To Rise Above the Fall

The homeless Wrack had remained in the center of the compound where they had first entered while the rest of his 'comrades' departed to other parts of the shop. He had barely even so much as budged since they had first arrived, the only signs of life coming from the twisted figure being the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest with the ragged wheezing breath that followed it. His thoughts were elsewhere at the time, a rudimentary form of meditation if for no other reason than just to stave off his killing intent. It was a tempting offer though, the reach for the closest creature and turn the next few moments of its short life into complete agony before slitting their throat and watching the lifeblood seep from their veins.... The back of his skull ached with anticipation, a heavy groan of discomfort escaping the creature even though it had not registered doing so.

His hand was stayed however, held off by the memory of the Dracon. She had... 'requested' for them to behave and to kill off a mechanic and his pathetic little rag tag band of mechanics at the very beginning of this little quest was hardly the ideal model of behavior. No he kept his hands and his chains to himself like a good little Wrack, hoping for his patience to be rewarded soon with the opportunity to kill. His mind tore from his thoughts upon hearing a voice calling out to him, the patchwork Eldar turning his gaze slowly towards the source of the sound. She was a cute one, he thought, how beautiful she would be splayed open and her innards left bare to the world around her with her ribs bent back and fused with the stretched skin of her chest and arms to create a mock imitation of a Razorwing's visage. Oh that brought a smile to that ruined, lipless mouth of his, but most importantly, it got him talking...

"Unlike anything you've every experienced..." the words eased smoothly from his lips with an unnatural clarity betraying the addled mind that bore it. This was all he said for now, simply answering one question and leaving it at that.

Weak, stupid, craven, and sniveling. This I can work with. Perhaps my employer and new compatriots look at me in much the same way. I must act to reverse that, lest they feel the same compulsion that I do: the need to squash an insect

Valarauka finished sizing up the assistant in a glance, and gave a smile that did not touch his eyes. He kept examining the shelves, running his slender fingers along some of the goods.

I believe you are just the person I need. You see, I have been enlisted with completing a particularly difficult task, and for such things, it is best to bring the best tools available. These, however are not the best tools-" Valarauka picked up a box of splinter ammunition, looked at the label and frowned. "I highly doubt this would stop a rampaging Fiend in its tracks before it clawed my face off, don't you think? I'm looking for something with a little more punch. More accurately, my squad has been leave to requisition anything we please. That requisition could be the difference between a Kabalite's continued health and his agony-" Valarauka pointedly did not seem to indicate that the kabalite in question was necessarily himself. "But, I need to see something before I can requisition it. Now, why don't you help speed this along and open those cabinets for me? We will get a bonus at the end if we do a quick job, but I can share a little bit of bonus with you now if you help move this along." Valarauka kept smiling and walked next to a cabinet expectantly, his hand tapping a pouch on his belt.

Taking in his description of the wing and then recieving it back from him during his gesture, Kayle had to admit, Lykrettil'an seemed less foolish and cowardly then either Lady Verrax or his appearance portrayed him, and likely had some secrets of his own.

Hearing his jabs at the Dracon's prestige, she raised a small smile as he reconfirmed the tidbit that Lady Verrax had mentioned to Kayle, 'A dozen vials of Adrenalight from my personal collection if you manage to seduce the Incubus'. So at least the wager had some sort of corroboration attached, and a Dracon's personal cache would prove most interesting.

Seeing that the little games and foreplay was over, she took the offered hand when mentioned her 'friends', "Makes for an interesting diversion, trust me", surprisingly an honest answer, as the Wrack and the others in their short period time of acquaintance have proven more amusement then much of her father's court in the many cycles she spent with them.

As Lykrettil'an unvealed the Raider, Kayle had to take notice, the sleek Raider sans the respray was a beautiful machine, but what stuck out to her was under the obvious beauty it seemed the craft has underwent some modification, the signs of a close chamber as well as a desire for speed has ingrained itself into the Raider, without any sacifice to the rest of the vechicle, she had to admit the grease monkey was good...

'Perfect, now all we need is to check weaponary and then see if all of the Dracon's information was false or not ', she thought to herself momentarily as she took a last once over of the craft before turning back to have both Lykrettil'an and the Incubus.

A faint glint in her eye, Kayle's eye flashed to the Incubus as a smile crept across her features as she kept her other eye upon the mechanic. Slowly reaching for her belt, "Ah yes...'payment'...." , she loosed the straps attaching it to her bodysuit as she edged closer to the mechanic, belt falling to the floor as her hands traveled to her hair clip and the patchwork suit of the mechanic.

"...I'm sure we can find something that would bring the both of us what we need pleasurably..", tugging off her hairclip while the hand that slithered across his chest gently guding Lykrettil'an across the room, "...don't you think? I wonder, if your hands can do a better job on flesh then they can on machinary", her hair cascading down in waves of pale golden locks, with both hands reaching out to tempt the mechanic.

The courtship that is "trading" in Commorragh continued. The Mechanic and the Pilot continued their opera. Each sentence was delt out like a rehersed line, each movement like a practiced step. It looked like the Pilot had the upper hand. Infact it always seemed that females have an edge in these dealings. The Mechanic then bowed as part of his ritual, and although the movement was for the Pilot, his eyes stared straight towards Caethir. At that moment Caethir realized the Mechanic was just playing his part, and was not going to be so easily swooned by her wiles.

"He is a cleaver one" Caethir thought to himself.

Then movement caught Caethir's eye to his right through some shelving. Out of the corner of his eye he saw what looked like another worker sitting at a desk behind the shelves, listening in on the conversation. Most likely just a clerk for the dealings of the shop, but he smartly kept himself hidden just in case the sell did not go smoothly. Caethir did not see any weapons on him, but no Dark Eldar would go unarmed for too long. The Mechanic knew there was another worker here, and is using him as his harliequin hidden in the perverbial crowd. A hidden asset in case of a struggle.

"A cleaver one indeed" Caethir muttered quietly

At that moment the Mechanic's attitude switched gears and he went straight to business. He took the Pilot's arm and walked into a hanger to take a look at the craft. The raider looked sound, but Caethir wanted a closer inspection, as well as to stay close to the Mechanic, and take out the largest threat first.

"Keep an eye on things" Caethir ordered as he passed the group. He knew no other way to get the Wrack's attention towards the hidden intruder. He knew he would have to deal with a angry wrack later, but hopefully the creature would pick up on the 5th person in the room if his anger at being ordered around did not cloud the thing's senses.

The Mercenary though, Caethir knew how to communicate with though. Passing by him at the door, Caethir also glanced towards the shelves and nodded that general direction. Hopefully the brute would reacongize the simple squad signal's meaning and keep an eye on the cloaked figure.

Caethir knew little about the mechanics of a raider, but he could tell that the ship was heavily modified. Most likely some decseased highborn's personal transport. He was sicken to see such a noble vessal that was made to carry warriors to war be stripped of its war spirit for some rich noble's pleasure. He touched its hull and whispered a small prayer for khaine. "May this vehicle's spirit be once again kindled in the forge of battle." He then turned to continue to watch the dance between the Mechanic and the Pilot.

Oh how these dealings bore him...

With a nod and a growled command to Excision to keep a wary eye on the small open courtyard, Caethir stalked past the playboy mechanic and the Reaver, the two of them engaged in one of the formal exchanges so beloved of those who would perhaps rather talk than fight. He could sense the shadowed form of another being. Could it be a threat? Unlikely. But all threats must be assessed and if need be, neutralised; that much was basic combat sense and he could only hope that the rest, common warriors that they might be, would at least understand that.

As Daranúr made to assist the mechanic in opening the hangar door it became apparent that there was indeed someone else inside, a smallish Dark Eldar sitting at a battered computer terminal, working with concentration on something in the dim, oil-scented chamber with the oblivious air of one plugged into music. As he noted this, the tall Incubus strode on past them and took in a quick perimeter check of the place, coming to rest in front of the fine-looking craft in what looked suspiciously like an attitude of prayer for a moment.

If Daranúr had any plans to pay soul-chits for the use of the craft, or else to engage in a brief (but satisfying) bout of bloodshed, it seemed that Kayle had other ideas. Pushing the veteran mechanic back past the Raider, her eyes locked on his, hands already loosening her hair, the sensual jetbike rider's purring accents left no doubt as to how she intended to secure the craft.

"...I'm sure we can find something that would bring the both of us what we need pleasurably.." she murmured to Lykrettil'an, "...don't you think? I wonder, if your hands can do a better job on flesh then they can on machinery ...?"

Lykrettil'an's pale face flushed, though he'd obviously begun the day with no intention of trading anything but currency.

"... now look, I said I didn't want payment in kind -" he protested ineffectually, sliding back away from the Raider and its attentive Incubus, silently communing with the warspirit such a vehicle ought to have. His eyes drifted half-closed momentarily, fighting a very poor battle against instinct for such a cynical Ynneas Eladrith. He took in Kayle's perfume, the feminine tumble of her loosened hair, the promised softness of her skin ... Reaching a decision, Lykrettil'an stooped and picked up a small spark-welding tip from the floor and shied it at the working figure, oblivious at his computer desk.

"You! Out!" The other assistant leapt up in startled disarray, hastily gathering up a scatter of dataslates and darting from the hangar.

"You too, brother. And you, lanky." Lykrettil'an waved Daranúr and Caethir away with one hand, but it was clear that his mind was no longer on his male visitors. With the other, he began to expertly work the buckles of Kayle's flight suit. "You know, that is a very expensive piece of kit. I may need some extensive persuading to let you borrow it ..."


As the wait in the courtyard grew, the impending tedium was broken by a slight, startled figure darting from the hangar bay, a number of dataslates clutched to his chest. A younger Tubeborn, his jumpsuit speckled with spark burns and grease-stains, he was fast, but not really looking where he was going. Fetching up against the gnarled bulk of Excision was almost enough to scare him out of his skin - not the Wrack's preferred method, perhaps, but providing a gratifying sliver of discomfort. With a cry, he pinballed over from Excision to Chy'ier, sitting on his case, minding someone else's business almost as he was told.

Plink. Pl-

"Aaah! Sorry! Sorry Sir! By the Dark Muses -"


In the dusty, component-scattered rear of the shop, amid odd motes of light showing through the shelves and the purr of distant engines, Sulveis took the meaning of Valarauka's gesture well enough, Cowed by a lifetime of obedience, and aided by the ever-present Commorite trait of enlightened self-interest, it was a simple enough matter for the hauteur of the 'guest' to nudge the assistant into servant mode and get him to open the cabinet as indicated. It was a worthwhile gamble: the locked case contained a fine selection of close quarter pistols and shorter-range weaponry. This being Commorragh, everything was securely fixed in place, but a flash of the Dracon's seal and a sprinkling of soul-chits was enough to loosen both some of the bonds and Sulveis' tongue.

"Of course, we have something more suited to your needs I'm sure, and we are on good terms with her Ladyship herself, well - the boss, that is, he works for her now and then - they go back a way." While he talked, the saving grace was that the voluble Tubeborn was at least busy opening doors. "See what you think of these, there might be something in there to suit you."

It seemed that the mechanic had quite a decent sideline in guns. There were several splinter pistols of a fine workmanship, but what stood out against the backdrop of these agents of pain were two more - the long-barrelled, wasp-waisted, almost syringe-like silhouette of a stinger pistol, and a blast pistol sitting in solitary splendour on a black velvet cushion. Sulveis grew almost lyrical in his praise of the last, turning the pistol over in calloused hands for a moment before allowing Valarauka to examine it, all the while watching him, hawklike, like the parent of a new child being shown around relatives.

"This is the best we have," the assistant said proudly, "and we have some vials for the stinger if you need more. The er, master, has some antitoxin for it somewhere but he keeps that in a secure location in the ... in the workshop." A glance at the hangar, tinged with a wistful jealousy as well as annoyance. "But I can't get that for you now, not when he's busy negotiating with your friend."


Back in the compound, so rudely interrupted in her would-be study of the Disciple of Flesh by her fellow assistant but briefly, Ria'seckt gazed back up at the tall Wrack for a moment more before deciding to finally employ some common sense. With a small sigh, she turned away, shrugging her skinny shoulders with no idea of the beautiful narrative creation running through Excision's mind. Perhaps the little creature would never know the inhuman agony of such transcendent pain, but nevertheless she emitted a sad little sigh uncannily on cue.

"All right, Mr. Wrack. I understand. No hints for Secktashka. Well, maybe someday." She turned and slouched back to her fellow worker, who was finishing his tea.

"Where's the boss?"
"Probably negotiating." He drained his cup, shook out the last drop and screwed it back on the flask with a sour expression.
"Oh." She paused. "Oh, I see."
"Ratchet, go and help Mrinval with his dataslates and leave the clients alone."

Plink.

Sitting on the wooden case was growing uncomfortable. Strangers kept happening past.

Plink.

There was a pile of ever-diminishing size of tiny, shiny doodads and maybe even a widget or two.

Plink.

But buried under the shrinking pile, under the spares and wingnuts and capacitors and chips and broken microbots, under the debris being stripped away like skin from a face was something special. Something Chy'ier had glimpsed, something truly worth sitting still for, waiting patiently for one moment more, then another, then another -

Plink.

After some time, Valarauka emerged from the back of the workshops, new acquisitions cradled in his slender hands. For a moment, in the right light, he carried the air of a lord of old, come to dispense largesse among his adoring subjects. But this was Commorragh, where there are many tricks of the light.

Plink.

Some time later still, when the mechanic's assistants had begun to work again on the downed craft with more or less enthusiasm, the drone of a generator and the repetitive chatter of the three Tubeborn doing little to relieve the slow passage of time, there was a rattle of debris being kicked aside, the metallic slide of the hangar door being fully jacked open and the gentle whispered storm of a powerful anti-grav engine. Sitting upright astride the pilot's seat, her loose hair blowing around her in the slight updraft of dust as she guided the Raider out of the hangar with a sure hand, Kayle looked the picture of a proud charioteer of old, if one were to discount the slight aura of smugness radiating from the racer. Lykrettil'an waved her left a little, and the last vane of the elegant craft cleared the metal shutter. She set it down in the courtyard. Leaping down from the vehicle, she kissed Lykrettil'an on the cheek, smoothing his dishevelled flight suit with a critical hand.

"Don't forget," he admonished, running a hand through his hair wearily, knowing he would be unlikely to be more than half-heeded, "a light hand on the tiller when you're in reduced gravitic fields. She's a little faster turning to the port -"

"Yes. Thank you. We'll remember." Kayle smiled brightly. Lykrettil'an sighed, rolling his eyes slightly at the regrettable results of his own delectable weakness.

Plink.

With everyone distracted by the new arrival, it was easy to pocket a shiny thing or two, amid all this debris, surely no-one would even notice.

Now that Caethir could see the Raider in better light, unshrouded by tarpaulins, the name Exacting Vengeance was emblazoned on the side of the sleek purple and black craft. Its prow bore a single darklance, the fittings gleamingly new and still smelling slightly of oil, a faint sheen of which still coated the fairings where the mechanic's attentive hands had bolted the final plates in place. It still bore the look of a rich Trueborn's toy, but there was a more martial air to the craft now, a sense of renewed purpose. Were it not for the rigid control with which the stalwart Incubus kept his remnant psychic senses leashed, he might almost have said it was eager to be out. There were seats enough for all of the small company, and though - this being a craft of war - there was precious little in the way of comfort, there were plenty of weapon racks and a number of unspecified additional controls.

Plink-

Looking up at the new shiny vessel, Chy'ier's aim was distracted for just a moment.

Thud. There was a warning rumble and the unstable pile of core spares began to tumble down in disarray, the increasing tide of casings and parts making a pretty, clattering, clashing noise interspersed with a slight tang of explosive -

Oh, There was that harsh man again, shouting.

"Twitcher! By the Dark Muses!" Lykrettil'an swiftly pounced on Chy'ier as he sat open-mouthed, looking at the tide of machined parts skipping and sliding to a standstill. As he was about to adopt a defensive posture, the Tubeborn realised that he was being shoved backwards, into the startled arms of Daranúr as if he were an errant barghesi pup that had escaped his handler.

"You've got some common sense about you. Keep this halfborn brat out of my goods. Unless you're planning to revive the ritual of a pre-mission sacrifice?" he added half-hopefully, with a glance at Caethir. Turning back to Daranúr he continued, "I've checked the fuel cells and the lady there has familiarised herself with the controls. You should be equal to whatever it is the good Dracon wishes of you, which is, of course, none of my affair."

With a last affectionate pat on the chassis of the Raider, Lykrettil'an fixed everyone with a steely glare.

"And. Don't. Forget. To bring it back in one piece."

With the Raider secured, and some little extra firepower into the bargain, Kayle guided the Raider away from the workshops and towards the main docking ring at the tip of the spire. A short, twisting flight away lay the webway gate of Qillasia'n Crossing. Careful not to overfly the Mews, the Raider was watched beadily by several soaring Scourges nonetheless. In the shadowed streets below, lit by garish pulses of green and purple light, two rival Hellion gangs jinked and spun in the chaotic opera of a nightly turf war. The shattered ruin of a once-noble palace lay burnt out beneath the rise to the sharp, turret-lined expanse of War-Maiden's Approach, known to the vulgar as Bitch Alley, the thousand-foot tall statue of an archaic female in armour blurred by centuries of acid rain and splinter fire. The eyes of the statue still spat death, the left housing an immense laser, the right a darklight battery, in what must have seemed some mad old Archon's idea of a pleasing conceit.

And after this, all that remains is the slip and shudder of a webway gate, the passing frisson that comes with knowing one is a step closer to the joys and horrors of realspace, and the wide, twisting arteries of the Labyrinth Dimension.



GM Note: Unless you wanted to do anything else before you left, such as get some supplies or, I don't know, catch an arena fight or something you are now out of Commorragh and in the webway. Where you go now is up to you, but for the purposes of following the mission one of you has a map Happy trails!



Extra Info:

You have a Raider for the mission.

Valarauka: Up to four splinter pistols, if you want them; one stinger pistol with 6 vials of venom-shots, and a blast pistol. With a little more motivation, Sulveis can find you three sets of protective lenses for the effects of a darklight blast if you decide to take it.

Chy'ier: You have a haywire grenade. The casing is slightly chipped, but it's cosmetic - the evil little anticircuit is working, probably, almost pulsing with the desire to bring disorder to carefully calculated computations. What's life without that little element of chance? It ought to work perfectly. It really should do.

Caethir: The renewed Raider has now been re-armed and seems to have recovered some of its martial feeling. There is a subtle fierceness to the craft now, a touch of the Bloody-Handed One as they used to say in more superstitious times ...

Daranúr was growing tired of all the bureaucracy. He hadn’t been allowed to murder the assistant the Incubus had pointed out and turning the mechanic into an arterial spurting instrument was probably not wise. The mechanic seemed a bit week minded to him, and so he left him to be seduced by Kayle if it would prevent the burning of any future bridges.

He had walked in circles around the workshop for a while, keeping his eyes on the others. The Wrack wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, the Incubus had been securing the perimeter and Valaruka was attempting to secure himself some good quality items, either to use on the Dracon’s enemies or on his own. He’s keep an eye on this one, he thought. If anybody kicked up a fuss within the collective then he seemed like the type to try and restore order. Now a thought crossed his mind: would he be helping secure order or spread disorder for his own means?
He hadn’t really decided. It would be nice to murder the rabble he was working with and take the payment for himself but he doubted he would survive without them. As he started his contemplation on potential future events he was caught dumbstruck as the he caught the sporadic form of Chy’ier, the mechanic a mere few steps behind him.
“Keep this halfborn brat out of my goods.”
What in the name of the Muses was he supposed to do and why was he being given attitude for another’s indiscretion? In his younger days Daranúr would have started a good old fashioned brawl, but he couldn’t risk it now.
Realising that he was still clinging on to the Tubeborn he relinquished his grip, letting him free after holding on for a time that was long enough to be considered awkward.
"I've checked the fuel cells and the lady there has familiarised herself with the controls. You should be equal to whatever it is the good Dracon wishes of you, which is, of course, none of my affair."
“You’re right.” The mercenary added. “It’s not.” He glared at the lowly mechanic. He wasn’t fond of this man. He seemed the cowardly kind and it irked him gravely. Daranúr did not think himself the king of any other, and would admit, somewhat begrudgingly, if somebody had bested him. To do that, however, he must be bested and he sincerely doubted this lowly worker had a single brave bone in his body.

Daranúr stood on the deck of the Raider as it swooped low across the hellish nightmare which they all called home. With a look over his shoulder to Kayle he too no consideration for any other person’s intentions and ordered:
“To realspace. There is no point hanging back here any longer.”
If nobody else would give the command then he would…
And if anybody objected then they could fight it out between them…

Aaah! Sorry Sir! By the Dark Muses –“ *CRRRAAAACCCKKK*

*…*

*Thump Thump*

Chy’ier was standing over the young Tubeborn with his rifle barrel wielded like a club, a new shiney spot on the stock produced from the impact with the boy’s face. “Stay away from me and my shineys!” he yelled to the sprawled and unconscious youth while picking up his grenade and shineys hurriedly.

“Quick hands, Slow face, Quick hands, slow face” he said seemingly to someone next to him as he shouldered his rifle pointing to the ground as a warning to the unconscious youth.



“You’ve got some common sense about you. Keep this halfborn brat out of my goods. Unless you’re planning to revive the ritual of a pre-mission sacrifice?”

Chy’ier eased himself back onto his own feet away from the arms of Daranúr and slowly walked back to where his rifle was knocked off the box in the recent ruckus. Using his foot, Chy’ier launched the rifle up into his hands and double checked the action again before slinging it onto his back and walking to the raider double checking his surroundings as he moved to and boarded the craft.



As the craft motioned away from the workshops, Chy’ier took his last invalid shiney that needed to be weeded out of his recent additions flicked it into his dominant throwing hand, and with all the control and strength he could muster, threw it at the “core spares” one last time, as if making a point to himself. “You will be food” he mumbled.

"This is the best we have....But I can't get that for you now, not when he's busy negotiating with your friend."

"Do not fret, my friend. Tell me where I can find the appropriate vials and I will acquire them priot to leaving. I will also need some eye protection" Valarauka said, rapturously examining the blast pistol, feeling its superb balance. "Once I have that, I feel like you should enjoy that bonus". The warrior reached into his pouch and produced a tiny sheet of black paper. Several small scraps had been haphazardly torn off of it. "Taken orally, quick onset, long duration, excellent emotional clarity. One of my favorites. You'll forget all about your master's inidiscretions, I would wager. Do be careful not to take too much, or you might descend into ego-death. Nasty business."

..."And. Don't. Forget. To bring it back in one piece."

Valarauka was just walking back from his business when the master said these words, and he took this opportunity to interpose himself once again into the mix.

"No plan survives contact with the enemy, Lykrettil'an, but our plan was to ride back into Commorragh with our skins in one piece. If you trust in nothing else, trust in our spite for death. If you can't do that, then feel free to sit here and worry. Let's mount up!" Valarauka shouted the last 'command', and swung himself easily on to aft deck of the craft. It felt good to be back in a raiding vessel. He pulled out the first map and began committing it to memory. If the plan really did go south, he would need every edge he could get. He smiled to himself. Two powerful pistols was certainly a good start...

'An elegant, beautifully crafted raiding vessel under my control; a quick roll on a raiding table and didn't need to spend a chit to do it? Damn!' It was a good day to be Kayle, and the smug look on her face was so sharp it could skin the feathers of Razorwing like it was a hatchling.

Running a hand through her hair as Lykrettil'an zipped up her flight suit, enjoying the last glimpses of flesh before she hoped onto the Raider, she would need to keep him in her list of contacts, between his fine mechanical craftsmanship to more carnial needs he was an interesting find, to say the least.

Lykrettil'an's concern over the raider was cute, so childish it almost made Kayle laugh but instead of laughing at him she waved him off. Taking her position at the pilot's chair, she ran a last check up of systems, "Ok the grav engines roaring beautifully, steering controls perfectly tuned and everything is ready" she murmured to herself while waiting for the others to finish up. Clearly, many of the boys wanted to be the one in the big boy breaches, between the Kabalites' poor attempts at command, to the earlier comments of the Incubus, but this didn't matter to Kayle...afterall she's the one flying the ship.

As they took off, the roar of the engines like music to her ears as she directed the Raider out of the dockspur and searing across the sky over the shadowed streets below, lit by garish pulses of green and purple light of their pleasurable nightmare that is Commoragh. Leading the party to the webway gate at Qillasia'n Crossing, Kayle did a final look over at each of her fellow Commorites, wondering if anyone had anything else to do before they left,'Oh well, too late now boys... she thought as they edged closer.

Finally at the gate, Kayle had the Raider hover infront of the gate for a few moments, taking in the eternal beauty of the webway, this had to be one of the always wonderous beauty's of the ever changing city. Before any lingering sentiments reached out Kayle roared as she flickered the controls and kicked the roar of the engine up, sending the Raider into the webway. "You may want to grab hold of something boys!"

The next handful of hours were a silent and rather uneventful time for the Wrack. Despite all his desire to do so and the utter overwhelming temptation to do so, Excision stayed his hand from the young female mechanic and she would live to be turned into a piece of artwork for another day. Ohwell, something's were simply not meant to be, yes?

Despite their childish attempts to assume command, Excision had all but ignored their words. They had neither earned his respect nor his loyalty as the Dracon had so he simply followed his gut... Or his lust, whichever suits your fancy to assume. He would only step upon the Raider after Kayle had done so. Perhaps it was because she was an attractive female or perhaps it was because she was probably the only one of them bloody competent enough to pilot a craft and not crash before they even make it to their destination. No matter the cause, he stepped barefoot upon the gold dark metal decking and promptly seated him upon the ground with his back pressed against the Mast pole. He was no expert gunman nor was he any good at piloting a craft... So for now he would sit and wait, biding his time and meditating the time away to stop him from flaying one of his 'comrades' while they still yet breathed.

As Kayle piloted the Raider across the wilderness of the Commorraghan inner city, Excision sat with his back to the central post, the reassuring solidity helping to ground the Wrack as he fought down the urge to peel, shred, flense and skin his way to serenity. Not yet, not now ... but soon.

Caethir stood at the prow, silently communing with the nature of the war-craft, feeling the sense of purpose unleashed start to surge through every spar and plate. Daranúr spared a glance for the tall Incubus before walking to be casually somewhat closer to the bridge. It seemed that someone had ideas about taking command of the vessel, and that, so far as Daranúr was concerned, was someone who needed a little closer observation. And so three warriors watched each other, corner-eyed, like cats without a mouse.

On the bridge of the sleek craft, Valarauka familiarised himself with his new acquisitions. Sighting down the barrel of the blast pistol, it was plain that whatever else the dissolute mechanic might be, Lykrettil'an was a consummate weaponsmith. The tall mercenary put away his new toys and consulted the map. Someone, at least, should know where they were going on the Lady Dracon's business.

The Raider was a shiny craft, sleek and spectacularly fast, and Chy'ier found that by hanging from one of the struts just so the rushing wind made him feel exactly like he was flying. The rushing breeze was quite exhilarating. Not only that, but there were a number of tempting new control options that the nice lady couldn't possibly manage all by herself ...

The webway itself was a fluid, multifaceted jewel of an artifact from ancient times, changeable as a Lhamaean's promise but likewise, to those approaching it in the correct spirit, something finite and knowable. At least for a time.

Kayle had no intention of letting anything so prosaic dictate her mood. She took the Qillasia'n Crossing gate at a steep angle, the vanes on the Raider screaming in the slipstream as she banked the craft, the portal activating slowly - possibly too slowly ... Exacting Vengeance looped through the gate in a swooping turn and neatly just kissed the underside of the wraithbone arch, psychic sparks arcing and crackling as someone whooped a war-cry. Through the gate loomed the bulk of a huge Commorrite warship, the black, spined and vaned hull a predatory guardian to the webway tunnel too imposing a bulk to ignore. Kayle did so anyway, threading a near-suicidal course along the back of the ship until she could branch off to one of the many smaller tunnels intersecting with the nexus. Laser fire followed the Raider, but the branch was too tight for more than a couple of long shots at the departing hull. Grinning to herself, having tested some of the transport's parameters, she settled in for a longer flight.

"Take a left here ..." Confidently, Valarauka began to direct the pilot to follow the map.


After some few hours, the flight had become somewhat routine. The webway flashed past, for the most part a pearly grey, limpid smoke-walls almost transparent enough to tempt a closer look were they not speeding by so quickly. A dull sort of journey, quiet. It was almost a surprise, therefore, to notice the smell.

Caethir's sharp senses noticed it first: a faint scent of the charnel reek of spilled blood gone sour, the first traces of smoke. As the Raider closed in the twisting tunnel, both Daranúr and the Incubus could make out the sharp smell of burned out plasma weapons. A little closer, and Excision and Chy'ier could smell burned flesh. Valarauka and Kayle, navigator and pilot respectively, could catch the scents too but they had other concerns.

Rounding the loop, an alarming site presented itself - not the shattered, twisted heap of metal that signified a stiff fight, the wreckage of at least one other Raider and a couple of small Venom class craft - such are the trials of war. But above these, pulsing, bruised and angry in shades of purple and yellow-red, the webway wall itself protruded like intestines through a slit abdomen, writhing, stretching as if the barely-contained warp would spill into the Labyrinth Dimension. The way on to the Dracon's promise of riches lay past the wreck - it would be passable, with sufficient care and skill, provided that the wall remained intact for long enough ...

Sudden movement from one of the downed Venoms alerted Chy'ier and Caethir to the presence of at least one survivor in the same moment. One of the plates of the destroyed craft shifted, tumbling down and taking a broken spar with it. A pale hand grasped vainly at the side of the vessel, weakly at first, then with more purpose.



Extra Info:

Caethir: You can see one survivor in the wreckage trying to climb out of the first Venom, Simple evaluation: male, wounded, close to auxilliary gunport, said gun either inoperable or likely to fire once and explode. No other signs of life except - possibly - one more under the bulk of the downed Raider. Possibility of salvaging some weapons and the second Venom - likely, given an hour or so, but may be superfluous to the mission.

Chy'ier: There's a body under the Raider that's still moving. You could murder a bacon sandwich. Oh, and someone is trying to climb out of the Venom. And it looks like the webway is about to redesign itself. Shouldn't be long. Five, ten minutes tops, that's if anything else explodes. If not ... could be half an hour.

Valarauka: You managed to get some Darklight goggles but no extra vials for the stinger pistol.

Everyone: You are about halfway through the anticipated journey time for your arrival at your primary objective. Although there are colours on the downed craft, it is hard to make out what they are due to the damage, but bears some resemblance to a stylised Eldar head, horned and silhouetted against a red moon.

Chy’ier was enjoying what his new friends called ‘The Webway’ the colors alone made his mind wonder about what else was outside the city. Combined with the natural sway of the raider and the impressive speeds that moved thus far in his journey, Chy’ier had this feeling rising from deep inside him. Something new and exhilarating, something that would change his life forever. Majestically Chy’ier raised his arms and tilted his head back to embrace this new feeling rising inside of him. Combined with the movements of the raider the feelings and movements combined into a perfect symphony inside him.

“BUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSHHHH” was the only sound that Chy’ier produced as he vomited up and out and then down into the wind. Momentarily Chy’ier reminisced on the tastes that he just encountered, the sweet cake things the angry Dracon lady had… some drink… that cooked biker. "mmmmmmm"

After cleaning himself off with a rag that he had produced from his kit, Chy’ier got the scent of cooked flesh, causing his mouth to water. Upon seeing the situation that is to come Chy’ier grabs his rifle and checks his blade, “Pawn one, pawn two scurrying about, shall we get a snack before the puzzle realigns? “ he said to the incubi that stood close by.

"Beautiful" Caethir muttered to himself. The Webway always fascinated Caethir. He stood at the bow of the ship, staring into the swirl of colors that protected them from the horrors of the Warp. He always felt a calming while staring into the abyss, as if the gods themselves were still alive, watching over their own. Sadly they were not, and the Webway was just a husk of its former self, barely substained by those that cower in it for protection.

The Youngling was also at the bow of the ship, staring at awe of the colors. This must of been his first trip outside of Commorragh, as he swayed too and forth from the banister ever since they hit the portal. His joyful enthusiasm brought a smirk to Caethir's normally stoic face. Luckily behind the mask no one could see his sign of weakness.

The others were about. The Wrack stood at the middle of the raider, most likely in some sort of trace his type favored. The Pilot and the Sly One were at the stern, controlling the raider. The Mercenary was stalking about, mostly keeping an eye on the Sly One. Caethir cared not for these political games, only in battle will the true leader come to the foreground.

The raider rolled into another tunnel, and Caethir's body compensated. The Pilot wasnt half bad, if not alittle too bumpy for Caethir's taste. It seemed the Pilot didnt agree with the Youngling either, as he threw up over the side of the raider. Caethir softly chuckled. It seemed there were many hard lessons before the Youngling, and his raiding legs would have to be one of the first.

Then the smell of battle caught caethir by surpise. While conflict in the webway was rare due to its fragile nature, it was not unheard of. The group should not take any chances of getting caught by the crossfire of some random kabal or gang war. Caethir turned around and yelled to the Pilot, "Reaver, there was a battle ahead. We do not want to take any extra risks. Slowly approach."

As the battle site came into view, Caethir could see the wreckage of several vehicles from some unknown source. The most striking thing was the Webway itself. It looked sickly and injured, like a creature writhing in pain during its death spasms. It would not be long before the Webway shifted, or worse, collapsed. They had to quickly get through the wrecks, before anything unwanted came through the tears.

Then a shift in the wreckage caught his attention. Caethir saw a hand reach out, struggling to pull itself free. The survivor was near one of the venom's splinter cannons. Although the weapon looked badly damaged and the raider would be immune from the small arms fire, Caethir could not take the chance of it hitting their ownly pilot. The bulk of the raider could also hide scavengers waiting to ambush whoever first stumbled apon the site. The wreckage was manageable to get around with care, but that would leave the scavengers time to assault the raider. The group needed boots on the ground, and fast.

"Pawn one, pawn two scurrying about, shall we get a snack before the puzzle realigns?" The Youngling spoke while checking his weapons. He seemed eager for battle. Something that would get him killed if he was not careful.

"Not yet Young One, we approach this carefully. It may be a trap."

"Reaver, slowly make your way through the wreckage. The Wrack and I will clear it of any survivors and move some of the wreckage for you. Mercenary, I want you on the Lance. Try not to hit anything explosive, this tunnel is weak enough. You two," Caethir pointed to the Sly One and the Youngling, "provide overwatch. This place reeks of an ambush site."

Without even time for acknowledgements from the group, Caethir lept off the craft and began to cautiously walk to the survivor trying to claw his way free from the wrecked venom. If this was not an ambush, then the survivor would provide some infomation on what transpired here. If it was, well Caethir guessed it was time to see if this ragtag group could handle its first battle.

"Not yet Young One, we approach this carefully. It may be a trap."

"There are many ways to catch rodents. Some easier than others" Chy'ier said as he clicked the clicked the safety off, on, off, on, off, on... and finally off again and shouldered his weapon.

If it weren’t for her skills as a pilot Daranúir would have run her through.
If it weren’t for the fact that he had the charisma of a street merchant he would have run Valaruka through.
If it weren’t for the fact that he had just excreted his innards over himself Daranúir would have tasted Chy’ier’s pain.
No, he could not. They were all valuable allies. He was just soul hungry. He had a tendency to do… ‘foolish’ things when lusting for the agony of others and now the Incubus had told him to man a Dark Lance.

The scent of war was clear to him. He had been born into it, forged in its flames and tempered into a sharp edge by its constant grind. It was all so familiar to him, so nostalgic!
The bitter taste of blood in the air, the choking scent of smoke… shedding blood from his own lip was all that he could do not to break out in a counterproductive display of violence.
He grinned to himself, a heart full of murderous intent and aligned the forms of his comrades in the sight of his weapon.
This can only end well. He whispered to himself, leaving the others unaware of his scheming.
He was not stupid, however. He knew that others might be feeling similar sensations and so kept his senses behind him, waiting for anybody to sneak up on him.

'Definitely worth it', Kayle internally praising herself as the ship fluidly followed her guiding hands beautifully and grinned, 'Maybe I should borrow this ship more often, it would be such a shame if I didn't'.

As the buzz from the small laser fire fizzled out she settled in for a long flight, occassionally taking direction from the one Kabalite holding the Dracon's map. The webway was both a beautiful and tempting place, like the subtile moves of a Lahamaen and just as deadly, though at the speed that Exacting Vengance was travelling the venomous temptation was of little effect to Kayle, enough experiences seeing her father putting his slithering hands around a few with feign interest in him can do that to a girl.

However, the memories of her father's trysts were interuptted by the combination of smoke and blood, clearly something must of happened she thought. Not a moment later, the Incubus affirmed her suspections, "Reaver, there was a battle ahead. We do not want to take any extra risks. Slowly approach."

"I got it, I got it", she replied briskly as she flickered with the buttons on the control panel. Kayle began to reign in the speed of Exacting Vengance as they flew closer in order determine what had happened here.

As they approached, Kayle could make out the heap that were other Raiders and Venoms scattered and damaged, 'Clearly this is going to be trouble', before the Incubus started ordering her some more..."Reaver, slowly make your way through the wreckage. The Wrack and I will clear it of any survivors and move some of the wreckage for you."

....if this is what he's like when giving orders, Kayle mused, what must he be like during 'other activities'. However, at the moment she had to put pleasure on the backburner and wait and see what happens as she continued the slow pace, careful to watch everything around her as she saw the Incubus take lead and jump ship.

"So lets see what you've all got, especially you my little Incubus" she murmured to herself, curiousity and intrigue woven into a smile.

Caethir was the first to take charge of the situation, analysing the situation in a heartbeat, a credit to his Shrine. He raised a cautionary hand as Chy'ier went to drop over the side of the Raider, gun ready.

"Not yet Young One, we approach this carefully. It may be a trap."

"There are many ways to catch rodents. Some easier than others." Chy'ier might be young, but no-one survives for long in the Dark City without a sense of watchful paranoia unless they are blessed by Cegorach. He clicked his gun on, off, off ... on, off. Safety features are for the well, safe. It clearly wasn't safe here, so best be ready to play rat-catcher. But equally it wouldn't go down well if he shot someone who might get angry about it and live.

There's going to be more trouble for him than he's looking for, Em'eyeth murmured in Chy'ier's ear, nothing like what you'd get if it goes and we all drown, but trouble. Watch your shadow. Chy.

"Reaver, slowly make your way through the wreckage. The Wrack and I will clear it of any survivors and move some of the wreckage for you. Mercenary, I want you on the Lance. Try not to hit anything explosive, this tunnel is weak enough. You two," Caethir continued, pointing to Valarauka and then Chy'ier, "provide overwatch. This place reeks of an ambush site." Valarauka nodded his lordly assent, content it seemed to stay beside the pilot and let others get their hands dirty. After all, as the only pilot Kayle would need protection, and he was the man to do that, as well armed as he now was. No sense in compounding risk with risk.

Daranúr was happy to take charge of the darklance, his instincts humming with the urge for battle and bloodshed - and if his companions had been a little more informed as to whose, the relatively united front presented in the face of the new threat might have been more than a little endangered. But he mastered the desire, reminding himself of the usefulness of them all for achieving his aims. Sighting up on the wreck and merely 'incidentally' on those of the little group who happened to stand in his sights, he kept his attention divided between the ship and the wreckage below.

Excision stirred himself from his trance, the idle images of precise and elegant killing that had been soothing him replaced by a more familiar tone - firmly issued orders. Accustomed to obedience, the Wrack positioned himself next to Caethir, ready to disembark and wreak mayhem among the survivors if need be. As he did so, he caught a slight scent, the merest trace of the Lady Dracon's perfume lingering, perhaps from where she had lightly caressed the mask he wore - no, it had to come of course from the blade she had given him, the little jewelled knife from her elaborately styled hair. He withdrew the tiny weapon from his gnarled back and placed it with careful reverence in his one remaining unaltered hand. His first kill would be in his Lady's name.

The tall Incubus led the way, followed obediently by Excision. Both Ynneas Eladrith had their expressions hidden by masks, both out of tradition yet with radical differences why. Such are the paradoxes of the Dark City. However, they were united in their approach to a threat.

Caethir stalked forward, his klaive held ready, and leapt nimbly up over the scattered field of debris to where the first survivor was weakly trying to push it aside. He directed the Wrack towards the other sign of life.

Behind the main assault team, Kayle smiled to herself. It was all working out rather nicely. She'd guided the vessel surely towards the chokepoint, a steady hand at the tiller, nudging it slowly to a hovering stop with a short distance still to go. She could appreciate the commanding battle-style of the Incubus, but more than this she was curious to see him fight. Such a powerful individual ought to be quite a sight to see. She was careful not to spend too much time and attention on watching his muscular form, but a little never hurt ... of course, suitable assessment of one's allies' fighting skill was more than mere indulgence, it was a necessity. A tall, lithe, athletic necessity.

With a shift and a slight groan of pain, the figure struggling clear of the downed Venom heaved the covering spar free and hauled himself out onto the sloping fairing, falling bonelessly forward for a moment, gasping in breath. He was a battered, armoured Kabalite, long dark hair tied back the better to fit into the helm he held loosely in one hand, blood trickling from a shallow cut just behind one ear. Pale of skin, and with the refined features of a Trueborn, he favoured his other arm, which looked as if it had been broken in the crash. Several guns trained unerringly on his head, in Daranúr's case just happening to take the Incubus into the general shot. More immediately a concern, however, was the ritual sword poised to strike. The sometime pilot looked up.

As his shoulders slumped with a grimace of pain and resignation at the looming Incubus, he opened his mouth to speak, and vanished back into the wreckage as if pulled by an invisible hand.

On the other approach to the wreck, Excision had reached the tumbled and burned Raider, the once proud colours with their stylised Eldar face and moon now tattered and fluttering in the fitful air from a broken exhaust vent. He kept his liquifier gun ready, using one of the black arms gifted to him by his former master to shift the wreckage aside with attentive care. Somewhere in here was a prize worth killing.

One last heave and he wrenched a section of canopy free, only to come upon a macabre sight. Inside the space thus freed lay the twisted body of a Tubeborn Kabalite, but it was missing an arm. Not unusual in a wreck, nor any great shock to the Wrack; but the arm in question was in the shadowblack hands of a Mandrake, methodically divesting it of its skin with great attention to detail. It looked up and hissed at the Wrack, bringing up its sickle-blade in a curiously territorial gesture.

The Incubus' sharp eyes caught the movement - at the same time as his comrade in arms made his discovery - from inside the wrecked Venom fuselage, the sudden cry from its pilot as he was dragged backwards stifled by the rushing form of a diving Mandrake, its white hair stark against the darkness. It would be easy now to strike down into the confined space and perhaps skewer both, but that would limit options for interrogation. Frost limned the twisted metal as the shadow-spawned creature attacked its prey.

Sensing something just before it occurs is a survival trait in a pilot and mercenary alike, and both Kayle and Daranúr could feel the pinprick of the fine hairs rising on their skin. The air seemed to drop in temperature like the moment when an Archon opens a personal invitation from the Supreme Overlord, the corresponding sense of dread curiously unseated for the briefest while. Then, stepping out of the shadow of the Raider's gun emplacement, flowing upwards towards the pilot's seat in the almost liquid way of moving the Creepers have, a tall, silver-haired figure appeared a step or two behind them as they glanced back, faceless except for a grinning mouth.


Extra Info:

Excision: You have found a Mandrake sitting in its makeshift cubby-hole getting, perhaps, the raw material of a new pair of pants. It has one sickle-blade in evidence, but no missile weapons.

Caethir: You have one survivor in the wreckage in a narrow space about the size of the inside of a small car; however, it is also quite full of rampaging Mandrake. You may consider this a bonus or not.

Daranúr and Kayle: Mandrake on the bridge. Again, you can see one archaic-looking curved sword and no missile weapons. It is about six feet away from you, giving you one shot before it is in melee with you if you decide to attack. For obvious reasons, it is not possible to bring a darklance to bear down the length of its own Raider so that is not an option.

Valarauka and Chy'ier: There's a Mandrake next to your pilot and gunner. If you want to you'll get one clear shot before it closes should they fight. Excision has also found one in the downed Raider. Caethir has cornered one or more someones in the wrecked Venom.

General: The webway wall is still pulsing and shifting, but has yet to expand or contract.

Mandrakes?....

If he was to be honest with himself, the youth had always had a fascination for the wraith-kin. Their twisted oil bodies, the coruscating bale fire, their shifting empty visage.... It was beautiful in its own way, abstract and ever-changing art that writhed in and out of alignment with the image of the perfect form, an Eldar's form. For a moment he was tempted to crouch down and enjoy the creature's company for but a short while... But he was no fool. Territorial creatures as they are, Mandrakes would not take kindly to their presence on their hunting ground. Such was their way.

It was this respect and love for such a creature that the liquefier gun retracted back into his arm of obsidian metal, a whir of complex mechanisms and winding gears before the weapon and the containment cells of glowing green toxins sheathed back into their housing and covered once more by black carapace. The creature bore no weapons of ranged combat so neither would he. It was a strange concept to believe a creature so twisted and debased such as a Wrack would have anything in the way of 'honor' but to a child of the flesh weavers, death and pain in all things was an art form and there was indeed a measure of civility to be had.

The wreckage flung to the side casually in the Wrack's hand, freeing the Mandrake from his little sanctuary and leaving the space open for the two. With that, the Wrack took only two steps back to give them more space between them. In one, unaugmented hand, he held his lady's blade, the unremarkable weapon that held such a wealth of significance twisting effortlessly in his palm into an overhand grip for stabbing or overchest strikes. In his other hand, he held the twisted hand-scythe, a weapon so eerily similar to the sickle carried by his adversary that it was almost amusing. The Wrack said nothing to his opponent as no words were necessary for such a time, only a soft rolling purr that rose from the pits of his mutilated and reformed throat. Oh he was going to enjoy this. . . .

There's going to be more trouble for him than he's looking for, Em'eyeth murmured in Chy'ier's ear, nothing like what you'd get if it goes and we all drown, but trouble. Watch your shadow. Chy.

"Shadows? Here?!"

Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck, Chy'ier turned from looking at the wreckage and spotted the mandrake on the raider. Without a second thought Chy'ier opened up on the shadow before it can approach the pretty lady pilot, while also positioning his back to the open air of the side of the raider.

"Its always the aggressive rats that fall for the trap." Chy'ier said to Valaruka.

An eerie chill ran through her veins as she felt the air freeze up around her, which made her shot up straight out of her seat with the smallest amount of fear playing on her mind. The fear playing on her mind was rightfully so, as she eyed up the enterance of the Mandrake upon Exacting Vengance, one of the many monsters High Commorite mothers would tell their children about, adding to the fear and survival instincts ingrained into Commorites.

Instinct....her instincts had Kayle quickly pulled out two of her duelling daggers while taking a fraction of a moment to observe her foe. Flickering the controls to hold the ship in place, she moved fluidly, looking for any signs which would help her against this creeper and to calm the stinging pins of fear in her mind, which she had to admit she couldn't place.

However, from the side of her eye caught something...in an instant she saw the tubeborn twitcher open fire at the Mandrake, which would be helpful in determining how good this Mandrake would fair in fight.

"We've got company!"

The Warrior struggled to pull himself from the twisted wreckage. His banged up armor showed no noticable signs of his Kabal or his rank, but the arua he gave off was that of a highborn, even in his exausted state. His head was bleeding a fair amount, and his left arm looked broken in several places. The Incubus stood over the sullen kabalite, who eyes had a defeated look apon them. Caethir took much joy at how the normal masses looked when they glanced apon an Incubi. Their defeated atitude made interrogation and intimidation so much easier.

"What happened here. Speak before your broken arm is the only arm you have!"

"We-" And then the Trueborn was pulled back into the wreckage with a scream. Caethir quickly flipped the piece of metal the trueborn had just freed himself from. The wreckage had formed sort of a enclosed pocket around the ground about 6ft tall and 5 feet across. On the ground laid the trueborn, kicking and screaming, while a shadowy presence pulled itself ontop of the warrior.

"Mandrakes" Caethir uttered to himself. Without hesitation he lept down into the hole, kicking the mandrake off the trueborn. They needed this one alive for infomation, and infomation is what they needed.

The trueborn curled up in a corner of the wreckage, and Caethir stepped in between him and the learing thing that was kicked into the wall. The make-shift room was too small for fighting normally. Caethir could barely stand upright in the enclosure. He would have to finish this quickly.

"Come on Daemonspawn, show me the strength of your miss-be-gotten kind." Caethir dropped into the Trahves-U-Graul stance. This stance uses the Klaive as a sharp barrier between the Incubus and his agressor. It is a defensive stance normally used in confined spaces where the Klaive would normally be hard to use. It quickly becomes offensive with series of jabs and sweep kicks when the oppotunity arises. The final blow comes from the Incubus bringing the full blade of the Klaive apon his opponent by either pinning him against a wall or dropping onto a prone target.

A smirk came across Caethir's face underneath his mask "I hope you are worth the trouble Trueborn, or else I will finish you off myself" The cackling Mandrake threw itself at the staunt Incubus, and Caethir braced for the impact.

"Finally a battle."

Daranúr knew it would be ... practical ... to take the shot as soon as there was a hint of an enemy, but it would also deprive the group of a useful tactician. So he held fire as the Incubus sprang into the attack, the darklance powering up, humming gently like a nest of cadaver bees, keeping it trained and ready to take on any opponents - if he could just get that elusive clear shot. In any case, Caethir seemed to want to keep one of the wreck's crewmen for the purposes of questioning. A small smile began to form on the warrior's face. If one wishes to know answers in Commorragh, the questioning sessions themselves often have a certain almost delicate bloom of violence and pain, a fine confection of suffering for the senses. Unless one's captive shows an unsporting lack of willingness to resist.

Keeping his somewhat possessive hold on the darklance, Daranúr leaned back and watched the Mandrake on board the Exacting Vengeance approach the pilot and her twitchy bodyguard. If they needed him, of course he would be ready, but ... well, one cannot simply abandon the long-distance weapon when more enemies could come at any moment, With a firm (and light-bathed) stanchion at his back, he studied the swiftly-moving Creeper and his new friends. This should be diverting.

Almost before Kayle could react to the nameless fear the Mandrake seemed to wear like a tattered shroud, she knew there would trouble. Close-up, knife trouble. Her fine blades slid smoothly into her hands as, with a predatory grace, she leapt up from her pilot's seat and into a ready stance. Half of the battle - or rather more, often enough, in the posturing and jockeying for position one finds among the street gags and Hellion swarms - is in the way one carries oneself, after all, exuding confidence that this is a battle one cannot possibly lose. She pushed down her fear and took up a battle-stance.

It was poetic, and deadly, and carried just the merest edge of supremely assured sexuality. Perfect arena material-

Chy'ier blasted a shot across the Mandrake as it slithered towards the command seat, his splinter rifle studding the black skin with a hail of tiny poisoned slivers. The Mandrake screamed, an unearthly cry that rang in the ears and froze the blood. Green warpfire oozed out from the pinprick wounds, and the Mandrake arched convulsively, shuddering at the wracking pain that raced through its semisolid form. In a last, shivering, eerie convulsion, it seemed to dissolve back into the darkness. A few black, sticky droplets pattered across the deck, and a single, ravaged claw, dark, oily and rimed with frost.


On the ground, Excision's courteous standoff with the Mandrake gathering its new raw materials began with a courtly grace. Respect for other technicians of the fleshcrafting ways was something the Wrack could respect. From its compartment, the Mandrake tilted its head, studying the newcomer as if curious in its turn. Fleetingly, the truce between the two seemed as if it would bear fruit. With a wide smile from its black lips, the Mandrake held out the partially-skinned arm to the Wrack, much as one ganger might offer a pull on a lho stick to another.

But the grim humour of the Shadowkind is as fleeting as an Archon's sincerity, and the Creeper dropped the trophy in the next instant, its face now showing only two narrow eyes, as it sprang out of the wreck and onto Excision in a curious, four-limbed embrace, its taloned bare feet scraping along the Wrack's gnarled hide. Its empty hand looped around the back of his neck, almost as if it would draw him in for a kiss. The other held the sickle-blade, drawing a shallow sparking runnel along one of Excision's additional arms. It was freezing, the icy touch alone would be paralysing for a lesser opponent, but the Wrack had other plans.

Already blocking the flesh-reaping sickle with his upper arm, Excision seized hold of the clutching Creeper and wrenched it back, his muscular arms easily breaking its grip. Clawed toes scrabbled for purchase and found none. The Mandrake hissed, flailing at the Wrack ineffectually and snapping a suddenly wide mouth. Excision responded by reaching forward and, with an almost delicate precision, slid his Lady's knife down the muscular black torso. The Mandrake's scream was of unearthly beauty, the sweetly hypnotic trace of black blood flowing between the green, forbidden sigils scenting the air with a scintillating agony. Excision's rumbling purr deepened, and he raised the blade once more.


"I hope you are worth the trouble Trueborn, or else I will finish you off myself" Back at the other side of the wreck, Caethir's decisive actions had brought him into immediate combat with the second hidden Mandrake. Wrenching aside the shattered metal, he exposed the feeding Shadow-Crawler like an Ur-Ghul seeking out prey, unerringly heaving the oily black Shifter off the battered Trueborn with a powerful twist of his armoured torso.

"Come on Daemonspawn, show me the strength of your miss-be-gotten kind." Instantly assessing the tight space, Caethir chose the efficient Trahves-U-Graul stance, setting his Klaive up as a defensive edge. "I hope you are worth the trouble Trueborn, or else I will finish you off myself" Shivering, bleeding, and just shaking off what looked like some kind of pain-induced seizure, the Trueborn spat out a mouthful of blood and staggered to his feet, crouching back as far as he could to give the Incubus room to fight. He obviously wanted to get clear into the light, but there was no time. With a snarl of mad laughter, the Mandrake flung itself at the tall Incubus.

A smirk came across Caethir's face underneath his mask as he braced for impact. "Finally a battle."

He swept the Klaive forward in a two-handed grip, and the leaping Mandrake seemed two flow around the blade. For a moment, it was almost as if the Shadow-Haunter was both in the material world, a shrieking whirlwind of claws and teeth, and safe in whatever hellspawned nightmare realm it called home. But only for a moment.

Incubi do not feel fear as mere street brawlers know it. Having bested one of the unflinching, Khaine-blessed Aspect Warriors in single combat merely to earn the name Incubus, every Shrine-Swordsman knows how to master and use it, and the terrors of the dark do not shake them easily. Caethir sidestepped, letting the Mandrake come in close under his guard. The feint drew the cackling semidaemon in, and the Incubus lunged backwards with the pommel-spike of the fearsome two-metre blade. The Mandrake's laughter turned to a hiss of rage. Flowing back out, faster than it should by rights have moved, it leapt upwards, swinging from the top of the ravaged compartment to kick at Caethir's head. A sideways twist of his horned helm brought it more pain as a deep cut scored the length of its calf.

Anger is an energy. Suffering is a necessity, But pain - pain is a tool. The Mandrake was full of soul-stuff, brimming with the sweet essence of sustaining energy that its kind take from their victims, and it howled out its ecstatic agony, throwing back its eyeless head and unleashing green warpfire from its taloned claws.


Back on board the Exacting Vengeance, Valarauka recovered some of his poise as the Mandrake's blood spattered the deck. Turning to face the combat below as if watching an arena performance, he kept a hand ostentatiously on his gun as if in readiness, nodding to Chy'ier and Kayle as he did so. "Nicely handled," he said, as smoothly as he could manage.


Extra Info:

Excision: You are in close combat with the Mandrake, which is twisting to try to break free and is bleeding from a shallow chest cut. You have yet to take any damage.

Chy'ier, Kayle, Daranúr and Valarauka: The deck is now empty of Mandrake. Of course, shadows are everywhere ...

Caethir: The Trueborn is behind you, alive but battered. The Mandrake is in front of you, wounded but unleashing a balefire blast in your direction.

General: One Mandrake gone from the Raider, which is clear. None of those on board can spot any more incoming. There is one in Excision's grip, trying to break free and eat his face or whatever it is Mandrakes do to opponents they respect. And there is one in close combat with your Incubus. Those above on the Raider can just see into the cramped compartment, but it is obscured, partly by Caethir himself. An eerie green light has just blazed up from below.

Oh the familiar places....

The purr rolled in the back of the youth's throat like Malicent Feline pawing at its fresh prey before the vicious and bloody feast. The world around him almost seemed to blacken and fade around him, his vision becoming clear, yet narrow. All his thought, all his attention was focused on the writhing Wraithkin locked within his Iron grip. The four limbs protruding from his back seemed to move in sync, twitching and jerking like some twisted arachnid orchestral design. His two, metal clawed hands reached out and grasped ahold of the Mandrake's wrists, stretching his arms out wide and digging those black metal talons into the obsidian flesh. His right I unaugmented hand kept a nice firm hold on the Mandrake's throat, letting, his filed fingernails grace the tender flesh but little else. With these three hands, he pinned the black-kin against the hull of one of the wreckage, Christening the creature's body to leave him helpless against the Youth's. . . . Designs.

He had cut a Mandrake open before, once at the beckon of his former Master. It was not a live specimen unfortunately but at least he bore a small semblance of understanding into the working of such beautiful creatures. They were not that different from any other Eldar. A unique material composition that produced an unnaturally strong bone structure, a fascinating connection between the epidermus and the warp-tainted bloodstream creating the swirling green patterns across their skin. So interesting, some beautiful... And yet still a complete mystery... This one was far from dead though, still twisting in his arms.... The working conditions were obviously sub-par and there was no doubt that his 'associates' would stress him for time but... They could wait... To think of the knowledge that could be gathered from such an experiment.... To think of the exquisite pain he could inflict....

The first incision was made directly where he had first cut the mandrake, a long precise line down the torso with horizontal slices at each end. The housing mechanisms in his spinal rig began to open small ports, revealing several long thin mandables like a spider's thorax. These were fairly harmless appendages not worth much note, merely tools to help in the manual labor. Four of the mandables posted the corners of the cut flesh, splaying out his skin like Razorcrow's wings. That same tainted black blood began to ooze and dribble down the 'subject's' torso but that was all to be expected of course. It was nothing serious... Yet. Revealing the taunt sinew of muscle beneath, the youth began to slowly fillet each piece in separate and neat order before peeling them back to bring to view that unadulterated ribcage. The purr only grow louder and louder as he worked, the Wrack twisting his lady's knife around and cleaning it on his tabard before sheathing it back within a sag of gnarlflesh. Then, his newly freed hand began to fumble at his belt, halting only to tighten around a familiar handle and unsheathe his bonesaw. Oh it would take quite a while for the saw to cut through the particularly tough bones but bones were still bones and they would yield soon enough.... He began to slowly draw the jagged blade back and forth across the bones, humming a little tune as he did so.

This was going to be so much Fun. . . . . . . .

Valarauka's head jerked and he blinked rapidly. This seemingly chance encounter had escalated beyond his ability to react to it too quickly...no, that he had been unable to follow the action perfectly was unnacceptable. With dawning horror he frantically tried to piece together the past few hours as he struggled to assess the current situation. He had not slept since....when? The fall of his Kabal? How much time had passed? His body must be beyond its limits, and without noticing his mind had put him in a waking delusion. Normally that sort of experience would make for a nice evening, but on a raid it could only lead him to a dream from which he could not awaken, a stroll in the half-lit paradise of the Dark Prince...

Without any more hesitation, Valarauka drew a small blade and as discreetly as he could, slipped it between the plates of his armor to slash his own thigh. The scent of his own blood was never pleasant, but the bittersweet pain cleared his brain fog. He could gauge the appropriate dose of stims to use when his fighters were not in danger.

"Nicely handled." he said, drawing a splinter pistol with a flourish and aiming into the compartment without needing to sight. He noted with pleasure that his hand was steady "I would not deny an Incubus his duel, but we must move! Either kill it quickly out give me a clear shot!" Val had seen better Sybarites than he killed for sport when they had interferred too much with an Eldar's sport. Khaine only knows how a shrine warrior would react to such a slight.

Chy'ier checked his remaining ammo, "See! I didn't have to use THAT much" he said to an unknown and unseen entity next to him.

"What? No, if it comes to that we can leave them."

"Yes, i know it's not time to fiddle around. Of course they know that."

"No we shouldn't do that, I want the knife and we don't know how big the change will be."

"Oh him? I saw him do it too, he's just pissy because he's useless." he finished as he turned to watch the scene below.