue, and an elegant sash tied jauntily around his slender waist of the same hue. Next to him stood a grim faced Incubus, a look of dour indifference on his face, a long scar curled down his cheek and jaw, and his dark hair was brushed to vainly attempt to hide the old wound. Both of them were heavily splattered with blood and viscera, clearly having been in the thick of the fighting before withdrawing here. “Report.”

“The wyches currently occupy the upper halls and are working their way through the defenses, we engaged the automated weaponry and the blast doors, so that should buy us a few more minutes.” Jarrow’s voice was as carefree as his demeanor. “It won’t take them long though, we should get the squads to the stairwells.”

“Agreed, you and Myrl will take the Purples and hold the stairs.” He turned to Klarz’ay. “Collect up the Grays and four Incubi, five squads, one each for every one of the cross tunnels. Fighting withdrawal, bleed them out slowly, Khaine will consume them at his leisure now that they are within our walls.” Klarz’ay nodded sharply, spinning on his heel as he waved to some of the other Incubi, summoning them to him as they gathered the Grays together. “Zak,” Xulfryn glanced around slowly, his eyes narrowing dangerously, “where are Master Phaer’irr and the girl from the gutters?”

“The last I saw them they were on the Spireward walkway, battling wyches,” offered Jarrow.

“Ryldnar, you take the Blacks and these wyches, you will prepare the altar defense, the others will channel them in to you, and then you will offer their hearts to Khaine.”

“I understand,” Ryldnar bowed his head, “I appreciate the honor.”

“You are worthy of it, besides, I will be needed elsewhere.” Xulfryn glanced at her, “you, Mor’osez, you come with me.” Without waiting for her reply he turned and started out of the temple, weaving his way through the dark corridors. He quickly enough reached his destination, a simple room that, she supposed, was his. He entered and opened up an unassuming weapons locker to reveal a set of Incubi armor and a gleaming klaive.

“Where will you and I be going?” Mor’osez glanced around the room. It was simple and bare, nothing like the lush and expansive rooms she, or even a moderately successful wych would have back at the Arena of Bloodied Kiss. His only personal belongings appeared to be his weapons, his bed, and some painting supplies. She began to glance at the artwork on the walls, well rendered images of men and women of various cultures and skills all caught in a moment of battle.

“My house in infested with wyches, too many wyches, and they all seem to want one thing.” Xulfryn pulled on the Incubi armor with practiced speed and ease. Straps were pulled tight, hooks connected sharply into flesh, armored plates snapped firmly into place. “Some of them are going after the object I wish to defend and you wish to possess, we’re going to make sure it’s safe until I can make sure that you are who I should give it to. That you have the key speaks potential volumes, but you are not who was supposed to be here.”

“And who was supposed to be here, Fay’rezza?”

Xulfryn smirked, “don’t take me for a fool, you’ll get answers after my house is secured, and not an instant before. Is that enough incentive to ensure your sword to this cause?”

“My price is usually much higher,” Mor’osez shrugged, “but let’s just say the wyches attacking you have already worked up a few debts I intended to collect regardless.” She started to turn as he headed for the door, but one painting caught her attention and brought her up short. She looked at the painting, hanging directly across his bed, in a position of absolute importance to the room.
The painting was of a beautiful wych fighting with matched scimitars, her long white hair flowing around her lush body like a lover’s caress.

“So…” Xulfryn’s voice caught her attention, he was watching her, and had seen the recognition on her face. He held his klaive ready in his hands. “Does this complicate matters?”



===================
===================
===================

So I get to toss Jarrow and Myrl into some action again, joy! Luaae also gets some time to play, which is a delight as she is such a horrid and fun little villain. Also, I'm finally starting to get control of the narrative and wedge the various storylines together as they should be (whew!)

It looks like work for me is going on a back burner for a few weeks, so I should have time to plug away at this. I am pretty sure I am happy with things up through Chapter 19, so I may try to stick to a once per week posting schedule to see if it guilts me into finishing up. As currently stands at Ch. 20 I am looking at being near the climax, so probably only a few chapters beyond that (random guess is 23)

I am ashamed to admit that when I first stumbled upon this site (only recently) I looked poorly on fanfictions, but after spending the better part of 2 days catching up on this story (and many others on this site) I can happily state that I am blown away.

I could go on and on with praise for this amazing story, but you've probably heard it all before and I fear I might distract you from writing the next installment.

Also, I am grateful you decided not to kill off Faeth'lyn. I might have to fight both Cordus and Jehoel for her love.

Hurrah, is all I can say

The stairs they fought on were the central access to the lower levels of the temple, broad and thick basalt slabs of stone set in dimly lit paths. The stone was now slick with blood, black armored Incubi and purple robed students battling against the attackers. The stairs were built for defense, low stepping ceilings made overhand blows near impossible for those above, whilst those below could easily take off a leg or cut open a femoral artery. The wyches had driven forth their common hired blades in front of them, waves of lesser attackers and hired mercenaries. These common sellblades were no match for the skilled students and the masters waiting for them save to perhaps exhaust them or slightly diminish their numbers via a lucky strike.

“I don’t understand it, Myrl, it’s a very confusing situation.” Master Jarrow weaved around the axe strike at his face, a quick riposte planted the tip of his blade in the throat of his attacker. He spun away from him reaching out one hand to deflect a spear while his klaive sheared through the leading leg of his attacker at the mid-thigh, the blood poured from the wound as the spearman howled in agony and collapsed into shock. “Maybe you can explain it to me?”

Myrl made no comment. He fought quietly, his skull mask splattered in the blood of his foes. The towering Incubi stalked through the foe like a grim aspect of Khaine himself, where he moved, death followed. Jarrow smiled happily as he danced around in his wake, guarding his flanks and slaying any who tried to gang up on Myrl to halt his advance.

“They fight with such passion, such focus, you don’t think…I mean, do they actually think they can win?” Jarrow laughed, choosing to amplify the sound out of his mask vocal emitters, adding a distortion affect with a quick tap of his tongue on a small studded switch as he did so. This did cause a number of his foes to pause in consideration. Jarrow almost sighed as Myrl quickly hewed into them, his powerful arms sweeping in massive arcs as his klaive cleaved bodies in twain. Sometimes Myrl could be so banal.

“Masters!” Jarrow glanced up to watch a few of the Purples falling back. He was about to chide them for cowardice when he saw one of them cut down by a knife thrown perfectly into his throat. As the Purple fell Jarrow could see that the blade was a wych dueling dagger. He smiled, cutting down two more of the wretched street scum around him to clear his field of vision. It looked like some of the actual Wych elements had finally penetrated the Temple’s defenses.

There were six of them. One was a slim girl with long silver hair and a bright red beret, twin dueling pistols belted on her svelte waist. Next to her stood a blood spattered female, tall and lean of limb, with a wild white mohawk hairstyle and a barbed whip coiled in her hands. A shorter muscular female with a mop of unruly orange hair crouched in front of them, the blood stained barbed armor covering her legs made her combat style evident. Two females, near identical twins, walked side by side, their faces painted half black and half white in mirror opposition of each other, and each missing one arm that had been replaced by a biomechanical weapon appendage by some Haemonculus fleshcrafter. The last figure walked with a stride that made it clear she was the leader. She was tall, muscular, yet still perfectly feminine with curves in all the right places, and the sheer micromail armor she wore covered barely any of her body, leaving it quite clear just how perfectly formed she was. Her long and silken black hair was braided up and held back from an elegant face with proud cheekbones, full lips, and gleaming eyes. She smiled, bewitchingly, as she offered him a slight bow.

“Finally, a man not wearing a dress!” She strode forward, like a model showing off her attire and poise as she leaned down, bending only at the waist to best showcase her alluring curves as she retrieved the blade from the Purple’s throat, wiping the blood off on his robe before returning it to a sheath on her hip, where a half dozen dueling blades were strapped. “I was beginning to have questions about why Incubi so prefer men as their company.”

“Common sense?” Jarrow laughed as he lifted his blade, “whom shall I have the pleasure of killing?”

“You don’t know me?” The woman’s perfect face shifted for half a millisecond to a look of piqued outrage, but then she was just smirking at him again, a reaction so quick it almost left one to wonder if it had happened at all. “How pathetic, just another simpleborn plebe, no wonder Obessa fits in here so well.” She bowed slightly. “I am called Kyssindree, the Flensing Laugh, and these,” she waved a hand lazily at the other wyches, “are my  retinue. I currently have two options in front of me. The first is to order them to kill you painfully and with the utmost artistic flair.”

“I find myself not a fan of that plan,” Jarrow tilted his head at Myrl, “what’s your take?” Myrl pulled a cloth from a pouch on his belt and wiped the blood from his klaive as he eyed the wyches. Jarrow nodded. “What’s the other option?”

“You tell me how to get to your vaults, I have a package there.”

“Wooosh!” Jarrow shrugged and raised his arms in a gesture of haplessness. “I’m afraid that doesn’t work for us either, that seems awfully like betraying our oath, our temple, and our pride, and any one of those would likely get us stabbed in the back.”

“Or the front,” offered Myrl, ever the optimist.

“Or the front,” Jarrow agreed, “and that would almost be as embarrassing, really.”

“More embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Jarrow nodded, “I suppose it would be. So, therefore, I think a counter offer is in order.”

“We’ll just kill them?” Myrl glanced down at Jarrow.

“A clever plan, I like it,” Jarrow wagged his finger at Myrl, indicating that he thought his tall and dour comrade spoke wisdom. “M’lady Kyssindree, how do you feel about our counter offer of killing you?”

Kyssindree was still smiling. “I’ve heard of you, Jarrow and Myrl, the Red Tornado of Obsidian Lethe, you are well worthy of our blades. However, I think now a few other introductions are in order. I stand here with Eyvlin, reputed to be one of the best hand to hand fighters in our Cult,” the spike armored muscular woman performed a sharp three kick combo, the blades on her legs flashing deadly and bright. “Thessa, the Lash, famed for her skill with an Agoniser, which won’t be hampered by your fine Incubi warplate.” The woman with the white mohawk licked at her barbed whip, traces of black energy coiling and sparking off of it as she shivered in pleasure-pain. “Luaae, the Splinterborn, Bloodbride of Bloodied Kiss, who would love to see how well your swords do against her speed and marksmanship.” The silver haired wych blew them a kiss. “Oh, and have I introduced O’che and Noi’celfer yet? Bloodbirdes as well, though you probably know them as the Klaiveskar Twins…they currently hold an undefeated record of thirty victories over Incubi on the Red Sands.” One of the twins beamed and waved excitedly, the other mirrored the action, but with little energy and a sour expression of boredom on her face. “Oh, and one other thing…”

Kyssindree’s hands were a blur as she drew out two knives from her hip sheathes as she darted forward. She sprinted towards Jarrow who, even as he raised his klaive in defense was shocked to see her spring up, half running up part of the wall before leaping off it, one hand lashing out in a sharp stab as she came in at his neck. He barely managed to shift his blade to block the blow and suddenly she had twisted under his arms. For a moment she was face to mask with him, her eyes gleaming eagerly as she leaned forward and softly kissed him on the lips of his helmet, and then she spun away even as he backpedaled and tried to cut her open.

“Like I said, I’m Kyssindree,” she laughed as she watched him and Myrl both take up more focused combat stances. “Now, I’m going to make you both famous…for a little while.”


==============================================


‘I know three things you don’t know.’

Irbreena had spoken those words to her the night she had died. One of those things was that there had been a clone of her sister, Tin’driel, an intact and functioning clone that had been alive when Tin’driel had died. A clone that, against all reason, had failed to receive Tin’driel’s soul as it should have. A clone held by a Haemonculus who felt that an item hidden here at the Incubi Temple of Obsidian Lethe would help him reclaim the soul.

And now, the Hierarch of that temple, the man who had control over the item, had a painting of Irbreena over his bed.

‘Three things’

“You paint with skill.” She kept her voice calm. She watched his oily red eyes carefully. He had his klaive drawn, just as she had her chainsword at the ready on her shoulder. He was a Hierarch, it would be a dangerous battle if it happened, he was doubtless a true master of the duel.

“I paint everyone I fight.” Xulfryn’s remained cool and detached, not wanting to give away anything. He knew she knew something, just as she knew he did, and neither was fully willing to admit exactly what they did or didn’t know to the other.

“I don’t think you ever fought her,” offered Mor’osez. “She hadn’t taken to the sands for…a long time. Not to mention you are a Hierarch, you don’t engage in mock battles, you only fight for the kill, that is the meaning of being Hierarch.” She considered him for a long moment. “She was your lover.”

“I would hazard to say I was her lover,” Xulfryn’s voice was quiet, “she was like a goddess, she always took more than she gave, but I…was fine with the trade. How did you know?”

“She was known as the Blood Courtesan and the Demise you Embrace,” Mor’osez smirked slightly. “She was always famed for two skills, and she only ever seemed to practice one of them in the last century or two. I knew she had many lovers over the years, men of power, prestige, and beauty.” She shrugged, “you are handsome enough, and certainly powerful and exotic enough to probably entice her for a time.” Xulfyrn’s oily red eyes narrowed slightly, and Mor’osez realized she’d actually offended him. Poor fool, he’d really been in love.

“I knew she’d been working some sort of political angle,” Xulfryn said coldly, his breathing was slowing, his grip shifting ever so slightly on the hilt of his klaive. He was preparing to kill her. “I’d agreed to help her, and now my house is infested with her enemies. I will not aid you in harming her plans, and I will kill you here and now if I think for one instant it would help her cause. Now, answer me this, why should I believe that you aren’t working against her?”

“Because I hate politics, I’m not on any side.”

“That’s a lie, only an idiot isn’t on a side in Commorragh, and even idiots are on a side, they’re just too dense to choose it. Which Succubus do you serve?”

“I’m currently trying to become a Succubus, I don’t serve any of them.”

“So you’re self-serving, someone who would see Irbreena gone because she sought her position?”
“No, that’s Kyssindree, I…” Mor’osez frowned, she’d been telling herself this whole time that it had just been idle curiosity that had made her walk this road, but she’d known that wasn’t true the instant she’d seen Tin’driel’s body floating in the vat of preservative fluid. “I have served no Succubus since Tin’driel…and I serve her still. Irbreena knew this.”

Xulfryn frowned slightly. “That… If you had answered that you had served Irbreena I would have called you a liar, and if you had served either of the other two I would have presumed you to be working against her. In any case I would have cut you down.”

“Irbreena pulled me into her plan because she knew I would still be loyal to her sister, I don’t know everything, but I know that Tin’driel is not fully dead. Her body lies in stasis, the machines meant to recover her soul operate, but fail to draw her in. The Haemonculus watching over her tells me he needs this package to finish his operation.”

“That makes sense,” Xulfryn slowly lowered his klaive, relaxing his combat stance. “Irbreena had asked me to protect Fay’rezza and help her protect a package.” He smirked. “It’s a soul trap, and it has a soul trapped inside of it.”

‘I know three things you don’t know…’

Mor’osez gasped. Succubus Tin’driel, if she had been slain and her soul captured in a soul trap, that would have prevented her regeneration contract from being fulfilled by Rasp’fel. Succubus Tin’driel lived, and her chance at resurrection was here.

“We need to secure the package, Kyssindree cannot be allowed to claim it.”

Xulfryn grinned at her as he lifted his klaive. “For once, I am in agreement with a wych, let’s go kill your sisters, shall we?


==============================================


The whipping wind was plastering her long gown and robe against her slim body, outlining the curves she so jealously hid from all but him. Cordus had to admit he kept losing himself in the sight of it. A weakness in his battle focus, he supposed, but…what a worthwhile way to go. Still, he knew he had to be ready for anything and tore his gaze from his little princess to double check his weapons. His net was coiled at his waist, some grenades were attached to his belt, his Impaler was secure in the sheathe strapped to his bare thigh. Faeth’lyn had been perturbed when she had woken up from the surgery to find Mor’osez gone, she had been more upset when she had learned that Mor’osez had left for Obsidian Lethe, and when the comms crystal had gone off, indicating Mor’osez actually considered her situation bad enough to ask for help… Cordus still didn’t like the idea of what sort of situation that could be, and Faeth’lyn had been on a razor’s edge of anger since then.

“Look.” Faeth’lyn pointed for him, indicating a distant spire, one of the wide ranging mid platform levels looked like a fire had broken out upon it, and Cordus could see the actinic flashes of darklight fire. A battle was underway, a not small one at that. The Venom they were riding in accelerated as it dove through a maze of other towers and spires, weaving amongst the changing levels as passing Scourges soared through the air on their missions and a few Hellions buzzed by, making lewd gestures of invitation to the wyches. “It is Bloodied Kiss,” Faeth’lyn noted, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly as she considered the multiple ships circling the battered temple, their weapons firing indiscriminately.

They had landed quickly, dropping down into a wide courtyard near a fleet of other Bloodied Kiss vehicles, and already a handful of wyches were appearing, weapons in hand, as they prepared for any trouble. Cordus and Faeth’lyn stepped off their Venom as they walked forward. Cordus, as always, walking just slightly behind Faeth’lyn, ready to pull her behind him if needed, and his eyes sharp for any sign of danger to her. For her part, Faeth’lyn’s eyes were considering the assembled wyches carefully. At the sight of her and Cordus they had lowered their weapons slightly, but still moved to bar the way. Faeth’lyn pointed to the Hekatrix of the squad, a slim man with a hawkish nose and green war paint around his sharp blue eyes. Cordus was fairly sure his name was Lytos, known as the Cannibal. The Hydra Gauntlets on the man’s wrists currently looked harmless, curling simply in artistic sworls, but Cordus knew the green crystals studded along its length could spring to deadly life forming multiple lethal formations of cutting blades.

“Welcome, Bloodbrides,” Lytos stepped forward, his blue eyes sparkled mischievously, but with an undertone of murderous intent to them. A mix of charm and threat in his voice and posture, “I had the great pleasure to be sitting in the stands during your last performance.” He smiled at Faeth’lyn, and Cordus had the suspicion the dog was actually trying to flirt with her. “Your movements, the drizzle of blood down your pale flesh it was…intoxicating.” He dipped a slight bow to her. “I hope one day to dance with you.” The wording he used was tricky when paired with the inflections of his body motions, and could be taken to either mean fight with her, or take her sexually. Cordus snarled slightly.

“You are attacking an Incubi Temple?” Faeth’lyn almost sounded bored as she asked the question, but Cordus well knew that the more indifferent she tried to look, the more focused she was on the matter at hand.

“Well, I happen to be standing here in the presence of a beauty, but I suppose in a very general sense, yes, I, or rather we, are attacking this temple.” He bit his tongue slightly, smirking at his own wit. Faeth’lyn’s face remained impassively blank.

“I desire to go in, I have a friend to see.”

“Well…” Lytos sighed, “that pains me, my sweet, truly it does, for it happens to be my order not to let anyone through these gates. That said, I am sure I could find something to do to pass your time more pleasurably while we wait.” He smirked again, casting a quick glance at Cordus to see if he was offending him. Cordus met his gaze evenly, wanting to make sure the boy knew he was unamused. Lytos smirked a bit more at that. Faeth’lyn, as ever, remained calm.

“Who is in charge here?”

“Well, I would say Kyssindree was-“

“Cordus.”

Faeth’lyn said his name coolly, but her meaning was clear, and Cordus always enjoyed serving her purposes. If he had bothered to think over what he had been asked to do, Lytos may have seen it coming, but Cordus had no hesitation, when Faeth’lyn ordered, he would follow. He was her wall. His fist lashed out in a sharp backhand, catching Lytos hard across the face. The smaller wych was tossed off his feet to sprawl on the ground. He coughed up a gob of blood and glanced upward, a scowl on his face, the gems on his gauntlets shifting into jagged spikes. The other wyches in his squad drew their weapons and crouched, ready to spring to the attack at his order.
Faeth’lyn looked down serenely. “Who is in charge here?”

“…you are,” offered Lytos slowly.

Faeth’lyn nodded. “I desire to go in, I have a friend to see.”

Lytos motioned back to his squad who obediently moved out of the way. “Please allow us to escort you then,” he offered as he rolled back up to his feet, a deadly look in his eyes as he glared at Cordus. Faeth’lyn paused, leaning forward, her perfectly noble and disdainful face easing up to Lytos as she looked down her patrician nose at him, her fingers curled about his chin, nails playing against his skin.

“Betray us, and I assure that you will die.” She tapped him on the nose, causing him to flinch back from her. “I’ll plant a blade into your skull in a heartbeat, do not doubt this.”

So saying she motioned imperiously for the other wyches to lead the way. The squad fell into a loose escort circle around her and Cordus as they headed for the main doors of the temple. The outer courtyards were littered with dead bodies, some of them wyches, some Incubi initiates. For the most part most of the dead were common sellswords and hired gang bravos though. Near one of the main entrances they were almost stacked up like cordwood, piles of them all cut down by single and simple murderous strikes, the price of attacking the Incubi.

“This is madness,” offered Faeth’lyn softly, “who would dare to attack an Incubi temple? The political repercussions…”

“In the Dark City many will risk much,” offered Cordus with a shrug, “it is simply a matter of having the reward appear to outweigh the cost.”

Faeth’lyn gave him a sidelong glance, a small smile quirking her delicate lips. “From the mouths of babes,” she offered, “you are right, of course. Ghyvia considered this and decided it had a good risk versus reward payout. She knew what sending in Kyssindree would cause. It makes one wonder what she knows, doesn’t it?”

They approached a long stairwell, huge and heavy basalt stones served as the steps. The entire stairwell was littered with the dead and dying, a vicious battle had been fought here and many had died. Faeth’lyn walked through the gore carefully, lifting the hem of her dress primly so as to avoid staining it upon the pools of blood. She nodded to Cordus as they approached a large set of bronze doors. He stepped forward and pushed them open. On the other side lay a sprawling temple structure. In the far distance he could see a towering statue of Khaine, outstretched arms dripping blood over a burning altar a face carved in a soundless bellow of pure rage and murderous intent. Lurking in the room were over a dozen figures in dark black robes, klaives held in their hands. Standing in the midst of them was a single figure in black Incubi warplate, an old style Punisher battle staff at the ready. His skull mask regarded them coldly as the door swung open.

“Take them,” came the growled order, and it was only then that Cordus saw the few dozen dead wyches already lying on the floor.

There was a sharp pop as a series of smoke grenades were set off, filling the air with swirling clouds of multicolored smoke. Cordus reached out, grabbing Faeth’lyn and pulling her behind him even as a figure approached out of the shadows, a klaive hissing through the air. Cordus’ Impaler rose up to meet the attack, the darksteel haft of his weapon deflecting the blade even as he twisted a grip to extend his blade out to full spear length. A snap of his wrist took the feet out from under his attacker even as a second figure rushed forward, a sweeping overhand klaive blow coming for his head. Cordus lifted his impaler, blocking the blow with the length of the shaft. With a slight grunt he forced the Incubi back, and then lashed out with a backhand swing of his impaler, sparks snapped off the edge of his blade as it met Incubi warplate, tossing his foe back and potentially leaving him with a brutal gash torn in his chest. Another shape appeared, and Cordus shifted to the side, the figure matched his movements perfectly. He raised his weapon and sidestepped again only to have his shadowy opponent match him again with eerie precision.

Cordus frowned as he looked at the slim shape through the haze of smoke in front of him. A slender outline holding knives, not a klaive, and whose fighting style matched neither, but rather that of someone armed with an impaler and shardnet. “Grexel? Is that you?”

The shape tilted its head to the side inquisitively, and then stepped closer, revealing Grexel, wearing her mirrored battle mask. She reached up and touched at Cordus’ face for a moment, and then pulled back and tore off her mask.

“Hold! These are allies, everyone, sheathe your blades!”

There was a confused shuffling then, and a few more moments of uncertainty as the smoke cleared. Two of Lytos’s wyches already lay dead on the floor, one felled by an Incubus, another cut down by one of the robed students. Unlike the others in the group, this one wore purple robes, his head was shaved bald, kohl around his eyes in veneration to Khaine, and a scar ran down his cheek, the only mar on an otherwise handsome face. Cordus was forced to grunt in recognition of the skill displayed in managing the two kills as quickly as they had.

“Be at ease.” Faeth’lyn stepped forward, her empty hands held up casually in front of her. “We are wyches of Bloodied Kiss, but we are not with the attackers.”

“An unlikely tale,” suggested the Incubus.

“No, they are Mor’osez’s friends,” Grexel laughed happily as she leaned in to hug Cordus, “at least some of them are.” She turned to peer at Lytos, her nose twitching in distaste. “You can trust them as well as you can trust Mor’osez or myself.” She smiled happily.

The Incubus crossed his arms, suggesting that he didn’t particularly trust Grexel and Mor’osez either.

“Actions cut deeper than klaives,” moaned Grexel, theatrically placing the back of her hand to her forehead and closing her eyes in mock sorrow.

“Where is Mor’osez?” Faeth’lyn stepped forward to prod at Grexel. It was a good idea, as it could be difficult to keep her focused without constant effort.

“Mor’osez?” Grexel laughed, “she left, she walked away, left me to this, left me to stab fellow wyches…not that I was much bothered by that, they’d been trying to stab and shoot me prior to that point. But Mor’osez went with the Hierarch. I can’t tell if I won that tradeoff or not, but I did get to dance with some people.” She pirouetted slightly and struck an elegant pose, arms outstretched, one leg held up behind her, curling to place her foot near the back of her head as she arched her back and balanced on her toes.

“What about Kyssindree?”

“She’s headed for the vaults, that’s what the bleeding Incubi said.” Grexel motioned over to two figures further back in the temple. One was with a slim little man with sharp features currently drawn in pain, his breathing shallow. Kneeling over him was a towering Incubus, carefully administering some anti-toxins to him while trying to patch up a garish wound in the smaller one’s side. His face was grim, and tears stained his cheeks as he whispered to the other one and clutched his hand. “The one sold out the vault location in exchange for being allowed to retreat with his partner,” Grexel sighed sadly, “Kyssindree always did like to make a scene, she’s really quite talented at it.”

“The Cult has penetrated our defenses somewhat,” snarled the Incubus with the old style Punisher, “but the matter is under control. The vault and everything else will be made safe.”

“What is the chance that you will believe me that the bulk of the Wyches have already withdrawn from the temple and that their primary focus is raiding your vault and that you should immediately redeploy troops there?”

“Slim. I would consider it a likely lie, and even if it wasn’t I would suggest that the vault is quite safe regardless.”

“Is that where Xulfryn Hierarch took Mor’osez?”

“I don’t answer to you, wych.”

Cordus growled as he made to step forward, but Faeth’lyn lifted one hand slightly to halt him. She frowned as she glanced around the room, clearly wishing there was a more private place to speak, and realizing it was unlikely to happen. She reached up to her neck pulling her robes away as she found the clasp at the front of her bodysuit. She pulled it down, revealing an expanse of creamy pale skin. She flushed slightly at so many eyes on her and quickly retrieved an amulet before resealing her uniform. She held it out to the Incubus.

“There was an exclusivity contract on a box in your vaults. The one prepared by Fay’rezza, Mistress of Spears. There are two names on that contract, one is hers, the other…is mine. I am Faeth’lyn Di’Urnen of the House of Di’Urnen.”

The Incubus glanced at the amulet, it was a seal of her noble house, gene encoded to her alone, and proof of her identity. The Incubus’ expression was unreadable behind his skull mask but he slowly bowed his head and regarded her and Cordus more warily.

“Now, I’d like to be taken to the vault to see my property,” Faeth’lyn ordered.


==============================================


The vaults of Obsidian Lethe were a surprisingly simple matter. A series of sealed doors led to a vast circular room whose walls were studded with small and large doors, each of them a sealed safe. Many bore no markings at all but others had small carved ivory plaques set next to them, each indicating the terms of the contract that bound the item there. Some were fresh and new, others so ancient their words were barely legible through the yellowing of age and the collection of dust upon them.

The two guards who had stood within the room lay sprawled upon the floor, their blood spattered around them. Their klaives clutched in their hands still. A single figure stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a tattered brown robe it hunched over one of the safes, a grinding and tearing noise evident as it attempted to force its way inside. There was a sharp ringing, the sound of metal shearing apart, and then the figure tossed aside the door of the safe, its edges shorn apart, part of them still hissing with steam from the power of the cutting tool. The figure reached inside the safe, drawing out a small, unadorned, wooden box.

“I do not believe that is yours.”

Zak spoke calmly as he entered the chamber. He still wore only his practice uniform. Black leggings bound at his calves, and a loose shirt that left his chest bare as it hung open. But his klaive was in his hand, and his dark eyes were sharp as they eyed the shape.

Obessa entered the room at his heels, Welv and Tymeon with her, the three of them spreading out to secure the doorway, the only way in or out of the room. Zak nodded to her as he took off his shirt, casting it aside as he slowly walked towards the center of the room. The robed figure stood up slowly as it turned around to regard them with unblinking red eyes. Coils of electricity danced within the shadows of its hood as the hunter considered Zak carefully.

*Zzzrt*

“This is more mine than it will ever be yours, fallen Aspect,” offered the hunter, its voice harsh and grating. It had already begun to move, slipping sideways, slowly circling along the edge of the wall. Zak circled towards it, mindfully keeping himself between The Hunter and the exit. He had asked Obessa and the others to secure the door, but it was clear he had little intention of allowing the Craftworlder near it. The Hunter froze then, going totally motionless.

*Zzzrt*

“Surrender the box and walk away. That is the only offer I shall give you.”

“Then we have a difficulty.” The Hunter knelt, carefully setting the box down with one hand. The other still remained hidden within his robes. The unblinking red lenses of his helmet considered Zak carefully from under the shadows of his hood. “A pale white bug, without its armored shell. It will be over quickly.”

The Hunter’s voice had remained calm, its pose had been perfectly still, its posture relaxed. Obessa started in surprise as The Hunter suddenly moved, springing forward like a leaping hunting bug. Its hidden hand snapped out revealing itself as a jagged claw crackling with power. Zak’s perfect footwork carried him clear of the attack, quickly sidestepping even as he offered a counter slash. Klaive met claw in a flash of energy as the tempered blade met the coruscating energy field of the claw.

“A dance of masters,” noted Tymeon as he stepped forward, his voice breathless.

Zak and The Hunter flowed from one move to the next almost faster than could be followed. Flares of blue energy flashed off the claw, hissing contrails following each sweeping strike. Zak moved like a serpent almost, flowing and easing away, his blade ever close to his core. Obessa recognized it as his preferred Scorpion style. His sword slipped out in sharp attacks, but he spent most of his time watching The Hunter’s style for an opening. That Zak didn’t attack much meant he was having a hard time finding one.

“Gah!”

Welv suddenly staggered forward, dropping to one knee. A long knife protruded from his back, quivering slightly from the vibration of the impact. Even at a glance Obessa could tell it had come within a hair’s breadth of puncturing his heart.

“You missed.”

“He moved,” came a voice mixed with a trace of amusement and pique

Obessa spun around to see a group of figures walking down the hall towards her. Nearly twenty wyches of Bloodied Kiss, all armed to the teeth. Walking at the center of the mass, clearly in charge, was her old partner, Kyssindree, who was currently being handed another throwing blade by a slim silver haired wych walking next to her, the same gunwoman from the attack on the catwalks.

“Bessa…” Kyssindree drew out her name as she smiled in recognition. “Oh, this just gets better and better, the Dark Muses must love my perfect ass because not only will I get the box for Ghyvia I’ll get to kill you whe-“ She paused as her eyes flicked past Obessa to where Zak and The Hunter still dueled, both of them engrossed in the deadly battle. “What the hell is a Craftworld Exarch doing here?”

“Want me to kill him for you, Kyss?” The silver haired gunwoman grinned eagerly. Kyssindree placed a hand on her shoulder as she eyed the group carefully.

“Don’t rush things, Luaae,” she continued to look over them, a manic smile growing on her face. “The half-naked hunk of sweet-meat back there,” she languidly pointed at Zak. “That’s your Incubus, isn’t it, Bessa?”

“Kyss, this is not the time for your usual indulgence in pettiness,” Obessa snarled as she lifted her klaive.

“It’s always the time for indulgence.” Kyssindree laughed. “Luaae, kill the naked Incubus.”

“Done.” Luaae spoke the word and even by the time she finished speaking a pistol had leapt into her hand, her quick draw blindingly fast. A shot rang out, and Obessa spun to see Zak twisting unnaturally. There was a half moment where her throat went dry, but then she realized that she saw no mark on him, and indeed had seen a sheer spray of sparks off his klaive. Zak had parried the splinter round.

The move cost him though. Zak was a man of many talents, and deadly skill, but so was the Exarch, and when fighting a warrior trained, like Zak, only for the purpose of battle, distraction was deadly. The claw swept in, Zak pivoted back, his near perfect footwork once more dancing underneath him to give power to a desperation parry. There was a squeal of metal and a shower of energized sparks, and then a spray of blood splattered across the floor.

Zak’s perfect footwork went out from under him. He collapsed backwards, a garish spray of red erupting from his chest where The Hunter’s claw had punctured his flesh.

The power claw had been sliced in half, the top sheared off by Zak’s counterstrike, and it was no longer energized. Still, it remained a razor sharp stabbing tool, and the Exarch had buried a few inches into his foe. With a quick twist he tore it free, Zak collapsing fully, blood pumping out of him. The Hunter snarled slightly as he slapped a release on his wrist, popping loose the damaged claw to clatter to the ground as he quickly drew two matched chainsabres from under his robes. He turned and started towards the exit. The wyches were blocking it and he clearly intended to try to fight his way out. The wyches filled the entryway, clearly intent on killing them all. Obessa, Tymeon, and Welv stood between the two groups.

Tymeon was saying something, but Obessa couldn’t hear him clearly, she could only hear two things actually. She had been able to hear the sound as Zak fell, the splatter of his blood on the floor, and she could hear the laughter. She turned around slowly. Kyssindree stood there, her shoulders shaking with mirth, her head tilted back in glee as she laughed.

“I told you, Bessa, I told you I’d take him from you before I killed you! I just didn’t think it would be so easy.”

Obessa didn’t say anything, she just lifted her klaive and charged.

Motlu wrote:

Also, I am grateful you decided not to kill off Faeth'lyn. I might have to fight both Cordus and Jehoel for her love.

There does seem to be a line forming

That said, your favored wych does make return in this chapter, so I hope that pleases you - and my intent is to get this whole beast wrapped up by the end of December (I have chapters 18-20 awaiting final polishing, and am starting chapter 21, so...I give myself even odds )

Chapter 22 *should* be the last chapter I think, though I may cheat and make it a double length chapter as I try to pull everything together.

Tengu wrote:

Hurrah, is all I can say

Thanks!

Nice chapter as always Thor, really looking forward to the rest. Can't wait to see some of those characters we have all grown to hate get stabbed/hacked/sliced or otherwise eliminated in delightfully artistic death.

Amornar wrote:

Nice chapter as always Thor, really looking forward to the rest. Can't wait to see some of those characters we have all grown to hate get stabbed/hacked/sliced or otherwise eliminated in delightfully artistic death.

I will admit the body count is going to start edging upwards in short order. I actually think the next three chapters all have at least one named character biting the big one - feel free to take your bets now as to who

There is no such thing as too much Faeth'lyn!

Great chapter, I especially enjoyed the exchange between Jarrow, Myrl and Kyssindree's gang.

Can't wait to see how this wraps up!

Hey Thor, any idea when the next chapter might be up?

Thanks

Oh wow, I have been neglecting this, haven't I?

@Motlu - thanks, and I agree, I liked that exchange as well. Jarrow and Myrl are a fun couple to write.

@Lord Puberis - egads! Um...how about I promise one in the next week or two? I really see no reason I can't do that, I just need to sit down and give the chapter a final polish.

Yeah that'll work, wouldn't want you to leave it unfinished

Cordus walked down the ancient underground passageways of the Incubi temple. The Incubus known as Ryldnar had been shocked at the sight of Faeth’lyn’s pendant, but had become instantly respectful of her wishes. He and a half dozen students now walked in escort to Faeth’lyn, Cordus, and Grexel as they made their way towards the vaults.

“More guards ahead,” announced the scar faced youth in purple robes who always seemed to have an odd smirk on his face, like he held a secret that made him superior to everyone else he spoke with. He slipped through the shadows of the temple silently from his position as forward scout. “It’s not just random sellblades and street bravos either, it’s a full squad of wyches in Bloodied Kiss colors.”

“We can take the portward side tunnel and avoid the battle,” offered Ryldnar as he glanced at Faeth’lyn, “or we can cut our way through.”

“Which would you suggest as faster?”

“The portward tunnel is long.”

“I understand.” She glanced at him, “Cordus?”

“I am your wall, and your battering ram,” he dipped his head to her and then smiled as he hefted his weapons and advanced. Grexel capered along at his side already giggling as she slid her mirrored battle mask into place and locked it over her face. Her movements shifting suddenly from a joyous skip to a skulking creep even as it clicked into place. There were twelve wyches in the tunnel, clearly left behind to secure the passage. They paused as they saw the two Bloodbrides coming down the tunnel towards them. “Stand down,” ordered Cordus, beside him Grexel utterly mirrored his every motion, “sheathe your blades and depart this place.”

“You are part of the Mor’osez faction,” offered the squad leader, a lean female with a violently pink Mohawk and a barbed ring piercing her nose. She drew a scimitar from her hip sheath, its curved blade snarling with purple arcs of lightning. “You do not hold command here.”

“My command reaches as far as my spear,” he offered, “and you will find it has a long reach indeed.” So speaking he charged forward, Grexel at his heels, practically feeling like a shadow as she trailed in his wake. The wyches fired, but Cordus had already had enough kills in his presence, and the combat stimms sang in his blood as he twisted and spun amongst the rounds, each seeming to almost be moving in slow motion to his drug enhanced perceptions.

His arm snapped out, his shardnet snarling around the face of one of the wyches, a sharp tug jerked her off her feet as razored barbs peeled the flesh from her features. Cordus sprang over her, leaping in mid-air as he slammed his impaler into the chest of another wych while a snap of his wrist freed his shardnet. As he landed he jerked the blood spattered blade out of the dead wych’s chest, ducking beneath a sharp slash of a razorflail wielded by a young man with intricate facial scars decorating his features. Cordus swung his shardnet out, catching his foe’s legs in the tangled net, hooks biting deep as he pulled the man off his feet and planted his impaler into the shocked wych’s throat.

Grexel danced around him, her body moving like a fine dancer as she spun and weaved amongst the wyches. Their blows never seemed to find her, and she would mock them in a mirror-like dance, her gleaming long knives hissing out like a lover’s caress to slide into important organs or gently stroke an exposed neck or long length of arm or leg.

The scimitar wielder came at him as he was freeing his impaler, and Cordus easily blocked her blow with the haft and hooked it with one of the barb notches on the handle to trap it in place. So great was his strength he had done this with only one hand, as his other shot out to grab at her throat, his grip squeezing tight as he cut off her air and lifted her into the air. Her feet kicked feebly as she struggled in his grasp, and Cordus breathed in the scent of her terror as she realized what was happening to her. When her neck finally snapped he grunted in pleasure and let her drop to the ground in a shapeless heap.

“The way is clear,” he announced down the hall to the rest of the group. Faeth’lyn nodded in thanks to him as she carefully moved through the splattered blood and twitching bodies, Grexel having not yet finished all her foes off, even though they had no more ability to fight.

“I appreciate your speed in the matter,” noted Faeth’lyn, “I have a suspicion that we may already be too late.”

“I will allow nothing to slow your path,” he promised as he motioned to the smirking purple robed student to again take point.

==============================================


Obessa and Kyssindree both rushed each other. Kyssindree’s face a mocking leer of hatred, Obessa’s face was cold, but held no less bile. Kyssindree opened up the fight by hurling one of her long knives as they closed on each other. Obessa batted it aside, not slowing her charge even slightly as she quickly attempted a sweeping decapitation. Kyssindree tossed her head back, bending beneath the blow as her knives flashed, attempting to gut Obessa open. Obessa lightly sidestepped the attack, spinning around as she unleashed a series of brutal cuts and reverse slashes that had Kyssindree dancing away lightly on her tip-toes looking for an opening.

Welv was trying to push himself to his feet even as a barbed Agoniser snarled out, the edge of the whip lightly caressing his cheek and sending a jolt of pain through him that dropped him to the ground, unconscious or dead, all at the whim of the wielder of the weapon. The wych with the white Mohawk sauntered up, laughing at his fallen form as she straddled him, coiling her agonizer around herself as she writhed under its delicate sparks of pain.

Tymeon had his klaive up, and retreated to the side, allowing the wyches into the room even as one with a mop of orange hair and spike coated leg armor advanced on him with a leaping snap kick, a look of enthused joy on her face, a bald female with a pair of knives darting along on her heels, cutting at Tymeon even as he staggered from blocking the kick. Not even the Craftworlder was overlooked as a pair of identical twins with weaponised arms stalked towards him, one smiling, the other dour, but both of them clearly intent on seeing him dead.

“How quickly it all falls apart, doesn’t it, Obessa?” Kyssindree laughed as she began her own attack in earnest, trying to find an opening in Obessa’s guard, but each of her blows was met sharply by a blocking klaive or sidestepped with ease. “It must pain you to be so inferior to me in every way, doesn’t it?”

Obessa said nothing, her answer came in the form of trapping one of Kyssindree’s knives in a weapon breaking notch on the klaive. The thin dueling dagger snapped apart easily and Obessa’s riposte nearly took Kyssindree’s face apart as she swung her klaive up and out. Kyssindree managed to jerk her head back and backpedal from the blow, losing only a small clump of her hair, sliced off by the razored edge of Obessa’s klaive. Kyssindree retreated a few more steps, a look of outrage on her face as she clutched at the frayed ends of her hair.

“Luaae!” The silver haired, gun wielding, wych sprang forward to Kyssindree’s side like an obedient attack dog. “Help me deal with her, I want to make sure she suffers properly.”

“With pleasure,” Luaae purred as she drew out her dueling pistols, a pair of finely wrought bayonets attached to each. She spun them around on her fingers as she circled to one side and Kyssindree circled the other way. Obessa fell back into Scorpion stance, watching each in turn.

The Craftworlder had been bogged down by the twins, the pair of them working in beautiful harmony, making his advance slow. Already another pair of wyches were moving to aid them, eager to bait and cut their distant kin. Tymeon was already bleeding from a few minor wounds, the two wyches dueling him making his death elegant and painful as they drew it out in small steps. Obessa was also well aware how unlikely she was to overcome both Kyssindree and Luaae, either of them being a deadly battle singly, and together more than a match for her.
That was when the screams of pain started.

Obessa looked past Kyssindree towards the exit, to see the wyches scrambling and fighting, and dying, in droves. Easily twenty wyches had entered the chamber with Kyssindree, two full battle troupes along with Kyssindree’s personal aides, escorts, and retinue. It was a deadly force, with few foes who could hope to stand against them in hand to hand combat. Yet here were two figures tearing through them as though they were nothing!

The first was easy enough to recognize, with her towering physique, grim face, and howling chain sword. Mor’osez battered aside lesser wyches like playthings. She cut one open while grabbing another around the throat and headbutting the slim girl so hard that blood popped from her ears before Mor’osez casually tossed her aside. She easily stepped away from every cut aimed at her, her massive sword moving with blinding speed as it tore through flesh, bone, and forged steel with equal ease, leaving a gory and shattered tale of violence in her wake.

Next to her came a dark figure in Incubi armor. It took Obessa a moment to recognize his gilt edged tabard enough to identify Xulfryn Hierarch. He moved like a shadow, grim and silent. His klaive would be before him, and then suddenly, and without warning, he would have advanced half a dozen paces, his sword cutting down another opponent. None even seemed able to come close enough to him to attack, for with his long sword and lightning movement any wych that attempted to threaten him found herself cut down before even within range to thrust a punch blade or slash a knife.

“I shall handle the Craftworlder and the box.” Xulfryn’s voice was cold and calm. “You can try to clean up the mess of your Cult.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” assured Mor’osez as she also pushed forward, cutting down two more wyches in a single blow as she started to head towards Kyssindree, a small smile on her face, “in fact, I insist.”

“Pull back, regroup!” Kyssindree darted away from Obessa, ordering her flagging troops to her.
Xulfryn took the opening calmly, advancing on the Craftworlder, his klaive lifting in a quick salute, and even as the Exarch matched it Xulfryn snapped forward, his klaive smashing one of the Exarch’s swords from his surprised grasp.

“Dishonorable as ever, corrupt as your Phoenix.” The Craftworlder shook his head as he parried Xulfryn’s next attack and the two fell into a snarling whirl of flashing blades.

Obessa found herself standing near the advancing Mor’osez, who paused to consider her. “Kyssindree’s old plaything,” Mor’osez’s scarred face twisted slightly in a sneer of disgust. “I remember you blindsiding me when I was about to kill her once.”

“I’m not on her side now,” Obessa countered.

“Maybe I’ll kill you anyway, just to make sure.” Mor’osez shrugged at the simple brilliance of this plan and then launched a brutal attack with her chainsword, only a wild parry from Obessa preventing her head from being torn from her shoulders.

“That’s it, Bessa!” Kyssindree shouted in encouragement, “just hold the old hag for a moment it’s all going according to plan!”

Obessa snarled a curse about Kyssindree under her breath as she dove to the side and rolled back to her feet, trying to get some distance between her and Mor’osez. The older wych was not so easily evaded though, twisting about quickly and following Obessa’s movements, her massive blade sweeping through the air in devilishly quick attacks.

Behind Mor’osez Obessa could see Kyssindree leading a wave of her fellow wyches towards Xulfryn and the Craftworlder, the wyches all laughing merrily as they entered the combat of the two masters in a swarm. Kyssindree herself darted into the melee as well, ducking underneath a swing by the Craftworlder that decapitated another wych as Kyssindree’s hands grabbed onto a small case attached to his belt and rolled away from him with her prize in hand.

Obessa cursed again as she danced away from another brutal cut from Mor’osez. Kyssindree…somehow everything was just working out perfectly for her. Somehow it always did, the vain, preening, over proud, idiot, and it was all going to end well for her. Obessa set herself in front of Mor’osez, eyeing her foe carefully. She had to find a way to get past her and stop Kyssindree. Morosez’s face was calm and distant, as often seemed the case, any given fight to her was just that, another fight in an endless succession of battles. But what was just another fight for Mor’osez was now the most important thing in Obessa’s world.

She lunged forward with a massive overhand blow, both hands swinging her klaive with full force. Mor’osez responded as was proper, with a quick overhand block, with her larger size and heavier blade she was more than willing to meet Obessa’s attack head on, clearly confident she could overpower her smaller foe. Obessa angled her klaive slightly at the last second, the chainsword getting caught in one of the weaponbreaker notches on the klaive. The chainsword was too large and thick to be broken, indeed, its teeth snarled and whined as the ground against Zak’s well forged klaive, almost making Obessa fear it was her blade that would shatter. Still, the unexpected move caused a very slight flicker of hesitation in Mor’osez, and Obessa used that to her advantage, pulling up on her blade, using Mor’osez’s strength to hold her up, Obessa kicked out with both feet, slamming them hard into the older wych’s gut. Mor’osez grunted in pain as she half doubled over. Obessa promptly released her grip on her klaive, reaching out to grab a double handful of Mor’osez’s wild white hair as she landed, she pulled the large wych in and sharply headbutted her in the face.

Blood spattered across Obess’as features as Mor’osez’s nose crumpled and she was tossed backward. The blows had been more insulting and distracting than debilitating, but it would still take Mor’osez a moment to recover fully, and by then Obessa had already leapt over her and was charging towards Kyssindree and the wyches as they beat a retreat towards the exit. Obessa pulled a fighting dagger off a dead wych as she sprinted past a few fallen bodies and skidded to a stop in the entryway, readying the blade in front of her.

“Oh, Bessa, I almost wonder how you even manage to walk, your brain is so incapable of making the correct decision.” Kyssindree laughed as she and her horde of wyches rushed forward, “how are you going to stop all of us alone?”

“She’s not alone.” A towering figure stepped up next to Obessa. She glanced over to see Welv, his face pale, one hand holding his klaive and the other holding a bloody wych dagger he’d torn out of his own back. Tymeon moved to stand on her other side, his klaive held at the ready in front of him, a nervous grin on his face. The three students now stood trying to block the charge of twelve angry wyches.

“Fools,” Luaae laughed as she drew a pistol, spinning it around her finger, “we’re going to cut you apar-“

A thin flash of light cut across the room, a reflection off a throwing blade. It sliced through the air to slap perfectly into place in Luaae’s wrist. The young wych squealed in pain as her splinter pistol dropped from nerveless fingers.

“When someone calls you a fool,” offered a quiet voice behind Obessa, “it is often wise to consider the source.”

Obessa turned to see a mixed group of wyches, Incubi, and students approaching down the hallway. At their lead walked a willowy wych in elegant robes, next to her came Tilt, a small smirk on his face, a bloodstained klaive in his hands, A muscular wych with a shardnet and impaler, and another wearing a mirrored mask were walking alongside the armored shape of Master Ryldnar.

“I see that, as usual, the three of you have gotten in over your heads, and it is left to me to rescue you.” Tilt bowed slightly in greeting to his fellow students.

“How can you all be here, the distraction forces I left…” Kyssindree’s face was screwed up in an ugly snarl of outrage.

“If you plan to distract your foe,” offered Faeth’lyn as she drew a few more knives from within the sleeves of her long robes, “it is best not to allow anyone who knows your true goal to inform them of it.”

“It also helps,” suggested Ryldnar, “to have the distraction force be strong enough to slow us down for long enough to allow you to complete your mission. Sending street rabble against Incubi? We were growing bored.”

Obessa watched as Kyssindree’s eyes darted about. Behind her both Xulfryn and the Craftworlder were charging in, Xulfryn likely for more kills, the Craftworlder doubtless focused on the case. Mor’osez was coming also, her face stained with blood. Though Obessa figured the old wych might try to take her head off if given half the chance, she doubtless shared similar hopes for Kyssindree as well. The only escape path was now blocked by a large swarm of defenders, by all accounts Kyssindree seemed to be trapped and doomed. However, for all that Obessa loathed her, she knew two things about her former love. Firstly, Kyssindree would never, for one moment, accept that she could be defeated. Secondly, Kyssindree thrived in chaos, and was a master of creating it.
“Stupid little girl,” Kyssindree spat at Faeth’lyn, “you’re not even smart enough to realize how in control I am.” She then tossed the case at Faeth’lyn, who deftly caught it, a look of confusion on her face as she tried to puzzle out Kyssindree’s plan. “O’che, Noi’celfer, deal with the Heirarch, please, the rest of you follow me.” Kyssindree laughed as she ducked out of the way.

From behind her, the Craftworld Exarch was still charging forward, now with his eyes locked on the new holder of his prize. Faeth’lyn sighed.

“Clever,” she admitted as the Craftworlder rushed into the line of Incubi and students in a snarl of steel, already looking to cut Faeth’lyn down and claim the case once more Ryldnar and Tilt met the charge head on, their blades flashing and sparking against the matched chainsabres of the Craftworlder.

“You like throwing knives so much? Well so do I!” Kyssindree’s arm snapped forward, sending a long blade hissing through the air at Faeth’lyn’s face. The young wych’s expression remained disdainful as her hand snapped up, catching the knife in midflight and, in a sharp reverse of the motion, sending it hurtling back towards Kyssindree who was forced to desperately dive to the side to avoid being skewered by her own blade.

The charge of the other wyches came on unabated though, crashing into the swirling melee in the wake of the Craftworlder, their goal to try to force their way through be sheer speed and force of impact.

“This time I don’t take it easy on you, pretty-boy.” Thessa, the Lash, stalked forward, her agonizer hissing and snapping in the air as she came for Welv again. He scowled at her and gestured her to come at him.

“Bring it.” Even as Thessa started forward Welv winced in agony, half doubling over. She laughed as she raised her arm, her Agoniser snarling with energy. Then he lurched forward, hurling the throwing blade in his hand so that it pierced her foot. Thessa howled in pain and outrage as she dropped to one knee. “And that’s how we settle things on the streets,” Welv smiled boyishly as he stepped forward and aimed a nasty cut at Thessa’s head with his klaive. Before the blow could land it was deflected by the appearance of Eyvlin, the short woman leaping through the air and striking aside Welv’s sword with a spike-studded knee guard even as she spun around and lashed out with a kick that nearly tore his face open. Her barbed foot was blocked by another klaive though as Tymeon stepped forward, guarding Welv’s flank.


==============================================


Mor’osez’s face hurt, the blood from her broken nose dribbling down her chin. Her patience was likewise strained, Kyssindree’s wyches, Faeth’lyn’s wyches, the Craftworlder, and the Incubi factions were all engaged in a confusing melee snarl at the entryway. She was not against the Incubi faction, per se’, but at the same time she didn’t particularly trust Xulfryn either. So, her plan became fairly simple in her opinion; kill anyone in her way and get the box.

One of the Incubi and one of Kyssindree’s wyches were dueling in front of her when she reached the battle. In deference to her pseudo-alliance with Xulfryn Mor’osez decapitated the wych while also kicking out to pop the Incubi’s knee, the warrior let out a snarl of frustration from within his skull-faced helmet as he collapsed backwards.

Next in line was Cordus who was facing off against a bald wych with two dueling daggers in her hands, standing behind Cordus was Faeth’lyn, who currently held the box and was hurling a throwing blade at the Craftworlder as he dueled an Incubi and a purple robed student.

“Cordus, get Faeth’lyn and the box out of here,” Mor’osez issued the order as she cut between him and his opponent. The bald wych had a moment to look terrified before Mor’osez sliced off one of her arms and kicked her in the chest, sending her sprawling away to slide across the floor. “I’ll cover you.”

“Understood,” Cordus parried another wych’s attack, before snarling his net around the leg of his erstwhile attempted killer, pulling the slim wych off her feet before planting his impaler into her throat, blood spraying out to dance across his bare, muscular chest in an erotic spray. He then turned, motioning for Faeth’lyn to fall back as he placed himself between her and any possible danger, escorting her towards the exit.

“No!” The Craftworlder exploded into a wild flurry of attacks, battering aside his opponents as he charged forward. Mor’osez calmly placed herself in his path, her face composed, her sword held ready. It had been a while since she’d killed an Exarch, but she recalled them being enjoyable fights. His chainsabre came in sharp, seeking, thrusts, as he tried to assess her quickly for the kill. She responded by slowly withdrawing in front of him, keeping her weapon at the ready as she dodged his attacks. He recognized, smartly, the skill of her evasion and settled for more focused swings, realizing he couldn’t just thrash past her, and their fight began in earnest.


==============================================


Obessa had lost track of Kyssindree in the churning melee, but it was easy enough to spot the swirling robes of Faeth’lyn, and since the young wych held the box that was where Kyssindree would be, if she wasn’t already. Faeth’lyn was making her way for the exit, Cordus on her heels, shielding her as he kept his eyes searching for any hidden danger. The new threat emerged in the form of Master Klarz’ay who was entering the vaults even as Faeth’lyn attempted to exit. Perhaps he didn’t know there were allied wych elements here, or perhaps he didn’t care, for his reaction upon seeing her with the box was to deftly attempt to remover her head from her shoulders.

Faeth’lyn spun away from him, keeping the box clutched delicately to her bosom as her hand pulled a set of throwing blades from under her robes. Cordus growled dangerously as he stepped between her and Klarz’ay, raising his impaler meaningfully. Klarz’ay’s expression was unknowable behind the leering rictus sneer of his skull mask, but he raised his klaive and motioned for the two wyches to attempt to defeat him.

“They’re on our side!” Obessa ran up, screaming at him as she tried to interject herself between them. Klarz’ay noted her appearance as she moved to prevent the coming fight. His head twitched slightly as he glanced at the rest of the fight, taking in the combat with a practiced eye.

Obessa wasn’t sure if it was her own paranoia, or just long years of training, but she managed to bring her klaive up in time to deflect the sharp slash that would have surely gutted her. She staggered back from the force of the blow as Klarz’ay chuckled.

“No Purple should ever presume to come between a Master and his prey.”

“And a Master should be able to understand who are his foes and who are his allies under contract,” suggested Faeth’lyn pointedly, her throwing blades still held at the ready.

“And a pompous b’tatcha should learn to keep her eyes on her prize!” Kyssindree was suddenly there behind Faeth’lyn, slamming a dagger into her side as she grabbed for the box. Faeth’lyn hissed in pain as she doubled over from the blow, the box and her throwing blades slipping from her fingers as she dropped to one knee.

Cordus lunged at Kyssindree, but she tossed herself into a backwards tumbling flip, laughing all the while, her long black braid of hair whipping about her face as she rose to her feet, a fresh knife already appearing in her hand.

“I’m about to win again, as usual, how does that make you feel, Bessa?” Obessa charged past Cordus as she attacked Kyssindree. Their blades met blow for blow, each trying to catch enough of an opening to cut her foe open but failing. Master Klar’zay had quietly stepped back, apparently content to watch the fight, and Cordus was busy cradling Faeth’lyn in his arms as he tended to her wound. “You must feel even stupider and uglier than usual,” opined Kyssindree as she executed a whirling backhand slash with her blade before flipping the grip around and lashing out with a fast thrust for Obessa’s heart that managed to slash open her purple robes as she spun away from the death blow.

“Do you ever just shut up, Kyssindree?” Obessa sprang back to the attack, remembering her lessons from Master Ryldnar about the differences between the sword and a dagger and using her klaive techniques taught by Zak to force a distance between her and Kyssindree. Suddenly the laughing wych seemed less certain, as she lacked the ability to threaten Obessa. If she managed to push in Obessa could always meet her with dagger techniques using the klaive, but could then force the battle back out to sword length. She suddenly began to understand why the klaive was the perfect weapon as it flowed easily from one technique to the next, pinning and trapping her foe as she landed first a minor nick on a shoulder and then a shallow gash across Kyssindree’s abdomen. “I may feel ugly and stupid, but you’ll have to tell me what it’s like to feel dead.”

“Luaae!” Splinter round shots snapped through the air, and Obessa was forced to retreat, ducking for cover as Luaae appeared. Kyssindree still managed to act like she had somehow been proven the better of the two as she sneered at Obessa. “Another victory, I almost grow bored of them, ha!” She then turned and shouted to the chamber, signaling the withdrawal of the Bloodied Kiss forces as she turned and darted out the exit.

The rest of the wyches disengaged from their foes, ducking and weaving as they fled. Springing over their opponents’ heads, or diving and sliding between legs, few warriors were so adept at dodging and escaping as wyches when the need was there. Obessa stepped forward, intercepting one and taking her apart with a brutal cut through the midsection, but even as she did so another four wyches darted past her as they sprinted fleetly towards the exit. Klarz’ay had been forced back by Luaae’s splinter fire, and was likewise unable to secure the door as the wyches fled.

Luaae was the last, pausing to glance back at the enraged combatants. Her eyes glittered as she spotted Faeth’lyn lying on the floor. An evil grin spread across her fey features as she lifted her pistol. A flick of her wrist and a deft thumb motion released the ammo cylinder from her pistol as she reached into a small pouch on her belt and brought forth a very special cylinder. It contained only one shot,a nd she had paid dearly for it indeed, but it had special purpose. She slipped it into place with an almost primal purr of pleasure.

“Hey! Princess!”

Cordus’ head snapped up in time to see Luaae and see her line up her shot. Faeth’lyn looked up, squinting through the pain of her gut wound, eyes narrowing as she scowled in defiance of Luaae’s smirk of triumph. The young wych fired, even as Cordus grabbed at Faeth’lyn, spinning her out of the way as he drove them both to the ground.

“Raaagh!”

The Craftworlder accepted a brutal gash along his side as he twisted past Mor’osez, her chainsword squealing as it released a spray of sparks and blood as it ground against his armor. But then he was past her and charging after the fleeing wyches. A Black stepped into his path and received a face full of needle barbs from the Craftworlder’s mandiblasters, the Exarch dismissively gutted him as he raced out the door.

“Ryldnar, Fello’s, Yevtild, and all Blacks, pursue, contain, and kill!” Xulfryn shouted out orders as he finished off a wych who had tangled him up in a shardnet, the Hierarch working to peel himself free of the snarling barbs. “Klarz’ay, Tilt, and all other Purples, seal the chamber.”

Obessa breathed in slowly to steady herself, vaguely recognizing that she had been given an order, and then turned and rushed back into the chamber to Zak’s side. He lay sprawled on the floor, his face drawn in pain. She frowned at the wound caused by the damaged claw to his chest and shook her head.

“It’s serious,” she offered.

“Painful too,” he agreed.

“You’re the fool who decided not to put on armor.”

“Clearly naked Incubus style is not standard procedure for that reason,” he joked as he coughed up some blood. “I think it would behoove me to get to a regeneration bath.”

“Mor’osez,” Grexel had removed her mirrored mask and was looking around in wide eyed confusion at the corpses littered around the chamber. “Is there a plan? Are we running? Are we killing everyone here?” She paused and looked down at the bloodstained mirror mask, her eyes getting distant as she looked at her face in the reflection. “What am I doing?”

“You are all staying put until I figure out this mess,” snarled Xulfryn as he finished cutting himself free.

“No, we’re not,” Mor’osez shook her head as she walked over to Faeth’lyn and Cordus, “we’re going after them and the box.”

“You are a fool, it is me and mine who shall reclaim the box.” Xulfryn stepped in front of her. Mor’osez paused as she scowled, her face setting grimly. Obessa sighed as she knelt down to help Zak to his feet. He accepted her aid without complaint, one of his hands trying to staunch the blood leaking from his chest wound, and the other braced across her muscular shoulders.

“If I might suggest,” he interjected to the room, “perhaps we should all take a moment to patch up our wounds and assess the situation before we begin killing each other? I suspect we have a few too many obvious foes before we waste time killing current allies?”

“Allies…” Mor’osez’s voice was cold as she whispered the word grudgingly.

“For now,” agreed Xulfryn with a sneer. “Just for now.”

I think perhaps Naked Incubus Style is not Zak's best route to glory

Well I couldn't not come back and see how things were going, now could I?

They are going as full-tilt into drama and cinematic violence* as usual, you do not disappoint. The swirl of three-way combat, possibly four - you got across the confusion without the description itself being too confusing, which is a feat.

You already know I want Kyssindree to die But now I am conflicted about who I want to kill her. If she wasn't hateable she wouldn't be such a well-drawn character, so I hope you find my homic-xenocid- Eldarcidal urges understandable.

I enjoyed the way the Incubus trainees' loyalty to each other mirrored that of the Wyches, but also showed its own side - it feels as though it has more depth, where the Wyches' alliances feel more slippery. And it was never quite sure until they acted where the Masters stood - which goes well with their impassive stance. I admit that I don't quite see Incubi the way you do, but we coincide on a lot of points and I do agree that they would be much less visibly involved in the political scene than say, the Wych Cults - whether or not they actually are more Machiavellian, or necessarily more subtle in their politics, they are quieter, and so they seem that way. I am enjoying unravelling just where they stand. Also looking out for Ancient Rasp'fel - one doesn't soon forget a Haemonculus in furry slippers.

All in all I want to see how it ends, without actually wishing it to end ... you have yourself a compelling story



*This is a compliment, I mean epic and sweeping and realistic without the need to describe every loop of intestine.

Lady Malys wrote:

I think perhaps Naked Incubus Style is not Zak's best route to glory

Lady Malys wrote:

You already know I want Kyssindree to die But now I am conflicted about who I want to kill her. If she wasn't hateable she wouldn't be such a well-drawn character, so I hope you find my homic-xenocid- Eldarcidal urges understandable.

I understand just fine. Much as people are lining up to pay attention to Faeth'lyn, I think people are lining up hoping Kyssindree meets an appropriately messy end.

Lady Malys wrote:

I admit that I don't quite see Incubi the way you do, but we coincide on a lot of points and I do agree that they would be much less visibly involved in the political scene than say, the Wych Cults - whether or not they actually are more Machiavellian, or necessarily more subtle in their politics, they are quieter, and so they seem that way.

Solid point, and yes, I do agree with you.

Lady Malys wrote:

Also looking out for Ancient Rasp'fel - one doesn't soon forget a Haemonculus in furry slippers.

It might be a few more chapters, but I do promise that his involvement is not finished yet.

I'm so thrilled this story is up and going again.

What a chaos of a battle. I'm still not sure why the craftworlder is there to ensure the soul of a wych. Thats playing dangerously close to fire.
You really managed to describe the battle well even with so many participants

I was getting scarred when Faeth'lyn dropped. She cannot die on me before I get to ask her out.

I was impressed that Obessa managed that brokken nose stunt. Don't Think alot others have pulles that of.

I am already psyched for the next chapter

Come on, Dark City, has no-one stepped up to annoy motivate Thor in my absence?

Where's the end of this, you lackadaisical curmudgeon?

Ancient Rasp'fel has been too absent of late.

I just completed my second readthrough of this story. More here than the first time, but I'm still jonesing for the conclusion! What's the status?

Apologies for a two week delay on this answer

Life slowed me down assuredly, also I've been debating on how to place people for the end.
I know what the ending is, I can see that quite clearly - and I know where I'm at, and I know what notes I want to hit in-between. The problem is the pacing and positioning of the characters.

I actually am here because I logged on specifically to refresh myself as to where things were, as last night I was thinking a lot about this story and what I wanted to do to conclude it (my basic answer being 'just get over yourself and recognize you're about to write about five chapters to settle up what you thought two chapters could handle).

Probably won't get any real writing done till the tail end of January at the earliest - though if my muse bites me hard enough that might change.

I would say expecting a chapter in February and then hopefully a few more for a finish no later than Summer (of this year ) sounds pretty likely.

Hope that answers your question with a good vibe! Thanks so much for reading and enjoying.