High Speed and High Hopes in the City of Shadows.

High-speed and High Hopes in a City of Shadows

(youtube.com/watch?v=D_bE7u70K0c For your listening pleasure for this story opening, please copy and paste that youtube link. )


Time was slowed to crawl. The yellow-red explosions of sparks seemed to hang in the air, frozen, like drops of color suspended in liquid. The light was a blinding candescent explosion with each new layer of burning metal fragments that lit up the cloud of smoke that was all around her. Somewhere in the back of her mind a high pitched shriek of metal grating on metal echo’d painfully in a ear-piercing squeal but oddly the loudest thing was the slow laborious breathing that echo’d now in the fractured Reaver Helmet she wore. Korazell could only stare at the world which was tipped sideways, her breath fogging the inside of the protective headgear, making her smokey view of the outside world even less clear. Things whipped by her. Sharp spikes that stuck out like spears from buildings. Bundles of cable that coiled like snakes long dead from structure to structure seemed to try to rip her from her already perilous position. Yet, onward the dark eldar went at breakneck speed. She had no choice. Neither did her companion who would be seeing her down on her way to visit She Who Thirsts.

The Jet-bike under her bucked and shook, the engine gruttally growling as it fought to keep itself in the air like a mortally wounded animal too stubborn to lay down and die. Sparking, hissing, and smoking, the once beautifully sleek bladed craft looked as if someone had taken a few pot-shots at it with a void-lance, had taken it halfway apart for scrap, and finally took a flamer to the whole thing to put it out of it’s misery. No longer did it’s sleek raven feather black paint glimmer in the dark air. No longer did the bright silver blades, now reduced to one, glint and shimmer as she rode, no longer did the controls respond like the agile marvel it once was. It was a coffin. A flying, sparking, smoking coffin that just so happened to have a conjoined twin. In this moment before death she spared a look to her right to take in one last glimpse at her most hated and most recent enemy.

His name is Solthan Virth, soon to be “Was” Solthan Virth. Tall, even for an Eldar, he had that trim musculature common in Trueborn Kabalites. His rich black hair was neatly tied with a ornate bone clip in a loose pony-tail which allowed to let the free ends flutter in the breeze. Flawlessly smooth skin which accented his build without making him boney, a rich complexion that only enforced his beautiful arrogance. It didn’t hurt he had lovely lips, Korazell thought, full and so apt to show expression when he grinned. In the back of her mind she idly wanted to see that grin one last time before they finally hit something and exploded in no doubt a glorious fashion...but it was dismissed as her brain asked a more important question. Should have I said yes?




“You look nervous. Care for a drink perhaps, M’lady?” A satin voice pierced the sound-bank of voices all mingling with their small talk and shouting. It was luring enough that Korazell would peek her head up from her holo-text and meet the gaze of the speaker. Instead of a sneer which was her automatic response to such polite and obviously false sentiments was replaced with a slowly-growing smile.

“ A drink? Do I look like an idiot? I’m flattered, really, but how about you frak off?” she responded with almost sing-song amusement at the offer as her eyes roved over the male in a quick look over. She’s certainly been approached by far less striking looking suitors, that’s for sure. If she learned one thing it was not to trust food and drink from someone else in this place.

“ Not at all, just that you look nervous. You were gnawing at your lower lip a moment ago. I just wondered if you wanted something from the bar is all, no poison better then Lower-Commorragh moon-shine anyway if I really wanted you dead before the race.” He met her smile with a brilliant grin. Perfectly white teeth Korazell noticed. And he had all of them...not bad.

“ Pfeh. I always do that when I’m reading. And the answer is still no, I don’t drink.” Korazell’s right hand came up and waved slowly side to side as if trying to shoo away smoke. “ Trust me, I’m flattered that such a...enticing individual takes notice but I don’t believe in “chivalry”. Especially not here. What do you want?” Korazell’s eyes snuck in another run along his form...nothing wrong with window shopping as long as you were discreet, right?

“Ha-ha!” The male actually bent to stick his hands on his knees while he enjoyed a short bout of laughter, face shining with mirth as he eventually straightened out and flashed a grin that perhaps Vect would of approved of. Maybe. “ Smart. Really I just wanted to meet you. They say you’re the current up and comer and easy on the eyes...but I just wanted to make sure. As to what I want? I’ll be rather blunt. I want you to drop out of this race, this round, and maybe, just maybe, be waiting for me at the finish line...in something nice and barely there?”

Korazell had listened with one eyebrow raised as the man laughed at her comment and then straightened out to speak to her in an almost business like tone. A nod was given that she was the newer up and comer and she even took the compliment in stride with the air of someone going through a formality. However, as the true nature of her kin peeked through she realized this current handsome viper was really thinking more with his rattle then his head. She sat there for a moment, her second-skin racing attire gently creaking as the plaint-leather shifted along with her, then she spoke. “ The answer is the same as the offer for a drink. I think maybe you should be the one to sit out...after all snuffing out something so handsome always makes me feel a little dissapointed in the end. We done now?”

The figure across from her gave a deep sigh as if experiencing a unfathomable regret. His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug and that brilliant smile came back twisted with sarcastic pity. “ Ah...I tried. I feel the same way actually, which is why I felt I should extend the offer to you. A shame really. I think we’d look lovely under a pair of sheets. If you reconsider having yourself flung down into the streets below you can call for me. My name is Solthan Virth. And I suppose if I can’t lay you...I’ll slay you, to coin a cute phrase. Good luck.” ...And just like that he turned around and walked away without a care in the world. Korazell sat in her seat watching him leave...and finally she gave a little sigh and murmured something under her breath as she went back to reading her holo-novel. Something along the lines of “...Even nice from behind.”



Hours melted away as contestants for the race came in for the weeks Reaver death-race. Wyches were everywhere, the ones not in the gladitorum anyway, and even some kabalites had found it interesting enough to climb down from their lofty spires and watch this spectacle of jet-propelled daggers. Dozens of Reavers were humming in place near the startling line and out along the track their dark kin were setting up the spinning hover-blades and the deadly traps that plagued the race. Korazell weaved against the tide of people that flowed back and forth, picking her way through the crowded area until she reached the contestant line. There, she found her seat and after a brief check to make sure it wasn’t sabotaged, sat down and crossed a long leg across her other, hands folding and sitting in her lap. She was but a single rider in a line of thirty this evening, almost everyone was here and the other contestants sitting near her almost thrummed with anticipation and the urge to spill the blood of the one next to them in the glory of the “Elegant kill.”

The air around the seats was filled with low whispers, talk, threats, bickering, the pilots ready to straddle their screaming rockets of death and careen around the course provided to them while planning the best way to remove the next rider’s head. Korazell paid little heed to the verbal antics. Making personal grudges before a race never went well for anyone and she’d rather plan out the ways to take out her fellow jet-bikers in private and not in ear-shot. However, the seated hundreds of watchers loved this time. Up in the stands they were jeering and taunting their favorite rider, wagers were being made, and fights were breaking out here and there in small scuffles. In other words, the pre-race preparations were going smoothly and a good rowdy crowd always helped put food on her table...and slaves in her house.

While she was busy scanning the crowd and taking in their eager energy the announcer for the race today made their appearance. A syren from the cult of strife was here today, a male one of all things. The tight wych-suit he wore let him stalk up the steps to platform with the grace of a Khymerae. Measured steps all the way up to the podium where he spoke without the aid of a voice-magnifier. The muscled arms rose in the air above his head as his steely eyes commanded prescense. “ Silence!” The crowd almost seemed to explode in excitement at the command! The noise rose to a deafening clamor of euphoric anticipation! The race was to begin shortly! However, they great collection of sound slowly died and the stoic Syren could begin his announcement. “ Tonight’s race is sponsored very generously by my coven’s mistress. She looks forward to a stunning performance to view on holo-vid, so to those in the stands, and those waiting to race, pray that she is pleased with your games and bloodshed. And of all nights that could be do plead with whatever Muse, God, or Daemon you give praise to for the mercy of not coming in last...” The words boomed out as the man clearly pronounced his words with a surgical finesse. “ Also to be aware of, you bunch of riff-raff, tonight you will be racing for the grand prize of thirty tickets to the slave-auction here in lower Commoraggh AND will receive free repair to their craft as I am sure it will happen...” A smile crossed his face as the hands he had held over his head swept down into a presenting posture. “Riders, to your bikes!”

Those seated rose in an instant. Thirty contestants were on there feet and walking briskly to their respective vehicle with all the organization of orks. Clambering into the seat of their bikes, several of the riders revved their jet-engines, showing off the unique sound their craft made. Dull to ear splitting whines hummed and punctured the crowd’s roaring which was in full swing. Like every race before Korazell was grateful she was wearing the Jet-bike helmet of hers as it cut down the sound blasting around her to about deafening instead of mind-numbing. She had mingled with the other’s to her bike and it occurred to her as it usually did that her bike was a thing of beauty. There was nothing immediately special about it. The paint job was that hidden color between purple, blue, and black that only a raven could have and the paint was missing in several spots since her last race. The seat cushion was as orange as ever and pock-marked with the tears and cuts that were bound to happen in her line of work. The metal was dirty, the gauges slightly filmy, the blades chipped and blood-stained and the engine brash and lively as it purred. The main reason why hers was special was the sheer fact it was her own. And as she slipped into the seat and rested her feet on the pedals, gloved hands gripping the throttle and brake she beamed a selfish little grin under her visor. It was her bike. And her favorite weapon.


There was a moment of silence as the Syren turned and walked to where two hellions had a human slave down on it’s knees. The pathetic wretch was dirty, skinny beyond words, it’s sex hard to determined from her reaver, thought she could tell the thing was weeping hard enough to shake itself. As the Hellions held it down on it’s knee’s shouting in a tongue the slave could never understand the Syren stopped in front of it and looked down on the human. There was a moment as a hopeless face caked with unmentionable muck stared up through a curtain of tears and no doubt begged for mercy as it blubbered in it’s primitive language. Korazell’s grip on the throttle tightened as the Syren smiled down at it...then in a flash of motion had spun in a circle, dropping low on his heels. A flash of metal brightened the eternally murky air as the Dark Eldar spun completely around and stood up in one graceful motion, the knife used to do the deed already holstered. That moment of silence held as anticipation grew...then the human realized that it’s stomach and innards had fell out of the surgical slit in it’s gut, allowing the shining bloody entrails to splot onto the ground. The silence was broken with a dying shriek that signaled the start of the race and it was soon drowned out by the high-pitched shriek of engines taking off and the crowds shouting their loudest in sadistic glee.


The thirty dark arrows screamed through the skies, some shooting out in front of the other bikes, daring the ones behind them to open fire with the underslung weapons. A few shots cracked out but they were halfhearted, trying to get the opponent to swerve or break so they could manuvere themselves along side or over them and slice them with the curved blade-fins each craft supported. The beginning straight away was merely a chance to puff their chests and display their freedom. The curve that was coming up ahead, the course directed with shard-net tubes suspended in the air, that was the time when things go serious. Korazell exhaled in her helm slowly as she spared along in the middle of the back. Her hud display inside her helmet kept a small windowed feed of the going ons behind her and the left and right. She swerved lightly left and down as a reaver pilot next to her tried to spin his craft and gouge her with the blades on his bike, missing her by a good foot, but allowing her to twist her craft and use a bladed fin to bump under the opponent’s blade. The cocky pilot’s jet-bike yawed harder then he expected and the shock of nearly behind tipped over was all it took for the reaver closest to him to reach through the air and rip him from his craft by the back of the collar, casting him down to the shadows below no doubt screaming, but they couldn’t hear. They paid more attention to the craft that now slowed and wobbled in the air with no rider, finally coasting low and crashing into the side of a grungry lower-commorragh support pillar in a blaze of light.

Giving a somewhat haughty nod to the opponent to her right that now swung in close as if to pleasantly travel with her, Korazell’s smile under her helm soon faded as she realized just who was near her. The helmet-less man was none other then the male who had tried to get her to quit the race while she waited in the hovel they called a bar before the race. As if he could see her face Solthan smiled brilliantly and moved a hand off his throttle to snap a coy salute to her before edging his craft forward to gain precious inches. Formation was tight as always before the pin-turn and the screaming jet-bikes hustled close until the last hundred yards. In a flurry of motion each reaver enacted their brilliant plan to thwart their enemies. Guns shot their shards of poison into flesh and metal alike in single shot cracks to hide the less-then-admired method of killing. The ones that loved the thrill of chance gunned their jet-biked forward and engaged the air-brakes harshly, causing the front to tip and lift the blades so they could swing the bladed end in a shake around them, spinning tightly in hopes to dice and slice anyone too close to them. Sparks erupted in a great cloud that shrouded the action to on-lookers as blades cut into bodies of the living and machine, gun salvo’s snapped off, and heat-lanced peppered the opposition with it’s cruel heat.

During this mad-time rush, Korazell has narrowly missed behind be-headed by a craft that was spinning like a top, the front half of the bike and the arms of the rider missing. It soon lost it’s momentum and swan dived in rolls and twirls to the darkness below. Just when she felt lucky, she felt the jarring popcorn-popping sensation of her craft taking fire from behind and responded by slamming on the brakes and twisting down, the top blade of her craft slicing into the bottom on the reaver who blasted over her, the wicked blade-vayne wet with a fresh kill nicking the top of her helmet as it passed by. Mechanical fluids rained down around her as she had disemboweled the flying machine and as his craft failed the man abandoned ship in a leap to another craft as a brief melee was had until the pilot managed to land a solid punch to the desperate eldar’s face smashing his nose and his hope as he fell screaming to his doom. The turn was coming up. The walls were tightening. Korazell’s craft was humming under her as she eased it faster as to not draw attention and the ire of her peers. In the last twenty yards, eleven contestants were simply gone. The only evidence that they had been there at all were some wounded pilots jetting away from the scene of the crime and the blood on their blade-vaynes.

The netting that formed the walls inched closer, forcing the remaining eldar to tighten formation. Hostilities rose as the danger intensified. Directly to her left a female rider was struggling with something on her suit. Something that blinked dully. It took Korazell a moment to realize that the fool had ran right into a skull sized spiked-mine that was hovering in the air, the jagged hooks embedded securely in her skin. Desperation fueled her efforts to rip the thing from her but it was too late. In a resonating thud the rider and her bike exploded brilliantly in a green plume of death. Korazell leaned hard to the right to escape, the flames licking at her side painfully. The filters in her helm did very little to make the smell of singed leather and burnt flesh to go away. The shock-wave of the explosion jostled the riders about her. That blast had taken three more out. Half of the riders remained. However, as the turn was now upon them, that number would increase.

It takes a dark mind to think of a horrible thing such as a gladitorum. It’s not a building as much as it is a theater of death. Every wall needs to be decorated in murderous drama. Each pillar a trap. Each gate hell opening. Each tunnel the contestants walk out of death-row. Here in Commorragh the darkest of minds call home. It may lack solid walls but the narrow 5 yards wide shard-net tube was deceptively the best aerial collisuem one could ask for. Suspended in the air were caltrops, spinning blades, mines, vials of acid, and metal pikes aimed at the pilots. These dangers suspended in the air via gravity-nodules were the least of their worries. Chosen members of their kin stood on platforms nearby with liquidfirer guns at the ready. Wealthy, powerful, or just lucky their dark kin were more then happy to liven up the race with a deadly jet of the liquifers contents. The walls were closing in for the racers like the maw of a beast...and the only way for them to live was to plunge down it’s gullet and escape it’s teeth.

Turning her craft with the curve of the track, Korazell jinked her vehicle neatly over a spear that would have struck her leg and managed to bump into a fellow rider with her left leg into the path of a mine. The rider narrowly missed the bomb as he spun his craft in a barrel roll and righted himself. His jet-bikes engine whined as he gave the metal stead some gas and cut into Korazell’s lane crashing metal into metal and bucking her to the right. The right side’s blade struck a bundle of vials which crashed together and splattered the end of the blade only to hiss and sputter as it ate pockmarks in the smooth metal. The rebuttal was swift as she rammed against him, edging him near the wall. The two of them butted bikes together stubbornly for a time until they both realized with horror on their faces that a wave of what looked like oil was in front of them trying to crash over them. A strangled cry of alarm left her lips as she banked down under her current opponent’s craft as he flew through the cloud of ichor, using his vessel like an umbrella from the miasma. Wet screaming erupted around her as droplets of the ooze being sprayed dripped and hissed as it ate holes in her craft’s body. Bloody soup began to join the globs of black in heavy runnels until they left the range of the gun and she kicked out from under him and back to her spot. What was left of the man was a skeletal grimace, clawing at his own throat eyelessly as his flesh melted down him like a candle. The terror and anguish refreshed her and eased that pit in her stomach that reminded her “It was almost you.”


She whizzed along the track banking hard as the curve almost reached a eighty degree joint and expertly lifted her craft over the next slick of liquefier goop. Screaming was background noise at this point. All she could hear was her blood pumping in her head and her own thoughts booming inside her skull Win. Win win Kill kill kill! Ten contestants left. The turn was easing up and the midway stretch was ahead. Unlike the starting segment this midway point was special. No net hung over this bit and as the riders slipped free of the tracks structure there was only open area and another opening to the track ahead of them several hundred yards away. The bikes whirred through the open air feeling oddly naked. Taking this time to take a deep breath and gather her wits, Korazell silently took count of how many were left. Nine, she thought. Nine were still flying. Out of thirty people the qaulifing race to scrabble out of the pits of commorragh less then half had made it to the midway point. Ahead of her were five craft all mostly even with one in the lead. The long obnoxious venom green ponytail fluttered in the wind like a ribbon as it’s owner took it’s chances and gunned it.

As the lead jet-bike pulled away those wise to the ways of the race pulled back slightly. The head of the lead rider looked around his shoulder behind him, no doubt grinning due to thinking his luck was shining particullary well this day. As he straightened his head back to look in front of him a shadow suddenly loomed in his path. Something massive was spread against the dark sky, blotting out the vision ahead, wings of ink that spread at least three meters. Like a wet sheet those wings wrapped around the craft and hid the rider from few. The bike careened left and right, swaying violently as the weapons on the craft shot into the air fruitlessly. And then the struggle was over. Like a bit of waste paper billowing away the winged thing rolled off the bike and let the thermals take it, a rag-doll body in it’s clutches. An alien bird like helmet stared at the riders as it rose up to the averies above them and those wise looked away quickly. With it’s prize dying in it’s arms the bird of prey rose into the smog and was gone. The riders looked amongst themselves looking for an answer to what just happened, what was the weird creature that struck without warning, but all their questions turned to screams as the air around them suddenly was filled with bat like wings. Zipping up and around the reavers figured rose from the clouds below them, swooping close, reaching out with hands and weapons to rake and claw at the riders. Like a swarm of bats they engulfed the riders, beating at them with their wings and shrieking piercing wails that broke into sinister laughter of horrors old and dark. The midway point of the track was through the middle of the Averies lower roost...and to look into the eyes of these things as they flew amongst you meant death.

All the riders worth their lives knew better to raise their heads. Each bowed their gaze as they sped, not daring to watch the track, for to look up would mean to die. As the winged eldar beat the air around their heads, slapped at them, jeered, and shrieked they did their best to evade claws nicking their faces and bodies as they had to trust instincts to guide them through. Korazell’s heart was beating so hard it felt as if the organ wanted to shatter her ribs and toss itself to the ground below to escape. Her mouth was try, her eyes clenched tightly. Claws scuffed her visor and her helmet with that very special noise of talons on a chalkboard. Her skin-tight reaver suit was cut open shallowly in spots and her flesh opened to spill blood from the small wounds. Each time she was touched she flinched but kept her head down, only making the scourges attempts worse as they sought an excuse to drag the riders away. She heard a rider to her right suddenly gun it all the way and peel off from the rest. They must have risked a glance in the eyes of the scourge because as one the whole flock gave chase on their wings, darting between the other pilots like a cloud as they singled out the won who’s nerves gave out and decided to retire from the race. There was no backing out of a death-race. To give up was to die...and as Korazell slowly lifted her head to view the track she was glad it was not her who was going to be dying by the flock this night.

The now eight contestants slipped back into the tube of shard-net as if it was a safety blanket. Worse for the wear all of them. As she stole a look around each of them were scuffed and shaken by the flapping host of death that for only a moment tormented them. “Respect for those who are dangerous and up high...” the thought made her smile to herself and she yearned to glance up...but she felt like she wouldn’t be able to. Not for a few days at least. It would be like tempting fate more then they were already. For a time, each of the riders strode near each other harmlessly. Two more riders died in the next turn. One of them ran face-first into a spear they didn’t see after barely escaping a blast from a proxy mine. The other had a more fantastic death as a small fight had broken out between the two lead craft. The challenging rider rammed shoulder to shoulder whom she could only imagine was Solthan. A pistol rose to level against the pretty-boys head, willing to get a gauche kill and steal the lead. Solthan angled his craft away just in time as the firearm went off sending it’s payload harmlessly into the night and reached an arm out to grab his assailants hand and yank. A tug of war was engaged as each kicked and fought, Solthan trying to rip the man from his craft and keep his own tilting jet-bike under control as he cursed and taunted bitterly and the man trying to free his arm back so he could get his pistol. The breaking point was when the attacker finally let go of the steering rods to grab his pistol from his hand and snapped it out again to try once more. Before this ended badly for Solthan a reaver-bike shot between them. Solthan peeled off suffering a deep cut along his fuselage and a shallow cut along his leg while the man with the extended arm lost his wrist, then his arm, then his head, falling to pieces literally as the bladed bike passed and the wind resistance made each slice fall away from his body. Seven.


The jagged craft spun through the final turn and into the straight. This was the last stretch. Live or die.

-Part two soon~