Painlord
“How do you keep a secret in Commorragh?” Dracon Thrax Shivaarus asked his Trueborn bodyguard. Several members of the coterie laughed at the Dracon’s joke, some out of sycophancy and some out of genuine amusement. Several spoke answers over the winds whistling around the raider’s bow. Blue streaks adorned the white coloring of the vessel, proudly displaying the colors of the Rending Hex kabal.
“Make sure there’s no evidence!”
“Plant the evidence somewhere else!”
“Poison the wine, burn the bodies.” Many cackled heartily as their craft and the ones accompanying it raced along skylanes and thoroughfares of the twisted city, light from enslaved suns filtering through the thorny edifices. The band was fidgety with the thrill of the coming heist. Thrax had a quick wit and a sharp tongue which he had used many times to both avoid and instigate trouble. He knew the importance of keeping edgy Warriors occupied and gave an appropriately dramatic pause.
“You can’t! There are no secrets in Commorragh!” The Dracon crowed, fully aware of the irony of his statement. All the Trueborn laughed or chuckled slightly with their intrepid leader. Being bred into the intrigue of the upper echelons of Commorragh, they shared the humor of trying to keep secrets.
There was one who stood near the shoulder of the raider’s gun who smiled with mirth, although for reasons other than the Dracon and his clique. A stranger among them that wore red plate.
Dorna, the newest addition to his troupe leaned to whisper over the wind in her Dracon’s ear.
“There is something I do not like about all of this.” Dorna hissed. Paranoia was as natural to a True Eldar as breathing. He brushed away her concerns casually.
“Don’t be foolish. Everything has been arranged.” He spoke with a dismissive chortle. More jokes were cracked and wit flung.
The banter died quickly though as the sleek craft approached its destination. Some injected or inhaled combat drugs in readiness while others checked and rechecked their weapons. Gravity ribbing hummed as the raider slowed in its descent and alighted as nimbly as a scourge on a large landing platform. Two dozen other transports joined it above the metal decking, stuffed full of warriors.
Gone was the humor, now only pure professionalism suffused the air as the embarked Kabalites of the Rending Hex piled out. Shivaarus ran in the lead, venom blade gesturing the way while he held a blast pistol loosely in the other fist. His Trueborn were quick on his heels, holding their shardcarbines ready. The royal blue of the Kabal’s colors blended well with the darkness of the spire that swallowed them and the white flashed in what little light trickled through.
The plan was relatively simple.
Near the mid to lower sections of the spire, was a cache of weapons that was waiting to be sold to the Rending Hex. Thrax had no intention of letting his Archon give the masterwork tools of death and destruction to the much more favored Dracon Alirender. Knowing that the venerable lord of the Rending Hex favored his daughter over him.
He had discreetly contacted a member of the Kabal who were selling the weapons. In exchange for making sure the way was clear for them to take the weapons, the conspirator would receive a good portion of the profit from reselling the cache on the Dracon’s terms. The arsenal had been moved to a relatively neutral ground prior to the Rending Hex’s representatives picking it up so there would be no backlash for the loss on the dealer's part.
The guards on the Hex’s side were of course all loyal to Thrax or had enough sense to accept the appropriate bribes. For insurance purposes, he had insisted the man holding the keys to the arsenal accompany them. While reluctant, the double-dealer had agreed. It was he who wore the red armor of both Kabalite and Incubi yet wielded a blaster. Even on the hunt, the Dracon took a moment to admire the beautiful armament of destruction that hung with trophy chans.
Labyrinthine as any Dark Kin’s mind, a small part of him took to fantasizing. This was going to be only one of many steps toward him taking the Rending Hex from the old fool who ruled it. Charismatic, he was slowly swaying the loyalties of the whole Hex over to his side despite the doting favor the old Archon lavished upon his daughter.
There was a task that needed doing first and the Dracon sharpened his wits.
Formed into squads, the thieving host’s boots echoed into the dark hall that took up a good chunk of the tower’s mid-section. At first glance it seemed disused, vaulted columns of black marble reaching up into the unadorned ceiling with a simple balcony running along the upper reaches of one side. A few large statues bearing the twisted likeness of Craftworld Wraithlords contorted in agony flanked the doors and stood along the walls of the hall at regular intervals. Whether captured trophies or simple sculptures, it was hard to tell.
They paused to gain their bearings before venturing further into the architecture of the spire. Many scanned the upper balcony or examined the statues. One squad split into pairs and scouted ahead according to plan. If everything went smoothly, they would be in and out with the weapons in less time than it took a Reaver to circle a death track.
Dracon Thrax waited for the red garbed Kabalite to join him. The black and crimson warrior was unhurried in his stride and hefted his large blaster up onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a hollowed bone.
“Well, Rator?” He asked, his eyes once more flickering to the weapon with covetous anticipation. Rator Baneghost was about to respond when the screams of the advance scouts rang out. Every Kabalite head turned sharply in the direction of the noise and a hundred splinter barrels turned to point down the hall.
“And that’s my cue.” Rator’s horned helmet nodded in facetious acknowledgement before he back flipped away lazily. With movements too quick to follow the heavily armed warrior sprung up onto the shoulder of one of the statues and gazed down at the assembled Rending Hex. Some looked to him and others to their Dracon who stood stunned for a moment.
“In answer to your earlier question, Shivaarus, as to how to keep a secret in Commorragh. It’s quite simple.” Just as the Trueborn considered turning his pistol on the double-crossing warrior, the huge doors to the hall slammed shut. The two statues that had been beside the doors now stood in front of it without having been seen move. Instinctively several of the Hex moved together and formed ranks, some kneeling in firing positions, prepared for even this worst case development.
Even the hardened Kin were not ready for what came next.
“You just have to make the truth so strange, no one will believe it.” With a parting laugh, Rator stepped backwards off the statue and dropped nimbly into the shadows. A shot from Thrax’s pistol chased the vanishing form, exploding a chunk of column. What he saw next chilled even his cold blood. The perverted Wraithlord’s head, colored the same shade of red as Baneghost’s armor turned to look at him. It had no eyes, but still he could feel its dead gaze upon him.
The statues were no mere carvings of unfeeling stone, they were Taloi of unusual shape.
Arrogantly, the leader of the contingent had dismissed rumors of such creatures, thinking them just wild fantasy. A Haemonculi’s attentions turned upon the living bone construction of a Wraithlord seemed outlandish even for a fleshmaster. Wraithbone fused with organic tissue and the crafts of creating the unholy torturous constructs combined to make the Painlord. Or so it had been said.
Eight of the massive engines advanced into the ranks of the Rending Hex. Their huge strides ate up the small distance in moments. Torrents of acid consumed many warriors of the Hex as several of the Painlords with Liquifiers fired into the ranks. Armor and flesh melted in instants as they were covered while even more were maimed by stray splashes. Acidic sizzles and screams filled the air as the Taloi strode silently forward.
All had ranged weapons mounted somewhere on their chassis. Arcing Haywire lightning lashed out from shoulder mounts. Lances of white heat vaporized Dark Kin into ash from armored limbs. Splinter cannons and even blasts of distilled pain from Stinger Pods raked through the Hex.
Red gore began to stain the blue and white bodies.
Splinter fire whined in the hall as the survivors fired point blank into the armored bodies reaping through them. Envenomed ammunition bounced harmlessly from the thick carapaces of the constructs. Each one carried different weapons. Some Kabalites were eviscerated by oversized blades while others were picked up howling and crushed by mechanical claws and grasping fingers.
One desperate warrior abandoned his rifle to run forward and try to stab up at a knee joint. The Painlord in question did not bother to look down. The monster simply kicked out with a spiked shin guard. Such was the force that the unfortunate soul had his chest armor caved in and was catapulted into one of the far pillars with a dull crunch.
A dozen other similar episodes played out during the struggle, each as vainglorious as the last.
Around the Dracon, his personal bodyguards surrounded him and unleashed a torrent of fire from their Carbines in all directions. To Thrax’s right, a serpentine tail stabbed out lightning-quick with a huge hypodermic needle into one of his warrior’s abdomen. It was Dorna. She dropped her gun and began to scream as the burning blood consumed her from the waist down. Desperately she tried to scoop her dissolving entrails back into her body cavity and only succeeded in melting her hands.
Although he hated to admit it, the young leader had counted on liberating a few heavier arms before having to engage anything needing heavy weaponry. He wanted his group as light as possible to carry the munitions back to the raiders. The few troops that had grenades had gotten no chance to use them, the Painlords having advanced too quickly.
Raising his blast pistol, the extremely desperate Dark Kin tried to fell the pain engine with the injector tail. His aim was true and struck the abomination in the head. The explosive Darklight punched a hole and staggered the beast for a moment, but only for a moment. Dark ichor leaked from the small crater wound, yet if the construct felt any discomfort or pain, such feeling slowed it none.
Soon the eight had slaughtered their way through the ranks of the Rending Hex and only the Dracon and his Trueborn remained still fighting. Three of his allies were hacked into pieces where they stood and the rest were picked up and to Thrax’s further terror, were skinned alive. In desperation, knowing that death was bad, but being left alive was worse, he lashed out with his venom blade in an attempt to either break away or receive lethal retribution.
The engine he assaulted simply batted the blade away, breaking his arm. Trying again with the pistol, the same, dismissing blow fully disarmed him. Clutching his injured limb close, he turned all around to find himself hemmed in by dark red legs. The surviving Trueborn mewled in agony, the Taloi being quick with their macabre tasks. Moans of the wounded and the stench of the dying and dead filled the hall.
A Talos grabbed the young upstart from behind, lifting him up in an unbreakable vice. Small vestigial arms poked and prodded at him and revulsion rose above his pain. Mocking applause drifted down from the balcony and a shadow detached itself to peer over the edge. A few syringes pumped various cocktail compounds into his blood and Thrax found himself rapidly losing consciousness. But not before he heard his fate.
In perfect unison, the Painlords bowed to their master.
Long curving horns adorned a wicked helm and a regal cloak of flayed Exodite skin hung from the finely crafted plate. A familiar red garbed Kabalite joined the Archon and gestured below.
“Fair sport, wouldn’t you say?”
“Excellent sport. I feel quite refreshed personally. A Harlequin could not have delivered your little punch-line better. You must regale me with the origin later, Baneghost. I trust the memory recorders were all in order?”
“Of course, my lord. And thank you, it was a… inspired moment. Shall I arrange for the usual distribution of the copies?”
“Mmm, no. Send a few to our Wych Cult friends with the Bone Thieves and the Sky Edge. I’ve been curious to see if they’d be interested in a purchase.”
“After this little demonstration, I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted three. Matching sets are all the rage. What about our fellow down there.” The pair paused in their discussion, weighing the Dracon’s value by the pound.
“Have the pheromones in that knife you gave Adule’s daughter worked through yet?”
“She practically quivers at the sound of my very name.” The Archon gave an approving nod.
“Here’s a thought. Why don’t we send a little record of this attack to old Adule of the Rending Hex with a complimentary Painlord for the trouble. No harm done after all. Just make sure to leave enough of poor Shivaarus in there to recognize the proper moment to strike. With one mysteriously vanishing, and another falling to a tragically malfunctioning Talos, the young dear Alirender will doubtlessly seek your aid in managing her father’s Kabal.” Business concluded, the Lord Archon of the Blighted Path Kabal turned on his heel and tossed a final doom over his shoulder.
“And throw a few of his fellows that are still alive in there with him. We wouldn’t want the good Dracon to get lonely.”
So, because my mind works in ways that are incomprehensible to me, I saw a picture of a Wraithlord/Talos Pain Engine conversion and fell into immediate love with it. Then of course, I had to work it into my head-fluff concerning my Kabal. I would like the good Denizens to tell me what they think of the concept and the story. Any feedback is appreciated. Also if anyone would like to see a picture of our intrepid Dracon Rator he is in fact based on one of my Blasterborn.
Subject: Painlord 
Fri Apr 26 2013, 10:54
Especially the last one - there's a casually sinister cast to it.
