To Rise Above the Fall

"I am an Incubus, that is all you need to know." Caethir slightly nods towards the command console, "But as towards her who knows. High class is something I will never understand." He studied the Reaver for a moment. She was definately something. But why would she waste going on such a dangerous mission such as this? She seemed to have no need for the money, and there were probably more entertaining things at her desposal. Then why? The thrill? Maybe, but anyone who would risk their life like that was an idiot, or confident in their skills, and confidence was something Caethir could respect.

A sight for sore eyes, a saying she had heard from the bellows of Lower Commoragh in passing one would guess would be fitting as the eternal city came into view. Although raised in the aristocratic hallows of High Commoragh, she could not call it home per say, her independence from her father mostly saw to that. Besides, it wasn't like their couldn't be fun to be had throughout the city...it just takes 'knowing the right people...

"Reaver, head left at the next lane. I rather not hear that mechanic's mouth when we get back about the shape of his vehicle, so we need to get some repairs done. There is a place near here that we can get the work done quickly and efficently."

She knew the Incubus was right, the trouble the tubeborn brat had caused to Exacting Vengance had to be fixed before Lykretill'an set eyes upon the raider. Although, she had felt an undercurrent of an insult to her skills hidden beneath...

'Still need him for that bet... she repeated to herself briefly.

Keeping one hand on the stirring, she reached up and pulled out the Razorwing clip from her hair, allowing those ash blonde locks to casscade downwards in the breeze. She turned her head towards the Shrine-Warrior, where she could see the mercenary near the almost mute Klave wielder. However, she paid the sellsword no mind, the bumblings of the drugged up Kabalite didn't usually amount to much...

"It would just be such a shame to let Lykretill'an know how the poor raider was wrecked", a beautiful smirk laced in smugness and venom...

"...oh well, lets see how 'good' your friends are shall we, Incubus" she cackled as she banked the raider with a hard left, her hair dancing in the sharp winds as she kicked the raider's engine up!

It was as good of an answer as he could have expected from the Incubus. Dark Eldar liked to keep to themselves, no matter how much they masked their hateful nature with cruel smiles and fancy armour. "It's all you think I need to know..." he looked up from his weapon for a moment with the eyes of a hunter.

"Personally, I reckon she fell from grace and needs a little hobby to stay mobile, pass the time and maybe claw her back a name for herself. It's tough to get power when daddy's sent his thugs to smash you up a bit." Of course, Daranúr knew all about that sort of business.

The Mercenary laughed in derision at the Reaver's seductive façade. Of course, it may have been the fact that he cared more for his weapons more than any living creature in the foul galaxy, but he found it humerous.

"Anybody got ay drugs?" He stood up and walked around the deck, keeping half an eye on the Incubus/Reaver encounter.

The dark suns shone down, and Caethir could feel the comforting radiation - drawn of its sting like a captive Ur-ghul - as it caressed his armoured form. It was a sign of success to be back in the eternal-damned port, though of course it did not do to get ahead of oneself. There was the matter of Exacting Vengeance, after all. With this in mind the resourceful Shrine-Warrior decided to see if he could make good use of his connections.

Steering the recalcitrant Reaver towards the destination of one of the Incubi workshops, he took a little while to converse with his fellow travellers, and there was some light conversation amongst the little group, punctuated by the soft snip and suture of Excision's quickly-working instruments as he smartened himself up. As if lulled by the sharp, sweeping turns and the sounds of distant combat and far-off screaming, the Wrack curled up exhausted where he lay, head resting on a piece of debris, two of his arms wrapped around himself.

Chy'ier was anything but lulled. Every time that darned fancy little madam took a turn, his guts decided that they knew a thing or two about back flips themselves, and the streetborn was wondering whether all the exercise was going to give him a nice toned midrif. That, or dissolve the enamel off his teeth. Em'eyeth, however, didn't have time to ponder the reverse gustatory experience; she had shopping to do.

They were clearly headed for the imposing, looming bulk of one of the Shrine bastions, its forbidding, spike-laced exterior bearing the dark banners of the Children of Arhra. So choosing a suitable target - not too tall, not too short, not too handsome - that would just be a waste, really - she limbered up Chy'ier's abused musculature and took a dive into the depths. Heights? Depths, probably. Allow for speed, allow for a moving target,compensate for -

Kayle swerved the battered Raider to avoid the sudden uprush of air from an underground river as it plunged into the open, surging down into a waterfall of streaming water and other less fortunate fluids. Corrosive spray kicked up an unholy rainbow of shimmering colour, none of which Em'eyeth could appreciate as she tried to steer their now off-course descent. She could swear that as she caught a flash of the Scourge's face, he was grinning.

Daranúr was untroubled by any of this. He was in love. Well, as close as the tough mercenary would be likely to admit, at any rate; a gun-crush of truly Ynneas Eladrith proportions. So what if firing his wonderful new toy would likely break both his wrists? There must be a way he could compensate for the huge recoil on the blocky, Human weapon. He just knew they were meant to kill together. Perhaps he could get some kind of augmented armour ... some kind of exoskeleton. He turned to ask Excision his opinion, but the Wrack just turned over in his sleep, murmuring softly behind his mask as he dreamed of familiar torments and the comfort of a cold slab.

Caethir spared a glance as the little feral took what was probably an intentional dive from the wrecked Raider, but as impassive as the Incubi are he betrayed no hint of his feelings on the matter. He gestured he pilot to enter the gate of the fortress, and, blonde hair streaming in the wind like the pennant of some victorious warrior-maiden of old, Kayle obeyed. She could stand to take a little more direction from the strapping warlord, but - she stretched, squaring her stance proudly as they flew in under the banners and the gate's defences - give it time. Just a little longer, she promised herself, the best things are worth the wait.

They flew in low over the compound, Caethir's communications with his fellow Shrine-Warriors brief and efficient. They were directed to an open courtyard backing onto a row of sheds, where other vehicles and raidcraft awaited repairs or were worked on by skilled mechanics. Next to the workshops was an open field where acolytes and hopefuls sparred or wrestled, so at least Kayle would have something to look at while they waited.

Caethir dismounted and strode out to talk to the workshops' overseer, a tall, narrow-faced swordsman with a scar running up his cheek, past one eye and back over his scalp. A glint showed that his bionic replacement contained a tiny laser, the skull mounting a novel option but a valid defence. He nodded a greeting. and the two got to business straight away. Incubi, after all, are not known for wasting words.

Back at the Raider, Kayle kicked her heels. One the one hand, yes, a whole fortress full of athletic, honed, skilled warriors; on the other, Incubi were not exactly known for being party animals. She pouted, already a little bored. She looked down at Excision, but decided to let sleeping Wracks lie. She looked across at Daranúr, but he only had eyes for one thing. She sighed, about to see if she might catch a short nap herself, when a shadow fell across her. Caethir had returned.

"Reaver. We will have a short wait while the vessel is repaired - perhaps a day in total." He took in the rest of the group - even Excision, stirring from his nap now at the sound of familiar voices. "We will be able to have equipment repaired and rest - there are spare acolyte's cells. Functional. There are opportunities to practice if anyone wishes to."

"I would suggest that you spend the time wisely."

Kayle looked up, a confident grin back on her face.

"Oh I intend to. Why, I have a few ideas to pass the time already. Care to join me?"

Daranúr raised a hand casually.

"I only got one request."

"Name it, ronin." The Incubus' solemn tone was sepulchral.

"Can I use your shootin' range?"


Chy'ier hurtled groundwards in a way that was no part of Em'eyeth's plan. She flailed at the nearest wall desperately, but it was out of reach and far too fast. She kicked, spinning, trying to right herself and aim for the target she'd originally intended, but it wasn't there. All in a fraction of a second, it had gone wrong. Abysmally, terribly wrong. They were agreed on one thing: it was time to scream.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

"-aaaah-rughk!" The force on Chy'ier's ankle was sudden; fortunately it was the one in armour. Another steely grip wrapped around his arm. The descent slowed. Chy'ier wasn't in the best position to appreciate it - everything seemed to have turned sideways.

"Em!" he whispered hoarsely. "Em! Are we dead?"

"Notdeadyet," she chirped, laughing with relief. "Chy'ierwegotcaughtbyangels!"

Another hand clamped onto his free shoulder, hauling him mostly upright. Three Scourges have a lot of wing-power, but the form of the Eladrith Ynneas, even sculpted hollow and filled with all manner of strange additions, is not designed for heavy lifting. It was a good job Chy'ier had always been on the skinny side. They kept a decently good holding position, though, so that he could see just how far he was above a messy and quite widespread demise. As if reading his mind, another Scourge hovered in front of him, huge batlike pinions spread wide, as elegant as lost Faolchu, as handsome as Lucifer. He glanced to the side, and then down, and then back to Chy'ier.

"My goodness. What a long way down."

He paused, holding up something red and recognisable. The hanged man may have faltered upon his rope, but the King had not been cast down in vain. The Scourge smiled.

"Did you drop something?"


There was a commotion on the walls of the fortress, the long day of practice and watchful boredom broken up by the sight - as so often in Commorragh - of someone else's misfortune.  Guards drifted gatewards, looking for some excuse to fight a real opponent. Others glanced quickly and shrugged back to their work. A few snipers sighted up idly, all of them careful to avoid targeting the Scourges who by custom were as near to sacrosanct as messengers got in the Dark City. Half a dozen scopes rendered the would-be target in detail, then were ordered back to proper vigilance. Just some Scourges with a victim, no doubt making sport of the skinny fellow in midair. Still, at least they were giving him a good view of the defences.



Extra Info:

Everyone except Chy'ier: You are in the Incubus Shrine workshops and may arrange to have all Dark-Eldar-made equipment repaired, including armour, while you wait. Exacting Vengeance will take about one Commorrite day to fix up, let's call it a nominal 24 hours since we don't know how long it is in actual (fictional) fact, during which you are free to spar, practice and otherwise amuse yourselves in martial fashion with a variety of opponents. Bear in mind, though, that you are guests of the Incubi under Caethir's aegis and will be held to their standards while you are here. You have acolyte's cells to sleep in and can eat with the novitiates - nothing fancy, but enough.

Caethir: While in the Shrine workshops, because of your current good standing, your companions are to be allowed to stay so long as they do not cause any trouble. They are your responsibility while they stay, however. Good luck!

Chy'ier: You are being held aloft by three Scourges, but at least the fourth caught the King Button. Maybe they can tell you where they got that nice shiny armour? You are in sight of the Incubus workshops, so perhaps they had business there. Special delivery?


By all means as always use the OOC thread or PM me with any questions :DIt's been a while so I really want to get back into this, I have missed it

"My goodness.  What a long way down."

"No rightful king is cast down, only manuvers to for a better position Em'eyeth" Chy'ier murmured in to Em'eyeth ear.

"Did you drop something?" the scourge said with a smirk of victory.

"IdontDropThings,ImearlyLetTheKingLeadTheWay." Em'eyeth replied mirroring the Scourge's smile.  "HeIsMyPrize,thoughHeReallyIsTooOverzelous"

"MayIaskWhatDrawsForSuchAnInvitationToConverse?" Em'eyeth queried while gripping the hilt of her knife in it's sheath.

The Scourge regarded the sometime Kabalite for a moment. He tilted his head slightly, irises lensing wider and closing again as augmented eyesight scanned the form before him.

"Well, since you took the liberty of dropping by, we thought it only polite to catch you on your visit." The Scourge glanced at the knife-toying hand.

"Was that an assumption on our part? Should we return you to gravity's embrace? I think the ground is quite eager to meet you."

There was another voice, from one of the arm-holding Scourges - the left, to be precise.

"I wouldn't be so impolite as to try to use that knife. It really would offend." A small bump, just below his left shoulder blade, just a nudge really, from something surely about the size of muzzle of, say, a pistol of some small sort. Certainly not the blunt nose of a shardcarbine; that would hardly be conducive to further negotiation. Although, thinking about it, it might well be that.

The facing Scourge folded his arms and looked at Chy'ier with frank enquiry.

"We are curious creatures, we Lords and Ladies of the air. What brings you to us?"

Understanding the gravity of the situation, Em'eyeth quickly hushed up Chy'ier from murmuring like a baby.  "Chy'ierFourAnglesThoughGracefulAreDeadlyWhenInThierTerritory."

"Was that an assumption on our part? Should we return you to gravity's embrace? I think the ground is quite eager to meet you."

"TheGroundIsQuiteNice,AlwaysSeemsToBeNiceEnoughToCatchMeWhenIfall." Em'eyeth replied through Chy'ier's lips.

"I wouldn't be so impolite as to try to use that knife. It really would offend."

"IwouldntWorry,SoupOrGroundisntNessisary,WhereWe'reFromOneCannotGainAnythingFromNothing.  WeHaveQuestionsUponQuestions,resultsWillEndWithWarmEmbracement,TheCold,orAnAgreement.  aTokenForTime." Em'eyeth gracefully attempted to turn her words as easliy as she could turn her body while thumbing the knife with 2 fingers instead of the whole hand.

"We are curious creatures, we Lords and Ladies of the air. What brings you to us?"

"YouAndYourAngelsLookDashingInYourCoverings,IwishToFindSomeOfMyOwn." She said while motioning to her knife as an offering. "Maybe,SomedayToBeAngelictoo."

The Scourge noted Em'eyeth's words with a nod, an interested expression, even a fleeting smile. He gave a small nod of his head, and accepted the knife with a graceful gesture.

"You wish to join us, to soar the thermals, to ride the currents, defy mere gravity to keep you from your desire to claim the very vault of Heaven?" His smile grew wider, though his eyes - golden like an eagle's - grew more appraising.

"If you wish to take up the mantle of the Children of Faolchu, then you must approach the Mews. If she will agree to grant you audience, speak to a Master Haemonculus there. Her name is Mistress Vriss Selventhrane."

He glanced above Chy'ier's head for a moment, in silent colloquy with the winged maiden holding the Tubeborn's left arm.

"Tell the good Lady that Joc'ynion sent you. That might ease things a little. Mistress Selventhrane and I - we have an excellent working relationship." He grinned, a little more widely, showing sharp teeth. "Strictly business of course."

"Now, is there anywhere we can drop you off?"

The Shrine of Daxios towered over the slums that surrounded it. This particular shrine was a small but prestigious shrine dedicated to one of the greatest Incubi to ever live, Daxios. It was here that Daxios supposeably took the Oath of Khaine, and many of his honors and banners still survive to this day in the halls. Daxios quickly became the Heirarch of this shrine, and under his rule its influence spread quickly. He even has the distinction of being the only Hierarch to ever duel the great slayer Drazhar to a tie. While it has been centuries since Daxios walked among us, his shrine carries forth and continues to train all who survive in his ways.
 
As the raider came apon the gates, Caethir scanned along side the outer wall. Near the top of the gate, under a huge stone carving of the crest of Daxios' house, was what he was looking for. Carved ever so gently into the rock was the Guild's mark to show that this place was a safe house. "It seems even the noble and honorable have dark sides."
 
The Aspirants guarding the gate tried to hold up the raider with their meaningless questions, but a quick flash of the Guild's symbol to the Gate's commander expedited the Exacting Vengeance to the maitainence dock. There the grizzled head mechanic looked very displeased at the sight of the wreck that used to be a raider.
 
"Who let these riff-raff in here? This hulk is definately not one of ours." The overseer barked to the aspirants and servants, "And he isnt one of ours either, go get security and get these trespassers out of my dockyard!" Caethir had disembarked and was aproaching the disgruntled raider jockey.
 
"You are correct, I am not from your most prestigious Shrine, but I am here on official business."
 
"I wasnt informed of anything happening today. Show me your papers." Caethir pulled out the remnants of his coat, and the Supervisor gruntled.
 
"You and your organisation coming around acting like you own the place. If I was in charge the Shrine wouldnt stand for this! But orders are orders." The mechanic let out a sigh like he knew this was going to put his work behind schedule. "What is it that the Shrine of Daxios do for you?"
 
"First off my raider needs repairs, we ran into a bit of trouble on our mission. Also I would like food and lodging for myself and my compatriots, it has been a long journey. Finally my armor has been damaged and I have heard your smiths are some of the finest among the shrines. Im sure they wouldnt mind a fine tune up of their weapons either."
 
"it will be done my lord."
 
Caethir gave a bow and began to walk back to tell the others about the deal. he paused for a moment and then gave a glance back to the Mechanic, "And your wrong, The Guild does not act, they do own the place." And with that, he walks back to the raider.
 
___________________________________________________________________
 
"Can I use your shootin' range?"
 
"Im sure the guards have somewhere you can go and enjoy your new toy. As for me, I have a meeting to attend to. You can ask any of the aspirants or guards and they will show you to wherever you want to go. I will gather you all when the repairs are completed."
 
Caethir waited for any questions, and then walked off towards their asigned cells. It was law that any Guild Agent using the right of sanctuary was to meet with the leader of the place providing it as soon as possible. The Guild undersands how the mind of a Ynneas Eladrith works, and having an unknown agent wandering their halls would sow the seed of distrust among their ranks. Politics must be maintained, and Caethir hated politics.
 
______
 
OOC: Caethir is going to wait for questions, and then head to a cell and change into some robes. Then he will make sure his Incubus armor is taken to the smiths, and wait their watching the repairs until he is summoned by the Hierarch for the required meeting.

There was no way the Temple supplicant, tasked with aiding the 'guests' in finding their way to spare acolyte cells, could know of the sometime Fleshcrafter's disenfranchised state. So when Excision spoke, the wiry acolyte listened, head tilted upwards to regard the Wrack's commands and make sure he missed no nuance of body language or subtle gesture.

"You require sustenance," he surmised, neutrally polite and brief as the aspirants of the Shrines are taught to be. He bowed his head in a short gesture of assent rather than subservience, and left the cell.

The room itself was bare, functional; it held a simple and sturdy bed frame fixed to one wall, a shelf and a footlocker. That left a bare wall opposite the bed and a few square feet of black stone floor, scored and dented by the ages and the earnestly-wielded mops of the lowest initiates.

It would serve.

The acolyte knocked after a short while, bringing a brutish, muscular-looking creature, squat and inelegant. A Human male, his thick skull scarred by practice bouts and his sallow skin scored in many places by old wounds. His eyes showed almost no hint of intelligence, and certainly no spark of revolution. The Shrine was not obligated to give of its best. But he was here, and he would receive the gifts Excision ached to bestow.

Oh but the brute would serve Excision's needs beyond compare. He was not those of highborn status who craved only the highest quality of slaves to slake their thirst, satisfied only by slaves of beauty and the pique of physical fitness so that they might break them and then toss the corpse away in wasteful abandonment into the streets below. The Wrack was not so vain that he would see himself above such cattle. All vessels were an outlet of art, a blank canvas for the pain giver to exact his terrible art upon. The blade was his brush and blood would be his ink to paint the masterpiece of euphoric suffering within the very flesh of his plaything. What's more, this host would serve far better than any curvaceous female or frail noble whelp. For once the pain was complete, and his addicted staved off, the reclamation could begin.

The towering flesh hulk nodded simply in approval to the Acolyte and would simply wait until the hatch was once more sealed. Without a moment of hesitation after he was left alone with his prey, the skin walker lept forward. Thick metallic limbs moved in unison, grasping ahold of the cattle's wrists and extending them out. With simple and blunt force, the Eldar pinned his prey to the metallic door, holding him still like some pinned insectoid to be left on display. Immediately his eyes searched across the exposed form of his specimen, already weaving through his mind the many incisions, grafts, and flaying he could make. Oh the possibilities were simply endless... With a low purr that bellowed from deep within his throat, the Wrack raised his head up slowly to meet the lobotomized slave's gaze. His left hand reached upwards, slowly gliding the tip of his poisoned sickle along the slave's chest, allowing it but to sink a mere inch into the skin and slowly dragged downward. With his other hand, he reached upwards, clasping ahold of the obsidian mask that obscured his own features. With a pressurized hiss, the flesh-locked hooks that dug into his skull released from their holding, sliding away to reveal the Wrack's skinless, lidless visage. Eyes of pure naked black stared deep into the mortals own quivering orbs, soaking in the fear that began to crawl the human's skin in droplets of salty sweat. He leaned in closely, a feline purr issuing from his lipless maw that bore rows of jagged fangs above mutilated muscles left exposed to the cold air. From that same maw, the flesh-weaver uttered but three simple words, left low and hanging like a lover's hush.

"Scream for me..."


-------------------------

The screaming had lasted 6 hours. Six long unrelenting hours of continuous screams until the throat was raw and left soaked with blood. It had taken a bit more effort than usual. The lobotomized slave's nerve receptions had been dulled with the extraction of brain matter to ensure him as a more docile cattle. But he had made it suit his benefit, as any true artist would. One simply need know where to cut, digging hungry blades deep into the flesh beneath muscles and seeping out the crimson life-fluids to issue forth the dumb human's screams. Oh and what a scream it was. Such satisfying crude howls of exquisite pain.... And he savored it for each and every moment. By 8 hours, the skin no long remained upon the human's form, flayed pelts left to dry upon the shelves in 2 neat pieces that still dripped their crimson mess. Excision allowed a moment of exultation to escape his lipless maw, his mind in a full haze of euphoric delight. It had not lasted nearly as long as he would have liked, but it was enough. Enough to satisfy him for the time being and stave off the withdrawals of his addiction for at least a few days if need be. But now, with his play time complete, he must bade himself to work.

the servants of the Flesh-Weavers did not nourish themselves as other of their kind did. They did not dine on food or drink. Nutrients were cycled through their veins constantly, their calcium husks born upon their back working as a constant recycling system to ensure they never grew hungry or thirsty. A wrack was more of a biological machine that a true living being, alienated from most life-tasks to become efficient and useful tools... But while machines did not require food nor drink, they always required replacements.

The flaying knife sunk deep into the flesh of his own arm, skin already peeled back and held taut by mandible limbs from his spinal construct. He worked with precision and care, not so much a murmer of pain issuing from his throat as he peeled away his own muscles and skin. His left arm had taken considerable damage from the previous battles, muscles now left in a ruined state to which his biological repair systems would not be able to bring back to optimal efficiency. With the utmost regards to his patrons, the shrine lords had given him a perfect replacement kit. The brute mortal's muscles had been a perfect replacement, his short life as a servant having obviously been used for manual labor. The self-transplant was an easy one, An operation he had performed numerous times with ease. This would be no differs. The muscular system was emplaced within his arm, already the internal-workings of his advanced systems growing new veins and connective tissue to bind the muscle with the others. Steroids would soon be injected into the newly implaced muscles, swelling the sinewed flesh to perform acceptable levels of work. The work took three hours, considerable amounts of muscle removed from his arm and torso to be replaced by his host, followed by the lengthy process of extracting the bone marrow and calcium to be added to the bulk upon his spine. Once he was finally complete, the Wrack sat upon the bed, sowing patches of the mortal's flesh into his already patchwork of gnarled hide. With his work done, the Wrack curled upon the blood-soaked ground, the cold familiar feeling of stone reminding him of an operation slab. Now he would allow himself to rest, taking the next twelve hours of his time to sleep and ONLY sleep, allowing him to regain his strength and his internal systems to adjust with the newly grafted musculature and complete the recovery process. He did not even bother to replace his mask upon his face, letting it sit upon the ground in a pool of blood and discarded organs while its owner drifted off into slumber.

Compared to the rundown area of the slums surrounding the Shrine, it seemed both out of place and typical male phalic fixation of size. It seems even the Incubi weren't immune to the petty childish game of 'Mine's bigger then yours'.

A small giggle escaped her lips at that, imagining the normally stoic Incubi measuring their 'klavies'  like childish boys in a game of one up man-ship.

Finally as she pulled into the docking bay she could finally see what all the fuss about these Shrine's the Incubi keep. Their reputation for their excellent warriors had merit, between this mission and past experience, an Incubus was a valuable fighter...but it would seem like their aesthetic in architecture also applies to becoming an Incubus...also known as a boy's club.

Any notion of her feminine form being a welcome relief on sight was short-lived, it seemed as they made their descend, the little boys decided to play at being men. She had to admit to herself, it was cute...in a cute until they felt the taste of cold steel up close and personal kind of way.

"Who let these riff-raff in here? This hulk is definitely not one of ours." The overseer barked...

Her daydream of playing stab-grabby with the little Incubi babies was cut short by the barking howls of who seemed to be in charge around this all boys party. As she was about to open her mouth...and maybe a few severed veins in the man's body, the Incubus had already jumped off and apparantly diffused the situation.

"Honestly its such a shame, these boys could learn something valuable...and show that wannabe Khymera his bark was all he had", she huffed irritably.


"Reaver. We will have a short wait while the vessel is repaired - perhaps a day in total."..."We will be able to have equipment repaired and rest - there are spare acolyte's cells. Functional. There are opportunities to practice if anyone wishes to."

"I would suggest that you spend the time wisely."

Kayle looked up, a confident grin back on her face.

"Oh I intend to. Why, I have a few ideas to pass the time already. Care to join me?"

.....

Even with the silent brush off by the Incubus could not bring Kayle down, there is still time to complete her wager with the Dracon. If she couldn't get her companion Incubus, that would do nothing to stop her...after all the wager was to sleep with an Incubus, their wasn't a stipulation that it had to be that Incubus.

In a much cheery mood then when they first arrived, Kayle thought it would make most sense to stay near the Incubus, after all she has the Dracon's box and despite the reputation for loyalty and honour within the Shrines, it did not exactly mean they were going to keep it up towards her.

As she followed the Incubus, she couldn't help but think about Exacting Vengeance and her beloved Jetbike...she wouldn't trust people she considered worthy of touching it near it...let alone a over juiced, washed up meat bag without him losing a few limbs...

"I think we should check up on Exacting Vengeance, it would be best for the Raider to look like when we left the Dracon's dockspur... Kayle aired out, implying her mistrust of the overseer from before, even if the Incubus did mention the quality of his work...

"Now, is there anywhere we can drop you off?"  the angel asked.

"IwouldNotMindaSwiftExit.  MyFlockIsOffStageLeft,NestingWithTheMonks.  KingLeadsTheWay? Em'eyeth chattered while nodding to the docking bay where her friends had entered.

It was with a slight, knowing smile on his lips and a little wave that the Scourge, Joc'ynion, directed his little flock to drop Chy'ier off close to leftmost gate bastion. The others set him down gently, and one gave him a little push in the right direction.

"MyThanksWeShallOneDaySeeYouAgainInHeaven, IHaveNoDoubt!" Em'eyeth called, giving Chy'ier's best smile. She turned him away and through the gates, three ready explanations allowing her admittance. For the first, she could name the rank and Temple of the visiting Incubus, Caethir from the Shrine of the Cobra Strike. Secondly, it was well known that any Ynneas Eladrith could enter an Incubus Shrine to petition to join the elite cult; no guarantees were made, of course, for the manner of their leaving. And third,

"I'mSureYouWouldNotThinkToDelayTheFriendOfScourgesAndBearerOfTheKing, NowWouldYouBoys?" Em'eyeth considered winking at the handsome Incubus-aspirant manning the gun emplacement above the gate, but she didn't want to get Chy'ier into trouble.

It was simple enough to locate the Incubus in question himself after a couple of enquiries; with the patience the Shrine-Warriors are known for he vouched for the little Tubeborn and Chy'ier found them all a place to eat (enough for any appetite, if not quite as fresh as he had been used to lately), and a warm cell to sleep in. Far away from any flighty Reavers or explosions, it was peaceful, if that was what you wanted as a lullaby. Rested, he had a few hours to kill around the Shrine, while Exacting Vengeance was fitted out again like a true ship of the line and not an artfully-strung ball of barbed wire confetti.

"Em." No response. "EM!"

"IWasAsleepChy'ierWhatIsItNow? IsTheShrineOnFire?" she replied, sleepily.

"Do you think they'll fix up the foot of this armour if I ask them nicely?"

"OfCourseTheyWill, AllLordsLikeToShowOffTheirLargesse." she replied, before dozing again. It had been a long few days.

Chy'ier put on his best, brightest smile and approached the nearest workshop mechanic.

"Excuse me, can you make me a new foot?"


Daranúr made his way to the long distance shooting ranges of the Shrine, receiving a few dubious looks as he hefted his brand new prize meaningfully and directions to the furthest away section. Once there, he settled behind a nice wall and rested the bolter on the stonework. Attending to the puzzle of how to brace the heavy, lumpen Human gun, he almost didn't hear the armoured boots step up behind him.

"That's quite a toy." There was a hint of something in the Incubus' tone, but it didn't sound like mockery so Daranúr let it slide. "How are you going to compensate for the recoil?"

"Bracin'." Daranúr paused, then recollected himself, bringing himself away from the happy memories of a bloody childhood. "If I can steady it against something both solid enough to absorb the impact, and at the correct height, there should be little loss of accuracy and certainly none in rate of fire."

"Ah, most efficient, but seldom available in the field. You would need some kind of mobile support."

"Well, I have been thinking about that." The street thug in him receded as the opportunity to converse with a truly knowledgeable fellow warrior presented itself. It was refreshing to be able to talk about things that mattered, and not to have to deal with chattering smalltalk. "With the right armoured bracing, and some kind of servo-assisted firing mechanism ..."

There was a delightful clarity of purpose here. The Shrine-Warriors were focussed on the same thing as he wanted most himself: the desire to kill, more and better. Daranúr had started the Dracon's mission hoping to get a rung up the ladder to power, but politics didn't suit him (save perhaps for gunboat diplomacy). But here ... here there was power for the taking, uncluttered by all that tedious social whirl. He paused, thoughtful. It was unlikely he'd ever see Ti'llionoch again, unless ... Unless. The idea of walking into the realm proudly, a servant to no-one, a respected and powerful Incubus for hire, now that appealed. He liked that idea very much. A man could go places with an idea like that. He turned back to the Incubus.

"You takin' on new recruits?"


Excision awoke - as so often before - in a pool of fluids and viscera. This time, they were not his own. He stretched, languidly pleased with the night's work and still buzzing with the high of a truly incandescent session with the arts of Pain. A slight purring sound escaped his lipless mouth, and he yawned, feeling the new muscles work against his taut, reinforced skin. The delicate patchwork covered his form, veined like the marble of a masterwork sculpture or the damascening on a blade. Two pairs of hands checked the work on a reflex, but he didn't feel the same urgency as in the field. Absently, he licked a drop of spinal fluid off one blunt fingertip. Salty.

The efficient systems of his Wrack body were already hard at work, metabolising crude Human muscle tissue into smooth, elegant Eldar flesh, the cords and pulleys of the biological machine. From such base matter, he could refine and devise a truly wondrous carapace, a strong exoskeleton, endomatter that flowed with all the nutrients necessary for a full and complete revival with, perhaps, a little left over for enhancement. He was in a good mood. Picking over the sundered ribcage of his plaything for shreds of cardiac muscle, Excision smiled, though the expression might be somewhat hard for anyone else to recognise.

A flutter in his bloodied chest surprised him, and he instantly began to monitor his own vital signs. They pulsed strong and clear. A vision in fur-trimmed velvet swayed up through his consciousness, a hand caressing his mask lightly, a touch on his chains, a promise. The Lady Dracon. Blood rushed to the young Wrack's lidless, lipless face and he began to clean away the slick traces of the night's revelry from his skin. The scrap of Mandrake hide felt cool to the touch still, refreshing him as he worked diligently to look his best.



Kayle had a few choice things to say about the state of the exalted Shrine: about its towers, tall symbols of masculine pride undoubtedly; about its scurrying aspirants, so many boys striving to prove that they were men (she knew a better way ...); about the excessive firepower and thrusting arrogance. The last time she'd been in the midst of such an overt display of phallic power, she'd been in Corespur, amid the Supreme Overlord's jutting spires and docking-arrays, an unsubtle demonstration of just how much he was screwing over the old noble houses.

Of course, in point of fact the Incubus Temples do admit female aspirants, even if there are rather more to be found - so it is said - in the showgrounds and arenas of the Wych Cults. All pathways to excellence in the Dark City are ways to power, and every road to power has to pass by Asdrubael Vect. Popular opinion had it that he preferred to favour women dressed in the little that passed for a Wych-suit over the armoured form of the Incubus, a point that Kayle, in her current state of mind, had little trouble believing. She glanced over the nearest group of Incubi in training, as luck would have it all male, stripped to the waist and glinting where the dim light of the stolen suns caught their sweat. No women there. Obviously. With muttered disdain she turned away from the field, missing the sight of sparring women a few yards further over.

Perhaps - just possibly - her current state of mind had something to do with her failure to complete on the Dracon's personal mission. Kayle rolled her eyes as they flickered over the irritatingly phallocratic fortress defences and then brightened as her own personal mission objective approached. Not failure. Just still a few steps from success.

A short conversation with Caethir had her back to her old self again, cheerfully intent on making a success out of both her tasks. After all, if this Incubus plainly wasn't interested in her luscious charms, why, she didn't lack for options - there was an entire fortress here, after all. With a bounce in her step, she followed him to the maintenance hangar where the once-sleek form of Exacting Vengeance lay at rest.

It wouldn't do to allow such a vessel to remain in the hands of a semi-competent, and doubtless insufficiently motivated mechanic. No, she felt a professional need to make sure of the workmanship herself. One does not graduate from the racetracks of the arenas without the ability to tend to one's own racing machine. If Kayle had been in the habit of trusting others with her vehicles, she wouldn't be here now and those High Commorite twins wouldn't have gotten such wonderful smiles on their faces. In any case, she could hear Lykrettil'an's voice in the back of her mind: Do be careful, won't you? It would be a shame to lose such an ... interesting ... not to say versatile ally.

"Please, do not even begin to explain to me why you would use a laser-coupled torque wrench on such a delicate craft as this." She guided the puzzled maintenance worker's hands back to his workbench. "Now, try this one ..."



Caethir had taken care of the rest of his small group as befits the senior Ynneas Eladrith and sole representative of the Shrine of the Cobra Strike. He had heard the news that the little Tubeborn hadn't gotten himself turned into a landscape feature, after all, and that the Wrack had retired to fix himself and dine on some truly excruciating torment. He shrugged. The Servants of Pain were not warriors, but they knew their craft and Caethir could respect them as fellow professionals. The street brawler had found a quiet corner of the shooting range, there to shatter both the silence and, if he were not careful, his own wrists; some lessons were for learning the hard way, it seemed. And lastly he'd even managed to get the frisky Reaver somewhere where her mind could be otherwise occupied in the short wait before they resumed - and hopefully completed - their mission.

In one of the acolyte's cells, Caethir calmed and centred himself in meditation. Focussing on the Seventeenth Mantra of the Blade, he brought his mind to a deep state of relaxation, his body remaining fully alert. To a master of the discipline, it was almost as refreshing as sleep and carried none of the momentary risks associated with going from a sleeping to a waking state. True, an Incubus could rise from repose in an instant, but in the cutthroat world of Commorragh an instant is all it takes.

in the temple of his mind, he replayed the mission and reviewed its salient points: the objective, the loss of personnel (regrettable, but within acceptable limits), the Dracon's promised reward (also acceptable, if freighted with an unacceptable amount of politics). The information fell neatly into place, like a dagger in its sheath, ready for use when required.

Meeting with the Hierarch of the Shrine of Daxios should not be an occasion of dread for an Incubus of station. Caethir knew that his personal ability and loyalty were beyond question, but he moved in murkier waters here. The Guild had its hand in everything he now did, and though he was making it work for him - witness the considerable expense waived for the current help - he had to keep on his toes. The faintest of sighs drifted through the chamber. And it was this, the tiniest movement of air across the stone-lined room, that alerted him to the presence of the stranger.

The breath moved in a space smaller than it should have. Caethir's snapped open, focussing  at once on the source of the obstacle even as his hands reached for his blade.

"Daxios Hierarch waits on your visit."

The incomer was a tall Shrine-Warrior, her armour blackened around the visor in imitation of the assassin's mask of Khaine Silent Blade in Darkness. Not one of the most followed Aspects, but evidently the stealthy knowledge it brought had stood her in good stead here. Caethir rose fluidly, bowing his head in a gesture of respect and compliance.

"Milady-?"

"I am your summoner. This is all you will know."

So this was the tenor for the meeting. Caethir's guard sharpened up another notch.

"Leave your blade and follow me."

"An Incubus is not parted from his Klaive." Caethir took a step back, shifting his weight slightly on his feet. For a moment the two Incubi faced each other, the silence growing like the shadow cast by a skull-rack at midwinter.

"For his Klaive is not a merely weapon carried or worn." She tempered his objection with reference to the Lore of Arhra. The wintry smile on her lips could just be heard in her voice, stern from decades of shouted commands.

"The Sword Within shall not be all I bear before a Hierarch. It would be the gravest disrespect."

"In your Shrine, perhaps." He fancied he could hear it again, the faint tang of scorn for other ways. Even here, among the Temples, there was politics it seemed. "Now leave your blade and follow me."

Caethir was not at ease with this. "I will bring my Klaive, and once we are within sight of the Hierarch, I will hand it to you as a sign that I respect your ways."

"That is ... acceptable." A third time, almost enough to be a laugh. Was she mocking what she considered his lowborn ways?

A jolt, and he was awake. Caethir leaped to his feet, one hand drawing his blade as he swept it around in a low arc, eyes scanning the room. It was empty. He cursed. He must have fallen asleep. A worrying sign, if a warm chamber, relative safety and the end of the mission in sight produced such a state ... unless it was more than this. He checked the corridor. No sign of anyone, much less stealthy warrior-women. He called out to a servant and the aspirant, a newly-admitted one by the look of him, bowed his head in respect and awaited his orders.

"How does one approach the Hierarch?" The child would treat this as a test of his own knowledge, not the ignorance of a stranger.

"One approaches the Hierarch bare-headed and with blade drawn, Lord." The boy was quick, a good sign if the knowledge meant more than rote learning to him.

"And why does one do this?"

"Bare-headed to show one's readiness to die for Arhra's word. With drawn blade to show one's willingness to shed blood for his teachings."

Satisfied, Caethir dismissed the boy with a curt nod. Time to be ready for the real summons.

It did not take long for a pair of Incubi, almost matched in height and imposing in their dark, lacquered armour, to arrive and escort him from the guest chamber to the Hierarch's receiving room. Twin pillars of green flame soared high between the obsidian columns of the hypostyle hall, lighting the serried ranks of warriors on either side of the approach. Caethir took off his helmet and handed it to his escort, then drew his blade. At a nod from one of the gate-guardians, he stepped in.

The blackness of the hall was relieved only by the faint glow of torches, each burning from the slanting orbits of fresh skulls, their whiteness a stark contrast in the shadows. Caethir squared his shoulders and marched forwards. These were mere decoration; what mattered to a Shrine was its heart. His sabatons rang on the stone flags.

At the far end of the hall, a small throne stood, only two steps up from the plain marble floor. Flanking the modest dais, two braziers, their bronze green with age, sent pungent smoke into the warm, slightly musty air. Seated, with his Klaive resting across his knees, was the bare-headed form of Daxios Hierarch.

He was not tall. The slender strength of his form would have beguiled the incautious into thinking him weak, or underestimating his blows because of his lesser reach. Caethir bowed his head in respect, taking in the severe, scarred face of the Shrine-Master. Daxios' eyes were a cold grey, and his thin mouth was tight shut; not the face, had there been any doubt, of a man to waste words. He paused, eyes boring into those of the younger Incubus as if he had forgotten something. Caethir held that piercing regard for a moment longer than he dared, then slowly dropped to one knee.

"Daxios Hierarch. The Shrine of the Cobra Strike sends its greetings."

"Rise, then, and tell me what I must know."





Extra Info:

Chy'ier: You have a new armoured section for the *ahem* missing foot part of your armour. The sabaton and part of the greave. They don't match the colour exactly, but the suit is now complete and with a little work on the helmet (also done) it can now be sealed.

Daranúr: Time for a career change. A life of dedication to death, violence and killing awaits! And they give you all the ammo a man could ever want. Good luck with the life of an aspiring Incubus!

Excision: You are restored and invigorated. Time to spruce yourself up for reporting back to the Lady Verrax.

Kayle: With your interference guidance, the repairs to Exacting Vengeance are going well and, barring a slight difference here and there and the fumes of a brand new respray, your mechanic will surely barely notice that there was any damage.

Caethir: You are in audience with the Hierarch. I didn't want to rush you past this without your input! Feel free to respond in short posts if you wish to have a conversation (like Chy'ier and the Scourges), or have Shrine-related things you need to play out.


Everyone: All armour and injuries can be fixed up here and you may assume, if you wish, that you can go on refreshed and repaired to your next destination, be that to the Lady Dracon or elsewhere. As a side note Daranúr wil be staying at the Incubus Shrine and will be contactable as an NPC at a later date should you wish, but for all normal purpose with Cavash leaving, Daranúr is no longer with you.

I'm sorry it's been so long. But I hope there is enough here to be going on with and I will try to answer individual posts before you meet up and decided where you want to go next

- thread mothballed due to lack of response -