I wrote up a battle report between me(Ork) and one of my friends. I write a lot.
Slaves to their Desires
Malda’kyr remembered. There were few who could, even among the custodians of the Eternal Cycle. Few recalled the lost glory of only a few generations ago; not even Vect could truly comprehend what the Fall cost the Eldar. Malda’kyr knew of numerous places of power that could have survived the birth of Slannesh. For eons, she had sought artifacts of the Old Empire that endured that dark time, all in vain. Perhaps here on this violated and defiled world, some greatness would remain untouched. Maybe the haunting beauty of what the human tongue could only name the Citadel of Black Crystal had escaped the ravages of the primitive Mon-keigh. If nothing else, if there truly was no great and glorious thing that escaped what Slaanesh had wrot on the greatest civilization to exist, prey-things would perish and divert She Who Thirsts for a time.
The Grand ‘Orde uv Nazgor da Almighty Tallest had been in a constant state of uneasiness ever since their leader had stumbled back into camp. Nazgor’s rages had been far weaker than most greenskins of his stature, but he had still left several of his Boyz and Grots in various stages of painful dismemberment. Yet when he emerged again from Beakiepelt’s lab, he had been almost calm. To an Ork, this was almost invariably a precursor to an even greater rampage. No such expected destruction occurred, and the tension was beginning to wear on the Boyz under his command. Even more so for the Orks Nazgor accompanied on sweeps through his territory. But they would have been nervous anyway. According to what Kognatz had managed to rip out of the Umie Capital’s databanks, this particular settlement had been utterly silent since before the Orks had even arrived in-system. This conscious thought was incapable of shifting their collective minds, but there was a constant feeling of wrongness than grew as the looting convoy advanced towards the city. The all but boundless silence certainly didn’t help. Fearful of their Warboss’s wrath, no greenskin was bold enough to try to make themselves heard over the rumble of the engines.
It had taken far too long to get here, but Nazgor wasn’t complaining. Gork and Mork had brought him back to life because he was proppa enough. They wouldn’t keep him away from a fight now. He strode out of his Trukk utterly unconcerned by the Umie bodies in various stages of dismemberment and torment. His Boyz, somehow reassured by this, followed their leader like a wake. The looting was slow at first; nervous and halting because the attackers had left so much behind. To an Ork, the only reason not to loot the enemies’ corpses was to set up an ambush. But nothing came of it, and Trukks filled with scrap, bodies/food, and hardware so began to swarm towards the central Ork Town that grew up around the remnants of the Imp Capital. Nazgor simply watched impassively as the town was slowly carted away. He was already less confident that there was a purpose to the green glow that saved him, and he was not in the mood for violently disassembling loot to make it more portable. He just simmered, listening to the living engine of destruction at his command contrasting so strongly with the soft kreen of birds in the background.
Soft kreening? BIRDS?“Panzees!!!” roared Nazgor. Almost simultaneously, two beams of black light speared the only idling Trukks, and the ambush was sprung.
Draickhyde grinned. He loathed the petty politicking and quiet maneuverings that so delighted the Kabals of the Dark City. He had slain the lord of Perfection Lost; no Wych or Succubus would have denied him his right. He had proven his greatness, for he who had rejected it was dead. Yet the sightless rakes had forced him away from Commoragh and into the vastness of space. None of his lessers measured themselves against him in glorious combat? How could they lead if they asked others to kill in their stead? But here, now, none challenged him. There was no dissent, no weak resistance to his rule. He was as glorious here as he was in the Wych arenas he knew for far too long. The blood of the greenskins flowed along his armor as he carved their flesh with the skill he knew he had neglected far too long. They fell before him, until he spied the largest of the brutes. Their leader. He would make a fine trophy in the halls of his ship, and all his Warriors would bear witness to Draickhyde's skill and know they were fortunate merely to obey him. He activated one of the last drug doses in his dwindling stores, drew back his beloved Agonizer and-
The Dark Eldar Warriors watched as the crude beast bellowed his triumph. The distraction the Kabal had needed to plunder the Citadel of Black Crystal had cost them dearly. The Archon had fallen, and the Webway gate that had originally led them here would close soon. They needed to return to the Kabal, and take advantage of the power vacuum. Should they leave enough threats to their power on this defiled world, the Kabal might refrain from disintegrating under their leadership. Yes, retreat was the only meaningful choice now.
Deep in the Citadel of Black Crystal, a lone figure staggered towards the prize it sought. She was a twisted and hunchbacked thing with massive scars covering her abdomen. Hideous by any race’s definition of the term, but appearance meant nothing to an acolyte of the Haemonculi. The body was nothing to the soul. Protection for that most valuable essence of life was the prize here. A cache of ancient soulstones, constructed before any need for them, fashioned by an artisan at a time when even the warp itself could be bent to the will of the Eldar. The instructions had been simple to read; the artist had not thought their work would ever need protecting. Ironic that the archaic and flowery language that great being employed was so difficult to read that it was a form of protection in itself. So the fruits of decades of searching by the Kabal of Perfection Lost would be hers. Delicious. She reached out to one of the most precious creations, and her soul felt the shackles of Slaanesh leave. She was free.
“Boss, I fink dat ‘un’s still breavin’,”
“Shut it, ya zoggin Grot! Don’t you know ‘ow ta loot gud yet? Ya take what you can from da dead ‘uns. If you finks dey ain’t dead, den make ‘em dead!”
“Right, Boss.”
The Archon of the Kabal of Perfection Lost had awoken to many scenes of depravity and horror. The ruler of a Kabal is, by definition, inured to and prepared against assassination attempts during rest. But few ways to perish would have shamed the bearer of that title more than to die at the hands of a small brutish greenskin. In a moment, Draickhyde rose up and shredded the Gretchin foolish enough to raise a blade and his Slaver before either could make a sound. Only then did the sadistic being’s thoughts turn to why it had been unconscious. The last thing it remembered was injecting combat drugs…
The damned Haemonculus. She had added something to the drugs. Worse, she hadn’t even bothered to be thorough about it. Or she was too soft to murder her master even now. Either way, the Archon would ensure that her punishment was longer and even more painful than her last one. Perhaps draining just enough nutrients out of her body to make her constantly starving…
The Archon broke out of the revelry of tortures spinning through its mind. It needed to ensure that the Citadel was properly looted and get back to the Webway portal. Nothing else mattered at the moment.
The smooth ride of the jetbike allowed much time for thought, something Draickhyde had been regretting for the first time. The looting had gone as planned, but the Warriors reported the Haemonculus returning to the citadel afterwards. That bitch had found something. But if it was strong enough to justify the failed coup, then she would have no need to slightly spike the drugs. She would have ensured that the Archon would die instantly. Weak or not, no Eldar of the Kabal of Perfection Lost was foolish enough to endanger their life in such a manner. Draickhyde was sure to resolve the question with help from the Haemonculus during her excruciating punishment, but the uncertainty still nagged. Even as the Archon followed the renegade Haemonculus’s steps to the very vault of the Citadel, the contradiction weakened the normally iron-clad resolve of an Archon with visions of impossible conspiracies and wild paranoia. The fallen body of the former Chief Haemonculus did wonders to allay those suspicions, but then gave rise to new questions. What killed her? Herself? Rogues unhappy with the coup? More green brutes who then merely left?
All these worries and questions vanished instantly once the Archon gazed upon the treasure. The Haemonculus had been correct; this was a cache well worth risking everything for. Soulstones of older make than had been seen by any of the Kabal. Dozens of Soulstones. One was a ready-made Soul Trap, perfect tribute to any Archon. Three would ensure a return to the good graces of Asdrubael Vect and an end to the Kabal’s exile from Commorragh. Dozens could make the Kabal of Perfection Lost a power to rival even the Kabal of the Black Heart! The Archon’s greed overpowered whatever restraint might once have troubled that horrid mind, and the jetbike soon became weighed down with cargo. As the Archon turned to leave the emptied chamber, the ancient eyes noticed another Spiritstone in the Haemonculus’s grasp that had been shielded by her body. The Archon reached for the last of its plunder, and then there was a flash.
She eased the Soulstone containing Draickhyde from the empty shell's grip. So that was what she had looked like. A wastrel creature misshapen by her own profession. Yet that profession had given her the insight she had needed. Every Dark Eldar knew that the crude, fleshy form was meaningless. As long as the spark of life, the essence of being could be preserved, the physical form was meaningless. It was dogma proven. How sad that that very belief had blinded those that subscribe to it to its full meaning. Even the foremost of the Haemonculus, like Dr. Jheste, were still mentally bound to physical existence in the body they were born into. They did not understand that if one disconnected themselves from their attachment to form entirely, then there would be no limit to the potential of the soul. Acothyst Malda’kyr had been shaped by torture and pain, and because of the crippling of her body could know nothing else. But the former Archon Draickhyde had been a Wych before rising to command an entire Kabal; his body was healthy, strong, and agile. Malda’kyr would no longer be prey to the inadequacies of her body. She…
No, she was a pronoun Malda’kyr could no longer claim. He was male now. A spirit had no gender; it was the flesh that had a sex. He was Archon Malda’kyr of the Kabal of Perfection Lost, and it was time to reap the spoils of his victory here.
The Lord of the Kabal returned to the junta attempting to rule in his absence. The foolish twenty might have plunged the Kabal into a suicidal civil war, but the greed of the Eldar for their Archon’s Soulstones quickly defused that threat. After the traitors’ punishments, the Kabal set course for Commorragh. Whether Vect would be bribed by the treasure or not, the Archon needed to acquire replacement Incubi as well as more Haemonculi to replace the traitor. He was especially interested in one who claimed to be able to torture Eldar souls. Even those protected by a Soulstone…
Subject: Kabal of Perfection Lost (a friend of mine asked me to write fluff for him) 
Sun Jun 05 2011, 00:07
