Chapter II.
The dispute.
Fllythyx Gorrvex sat sprawled across a high backed arm chair, legs draped over one arm while he admired his new trophy. The severed hand of an Imperial Commander would go nicely in his collection, other than for the lack of grace it possessed. The nails were chewed into a hideous mass of jagged edges and the hair on the back of the fingers was quite repulsive. The appearance didn’t matter so much, however, as the prestige brought from claiming it was enough to satisfy him.
“Your impertinence amuses me, child.” Tsallion spoke while walking over to the drugs cabinet to peruse the collection. “You collect items of slain foes to remember their death, yes?”
“No. It’s to show that I am better than they are.”
“Hmm, yet you only take a hand.” Tsallion set down his prized cannon on the counter and admired it in the soul-lit half-light.
“What do you mean?” Fllythyx inquired, curious to Tsallion’s derision.
“You took a hand, an easily replaceable item. Even Mon-keigh can have prosthetic replacements for their limbs, so taking one does not prove that you are superior. I have lost my left hand in combat before, to an Ork of all creatures. Does that make the beast better than me?” He paused and looked over to the youngling to gauge his reaction.
“… No?”
“No, it does not.” He looked back down to his cannon and smiled slightly. Realising that he had let a grin slip he flicked back to his usual grimace. “I marked the Ork that day. I cut him open, I removed his leg in vengeance, but alas he escaped. I took my wounds back with me and he took his. He carried his injuries with him in the form of scars, I had my hand grown back and replaced. A century passed but we once more encountered their Waaagh! They were perfect targets, dumb and numerous. That was a fun night.”
“So?”
“I cut him once more.” Tsallion hissed over his shoulder. “It seemed that the Nob was now a Boss. It commanded its subordinates with a great axe, but it still suffered the dishonour of its scars. This day I took my vengeance. I took his tongue, I took his eyes, I took the lives of his servants but I left him to live. Do you know why?”
“Because you are too weak to finish the job?”
Tsallion threw his knife with lightning speed, the blade revolving through the air before sticking into the chair beside the new Trueborn’s shoulder.
“No, I am not too weak.” He spoke now as he looked down on the youngling. “I wanted him to remember who took the world from him. I took trophies that could not be replaced and I left him with more scarring than you could ever cause physically. He knows that one day I will come back for him. I will take more. I will return every century until he is nothing but malice and bones. That is worth more than your petty hands.”
“Hmm,” the youth smirked before springing to his feet with the knife weaving around his fingers. “Well, it seems that you are.”
Tsallion caught the handle of his knife and slid it into its sheath. The new Trueborn posed no threat; he could kill him now but it would be more fun to see him die in the heart of battle, where all could see his cowering tears.
“Where is the Dracon?” Baranda’ch did not bow to any social conventions such as manners. They were a waste of time in his eyes, useless pleasantries that caused barriers in meaningful conversation.
Tsallion turned his head slowly to inspect the Trueborn. He had taken a wound. Thick, inky blood had been wiped away from his cheek after the bayonet of a Poisoned Tongue Kabalite had sliced his forehead open.
He had never been one to go to a Haemonculus. What could they do? Get rid of the pain and hide the blemish? It was stupid, really. If one could not deal with a little pain every so often then how could they be Ynneas Eldarith? If they could not show their scars to their foes how would they be known as a warrior?
He had sown it up himself, but some of the blood had dried in the corner of his freshly rejuvenated eye.
“Where have you been, Helspaan?” Tsallion demanded, amusement in his voice.
“I have been in my quarters, attending to my injuries.” He gestured to the fresh wounds on his face.
“Yes, you may well have been.” Tsallion prowled towards him, one eye on Baranda’ch, one eye on Gorrvex. “I did not see you obtain a blunt strike to your face in the skirmish.”
“What do you mean?” Helspaan looked into his mentor’s eyes with a raised eyebrow, not knowing what he could possibly be implying.
“Have you looked in a mirror recently? You seem… flustered.” He handed him a small hand mirror from the desk beside him to show the fresh bruising and redness on his neck.
“I fell in battle. A Grenade went off. It was quite a blunt explosion.”
“Hmm… interesting.” The aged Trueborn circled him, examining his face for any signs of a lie. “During this fall did you happen to loose control of your blood pressure? Your face is awfully flushed.”
“Not that I know of. I guess it’s nothing that beating a slave could not solve. Now, have you seen the Dracon?”
He walked past Tsallion towards Gorrvex who was stood examining the interaction. It was peculiar to him. He did not know whether these men were old comrades forced into friendship or old friends driven into service.
Gorrvex shook his head.
“Oh,” Tsallion spoke, running an armoured finger underneath Baranda’ch’s left ear to collect the freshly pooling blood. “And where would you say that you obtained this injury. It’s too blunt to be bladed, too ragged to be a collision. A scratch, maybe?” He mocked for the final time causing the other Trueborn to storm off in a rage, kicking over chairs and flipping tables as he moved towards the door.
“Ha, he’s more Hellion than man.”
“Do not diminish the reputation of those gangers. They may be street scum but they would cut you open without a second thought.”
They both watched Baranda’ch turn the corner with a flourished spin of his purple cloak. “What do you suppose that was about?” Gorrvex wondered, his naivety amusing the older Dark Eldar.
“Have you heard of
inyon lama-quanon, youngling?” He did not expect him to. It was not something the younger Eldar of Commorragh felt. They were still too sensitive, too open to their roaring emotion to feel anything this meaningful.
“I have heard of it; the aspiration to claim another as your prized possession, but I fail to have seen it.”
“I believe that is what he’s feeling. His anger is heightened, he’s defensive and he is covered in blood. Do you know what this means?”
“He was just venting rage in the duelling-pits?”
“No. He had somebody in his chamber.”
Gorrvex smiled widely. “Then we must find out who this is!”
“No. We wait, we let him get over his emotion for now… then we ask questions.”
_____________
The whip cracked with a boom of thunder cutting a deep gash of claret in the slave’s back. He fell with a scream and a convulsion, dragging some of the others to the ground with him.
The barbed chains jangled and dug into their flesh. Some would die on the voyage home, it was expected. The rest were spared a relatively quick death. They would be playthings and foodstuffs. Their organs would be rendered down for drugs and their minds would be played upon for the sick amusement of their soon-to-be masters. The fact that this slave had looked the Slavemaster in the eyes was just insulting.
They were told to keep their eyes to the floor and others had been killed by lesser Kabalites, so why would one look straight at him?
“Move! Move!” He screamed, translator converting the glorious Dark Eldar tongue into the ineloquent Low Gothic.
The slaves were visibly trembling. Many had sustained light injuries aboard the ship but all were shivering. Stripped down to barest of rags they were allowed to keep the only thing that they had left: their dignity.
They could easily be robbed of this, but there was no point. It could demoralise them, yes, but how many people have escaped to tell the tale of the Dark City?
As he surged forward he elbowed one slave in the throat, a young woman that was hunched over the man crying. She had most likely been his wife but she was disposable, just like the rest of them.
“Scum, do not sully my glory with your foetid gaze!” He raised the lash and forced it down hard upon him, tearing a sheet of skin from his torso and causing him to wail in pain. The other slaves screamed, too, but their fear was not wanted or needed. It was just a nice bonus.
“Do you all know where you are?” His translator silenced their contemptuous quivering. “You are on the vessel of the damned!” He wore a skull upon his own head, the cranium of a larger creature from his days as a Beastmaster in the lower Cult Arenas. Six great eye sockets ran up the central ridge, two great fangs of the creature’s maw holding onto his cheeks all the way down to his jaw.
He could only see through the first eye socket, but the others held pheromone-dispersers and infra-red sensors to help detect his prey better. His knowledge in tracking beasts had helped him find slaves no matter where he went, and it was mostly down to the skull he wore.
It was fused into his own skull. His neck and shoulders were fortified by extensive Haemonculus work which had caused a number of semi-sentient barbed spines to sprout from hit central back.
He wore no armour, only trousers made from tanned Tau hide. He wanted all to see the self-desecrating scarification he had caused himself. He was a hunter with no pride in his life.
He would have taken his dull life if he didn’t have his slaves to beat.
“You are all damned! You shall exist in my city; you shall die in my city. You shall be consumed! You are replaceable scum in a stagnant lake. Do not think yourself chosen or special. You cannot look upon me!”
One of the harpoon tipped growths stabbed the man through the heart causing his life-fluids to spill upon the plated floor with steady pumps. Rising away from the body he ordered them to continue onward.
Those in front dragged the body with them, spreading his pain for the rest of the crew to see. Only his wife, who had now stopped choking, dared to speak back.
“Why would you do this?”
This question had never crossed his mind before. He thought the answer obvious, but it was something that he had never pondered upon.
Maybe he would later over a chem.-injector of Hypex.
He took a look back and examined her. “Why in the name of the Muses not?”
______________________
“So, what you are telling me is that you did not intentionally risk my life so that you could earn glory?” Spittle flew from the Prince’s mouth. He was not one for keeping calm.
“Of course I didn’t, Sire.” The Dracon bowed yet again, attempting to appease his lord. The Prince had not been injured, thankfully, but he certainly was not pleased… the barbed chains around his wrists indicated that.
“You caused my Raider to plummet to the surface of that rock!”
“Ah, in my defence that was not my plan. I wasn’t going to assassinate you, I didn’t even want in on this plan… I was… coerced.”
“Coerced? Who by? Name this traitor and your life shall be spared… for now.”
“Tseng Goreveh. She put me up to this.” He smiled his charismatic sociopath’s smile making his word trustworthy in the Prince’s ears, as if they were being scrubbed with a silk cloth.
“You!” Talludesh pointed at one of his Hierarchs, “who is this Tseng Goreveh?”
“She’s a Trueborn serving under the Dracon.” She laughed at the thought. A Trueborn manipulating a Dracon, how very quaint!
“Have her brought to me. Now!” He screamed at her making her scurry off apologetically.
“Your confession as saved you this day, Dracon. It has saved your life; I shall not take it off you. I am sure that there are others that would enjoy cutting you down, though. Round up the Dracon’s squad. Have them put in the slave cages. They shall be sold.”
The Prince smiled grimly.
Damn him.
______________________
“What is this?” Baranda’ch demanded as a number of Swords and Agony-Pikes were thrust towards him.
He shot two of the men down but found the tip of an Agony-Pike drive its way into the side of his thigh, rendering him limp.
Spitting with anger he struggled, wrestling one of them down and snapping their neck before grabbing another incoming Pike and flipping a man off of the balcony onto the bridge’s lower deck.
He broke into a run and jumped, kicking another man in the throat with his dead leg. Usually he would be incapacitated by the Pikes but he was enjoying this day much more than usual. With his immediate path clear Baranda’ch continued to run, willing sensation to return in the right side of his body. With his Splinter Pistol he executed another guard but one had come up behind him and trapped him with the handle of his Pike from behind as he went to step over the body.
The second came up in front of him, impaled his gut and watched him squirm before he was wrenched to the floor.
A foot was firmly placed on the back of his neck and all around, upon the surface of his bone armour, he could feel the scratching and scrapping of numerous weapons. Willingly he presented them with his wrists which they tightly bound in the constricting chains before they hauled him down in front of the throne.
“…Rendrick Vahren and Y’rrinis Telvoor.” He heard the end of what the Dracon was informing the Prince before he regained all of his inhibitions and started to comprehend what was happening.
“Sir, what is happening?” He demanded.
___________________
He scowled discerningly at the passing slaves, his cruel beatings and demoralising speeches keeping them in order.
The Kabalites guarding the slaves always enjoyed this job. The Slavemaster was a cruel, joyless man that would kill his own kind just as easily as he would a slave. They kept their distance from him after the first couple of ‘incidents’, but this was purely out of respect, not fear.
As the last of the line trailed into their cell he ordered his brutish servants to stand guard while the energy-gate fired. If one of the brutes got accidentally dismembered by the field then oh well, he was the Slavemaster. He could have new servants whenever he pleased.
More slaves would come shortly, thousands, possibly millions more. He needed to make sure that they weren’t all in an overly bad condition. Once returning to T’llionoch they would be graded and separated for different uses.
“Slavemaster?” Five shadows crept up behind him. He was aware of their presence but did not take offence to them attempting to sneak up on him.
They were armed.
“What?” He growled like a raging Sabre-Maw.
“You are a conspirator and have committed treason against the Cavash Dynasty. How do you plead?”
He looked at them, the Kabalites that had come to seize him, and thought them completely insane. He had never plotted against the Dynasty and he hadn’t planned to for some time, at least not until they were weaker due to some ‘economic failings’.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He spun, whip flailing at his side. At his sudden movement they raised their weapons, three Splinter Rifles and two Shredders, stopping him dead in his tracks.
“You must come with us.”
A slave in his own slave pens. How it pained him to be amongst the filth again.
_____________________
“Have these men taken to the slave pens, Sybarite.” The Prince ordered to one of the closed-helmed officers.
The Dracon and the Trueborn were dragged to the feet, Krass’ull being more compliant than his subordinate. Baranda’ch shrugged his arm forcefully, tearing himself from the grasp of one of the lesser Tubeborns. He scowled at him causing the Tubeborn to step forward as if accept the challenge of a physical confrontation.
“Baranda’ch, do you forget the situation?” The Dracon asked, making him stand down slightly, horns still locked with the other Kabalite.
“Ha! How amusing! He still wishes to fight! I may have this one sent to the Wych Cult; or I might just have him devoured by beasts at my leisure for all the men he’s killed.”
“Do it.” Baranda’ch willed. “I’ll kill your beast, climb upon your plinth, cut your scalp from your skull then cut down all that try to stop me.”
“Big words from a man with his hands bound.”
With a grunt of rage Baranda’ch flipped the helmet from the Kabalite’s head and dug the barbed chains into his throat, opening up a waterfall of claret. They cut his own wrists, too, but the pain excited him.
Dracon Krass’ull stepped aside casually, trying not to get dragged into the brawl that was now taking place. Lifting his hands he scratched an itch on his nose while blade pierced armour and Baranda’ch danced around them, using some as meat shields while manipulating others into shedding the blood of their kn.
“So… how’s life as an Incubus?”
The dead stare of the monolithic bodyguard answered the Dracon. Pretty dull, probably.
The next thought in the Dracon’s mind was ‘How did I end up on the floor?’, quickly followed by ‘Why did one of the command consoles just catch fire?’
“Enemy fleet, incoming!” A cowardly voice cried out from below.
“Identification?” Talludesh demanded.
“Poisoned Tongue, sir.”
“All men to battle stations! Prepare for boarding! Send them to the slave pens.”
______________________
Gorrvex strolled into the common room reserved for the Trueborn of the Kabal. Even though it was a vast room with a high vault held up by a single bladed column only Goreveh and the new girl used its facilities.
Goreveh was punching furiously at a training dummy to measure the strength, accuracy and fatality percentage of her hits. She commonly carried out such brutish training.
The new girl, Trell Kat’ar was sat by herself reading an ancient play written centuries ago by a man whose name had been long forgotten by the eroding grains of time.
He didn’t know whether to pursue the new member of the squad or to keep his distance. She didn’t seem like his type.
She was too intelligent, far too cultured.
Quickly turning his head away from her when she looked up at him, Gorrvex carried on towards Goreveh, his new trophy in his hand ready to show off.
“Leave, child. You’re not wanted… here.” She punctuated the last word with a particularly ferocious hit to the dummy’s sternum, cracking the piece of equipment.
Her arms were wrapped in a self-adhesive bandage and her torso was covered only by her breastplate, the bottom half detached. Her legs were armoured, as usual. She did not care for wearing armour all the time; it showed insecurity and weakness, traits that Gorrvex was very good at showing.
“What’s wrong with you?” He smirked in derision, not finding her strength threatening.
“You. Get out of my face,
gethryin versmacht…” She started to mumble a long stream of insults and profanities until he left her alone.
“Fine.” He grumbled before making his way over to the new member of the squad. “What’re you reading?” He asked in his usual detestable manner, but it did not seem to irk her as it did the others.
She seemed quite cheery, really.
“It’s To Stay Your Blade, a tragedy from many cycles ago.”
“Oh yes, a wonderful book!” He sat down beside her before taking a sip of wine from his crystal goblet.
“You’ve read it?”
“No.”
She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.
“It sounds good, though.” He finished, causing her to laugh slightly.
“Well, I would recommend it but you don’t seem like the kind capable of reading.” Was she being serious? Her insult was harsh yet it was spoken softly.
“What’s your name?” He wanted to know who she was.
“Trell Kat’tar, of the Kat’tar bloodline. Nobles of the Harrowed Soulcream.”
“Ah, well then, allow me to formally welcome you to our squad!”
“I was formally welcomed. You were too intoxicated to attend the ceremony.”
“Oh, my dear lady, I do apologise.”
“It’s fine,” her smile disarmed him, “I was told that you were a complete idiot, but now I can see that it’s more like you lack education.”
What was it with this woman and insulting his limited academia? He could read and he was not an idiot! She was starting to annoy him.
“Why are you so happy?” His question was backed with a slight scorn which he could not repress.
“Today’s been a good day.” She replied simply. “I’ve shed blood and seen the commander of the Poisoned Tongue first hand.”
His shock caused him to lean towards her with a shocked voice. “You saw Lady Aurelia Malys?”
“Oh, of course not. Do not be so absurd, why would she personally lead the ground forces? I saw another commander duelling with the Dracon himself.”
“Oh?” He could not hide the sincerity of his curiosity.
“He was bald, stood a bit taller than the Dracon and swung his sword with the skill of a great swordsman. The Dracon tried to kill him, but alas, he escaped.”
“Ha, I don’t believe you.”
“Believe her.” Goreveh cut in. “I saw him myself.” The dummy went flying into a chest of drawers, shattering them completely. “His armour was blue and gold, onto his left cheek was burnt a sigil, the sigil of Malys herself. He has her favour. He’s most likely the second in command, or one of her countless aspiring lieutenants. He narrowly escaped.”
The ground shook. A siren wailed. The enemy were coming.
Subject: Night Hydra. 
Wed Oct 24 2012, 15:02
