Kabal of the Seventh Paradox

My first post in these forums! I've just started a Dark eldar army, having played their craftworld kin since the days of Rogue Trader. This background information ties in with a campaign my gaming group has just started. The data on which can be found here; shiftedmatrix.com

I'll be adding a project log in the painting section once I get going. For now, here is the start of a much larger story I'm going to tell incrementally as I write it up. Thsi first bit covers my Archon's formative years and hints at where the story is going. Let me know what you think so far.

Kabal of the Seventh Paradox

What is the mystery of the seventh paradox? One creature in the galaxy claims to know the answer, but his truth is hidden behind a veil of lies and deceit. The progeny of an architect of the fall, Kys’trum was born into power, his lineage all but guaranteeing him a position among the ruling class of Commorragh; a trueborn son of the Archon of the Kabal of the Splintered Spires. He would reshape his own destiny in uncovering the secrets of the seventh paradox.
Upon coming of age Kys’trum was already a battle hardened killer and possessed a profound tactical genius. Having spent a century learning his craft in the training dojo’s of his father’s domain and accompanying him on innumerable realspace raids; his tutelage in violence and war-craft coming at the hands of the most skillful murderers one could find in Commorragh. Once Kys’trum learned all he could from them, he would dispose of them in a manor reflecting what he had learned. He considered this both his final exam and way of ensuring that no one else could possess the same knowledge.
***

An outcast of the Alaitoc craftworld had been employed to teach Kys’trum the art of the silent kill and the use of the environment to conceal one’s presence. Kys’trum would accompany him deep into the bowls of the Dark City, learning to pass through hostile territory undetected. They would hunt wild beasts or “escaped” slaves together, stalking and tracking their quarry for days, setting up the perfect positioning to deliver the coup de grâce. Kys’trum learned to be patient to wait for the inevitable moment where the indefectible kill shot could be achieved; that sometimes murdering from a distance could be as pleasurable as the up close kill, the satisfaction of a great distance being breached by a harbinger of death.
Upon discharge from the role, the Alaitoc ranger left Commorragh for the next stage of his self inflicted exile. A span of time passed for the outcast, who found himself negotiating with a human merchant in a busy bazaar on some nameless backwater planet. His hand clasped a coin in the pocket of his long coat as he went to pay the mon keigh. His finger passed over the engraving on the coin’s face revealing the rune of the Kabal of the Shattered Spire. The outcast had no recollection of carrying such a coin, it had not been part of his compensation for the work he had done in Dark City. As he held the coin up to his eyes for closer inspection his confusion was replaced by a sudden sense of dread, but before he could process the thought, a spot of light the size of a pin instantly appeared thorough the centre of the coin before all went black.
Several kilometers away, in an old abandoned tower, Kys’trum flexed his fingers around the grip of a long rifle he had received as a parting gift from a ranger of the Alaitoc craftworld. He allowed the sensation of the kill to pass through him for a moment as he savored the recollection of the previous weeks. Tracking and stalking his former mentor as he would a wild beast or escaped slave; he had planned and plotted this flawless moment for the kill shot. The coin was the final touch. It had not been necessary to place it in the coat pocket the previous day as he passed by his quarry undetected among the crowded streets of that mon keigh settlement, but it had certainly added to the pleasure he took. The ranger had been right; it had been worth the wait.
A human merchant would later tell the story of the day that a thin, pale man had pulled a strange coin out of his pocket and simply fallen over dead, as he looked upon it.
***

His tutor in poisons was a beautiful Lhamaean whose own flesh meant a painful death for whoever dared touch her. She taught him many things about the art of the poisoned kill. The potions that would instill paralytic rigor on a victim, making them appear dead, but fully aware of their surroundings, so one could take their time and savor the tortures inflicted. Mixtures that would render a body numb delaying any damage to a nervous system so one could work all manner of vivisections and mutilations upon a body before suddenly wearing off and releasing the built-up pain within seconds, a delicious rush of excruciation to anyone who bore witness.
He would often arrive for their scheduled training sessions to find her taking pleasure from a slave who would wither and die between her thighs. She knew the young princeling desired her and she would taunt him with passionate words, beckoning him to her bed, mocking him to taste her poisoned flesh.
Kys’trum’s lust for her engorged by his indignation and his fear of her virulent body drove him into fits of anger and acrimony. He had a thousand courtesans, concubines and whores at his disposal, but the one thing he desired most of all, was that he dare not touch. His own fear of her disgusted him to the point of madness. His appetence would not be denied, he would not tolerate her taunt anymore. He would have her, one way or another.
He set his brilliant mind to the task, formulating a potent retro-toxin that would make him immune to her touch. In time he achieved the desired effect, a trail of dead test-slaves a testament to his discipline. However it wasn’t enough to just be immune to her toxicity, he had to be master over it. So he spent years adding to the formulation a set of latent retro-toxins that, when making contact with the poison lurking within the lhamaean’s genetics would turn her own flesh against itself. It had to also be undetectable to the most skilled of poison-crafters. So another several years were spent obfuscating the ingredients to be odorless and invisible. The final result was a single salve of ointment that had taken him the better part of a decade to create.
Coating himself ever so carefully, ensuring his entire body was covered, not missing a single pore as any exposed skin would mean his death, he went to her and professed his love, he recited awful poetry and spoke of her unequaled beauty. He told her that he would trade his life for one night of passion, that he couldn’t live any longer knowing that he could never know her caress. Amused by his pathetic display of affection the lhamaean took him in her bed chamber, assuming he would be dead within minutes. Her enthusiasm was ravenous; the thought of killing one of such highborn status made her wet with desire. For his part Kys’trum’s anticipation of her impending fate spurred his own arousal. By the time the realization of what was really taking place set in she knew it was too late. Behind the waves of coital pleasure her nervous system was overloading. She initially struggled, but it was of no use. The pleasure and pain combining was too exhilarating. She began to shudder violently as creeping ulcerations riddled her flesh, each frenzied convulsion sending out waves of extreme sensation as her body began to tear itself apart from the inside. Kys’trum’s own gratification was enhanced as he bore intimate witness to her rapid transformation. The terror in her eyes, a rictus of horrified arousal on her face. Each brutal seizure bringing them both closer to climax. Just as they reached the zenith of gratification her flesh ruptured in hundreds of weeping lacerations. A heartbeat later her entire frame burst apart leaving only a smoldering mass of organic waste beneath Kys’trum’s gore and sweat soaked body.
To this day the Archon still claims she was the best he ever had.
***

Too innumerable to mention here are all the deaths caused by Kys’trum in his formative years. Such as the fencing master who was presented with his own beating heart on a platter, or the arena champion decapitated while negotiating the Splintered Spires at the speed of sound after finishing his instruction of a young trueborn in the skills of jetbike piloting.
Kys’trum murdered all his instructors with the exception of one. Senpai Kubalgun had been retained to teach war theory and tactica to Kys’trum and his younger brother Dy’Vix. In this instruction would be the spark that would ignite Kys’trum’s quest to uncover secrets from the time of The Fall. One that would see the Kabal of the Shattered Spires destroyed and rebuilt to fulfill a single goal; the secret of the seventh paradox. This new forged destiny taking Kys’trum to the very edge of realspace, to a dead craftworld floating in the dark void and into the throne room of a shattered god.


To Be Continued...


Dosadi