The loose thread of a conspiracy can be innocuous. It can weave its way into the heart of the great tapestry of our time. It can be woven through one of the Emperors brightest and mighty of banners. Few see it and none but us take notice of this loose strand. When it is pulled by those most vile it can break apart the fabric of our Imperium. It can break apart our security and our destiny. Few look upon loose threads as we do. Few see them for what they are. Accolade, what you have provided me is such a thread, such a conspiracy. We must seek it out, find it at its core. We must find those who conspire against us. We must tie this loose thread off before it undoes us all”
This is a narrative campaign by way of Clue!
Six rival Inquisitors are attempting to uncover a conspiracy that they have found clues for. Each clue in the conspiracy is represented by a card. There are three suits of cards: Places, Inquisitors, and Elements. There are six inquisitor cards (representing the rivals), eight places (representing the possible location of the conspiracy), and seven elements representing the tools of the conspiracy. At the start of the campaign all four suits are separated and a random unseen card from each suit is placed in the conspiracy envelope. This represents the conspiracy: the perpetrator, the location, and the means of the conspiracy.
The remainder of the cards are distributed randomly to the players. These represent the clues that the Inquisitors have already uncovered. Each turn the players fight a battle and the winner of that battle may randomly examine two of the three chosen cards in their opponent’s hand. In the case of a draw both players get to see one of the others cards. In the case of a loss the poor inquisitor leaves empty handed. In the first turn the player rolls off to determine the order of challenges in subsequent turns winning players may challenge other players first.
As the campaign progresses players must note down which cards they have seen. At the end of turn 5 all the players must announce what they believe the conspiracy to be. This must be done on a private note card and all will be revealed at the same time. The envelope is opened and the conspiracy is revealed. All those that successfully predicted the conspiracy may challenge the heretic in the sixth episode. The battle will be evenly divided by the forces of good and evil.
Each of the element cards reveals a special use. Players may elect to use their elements however using the benefits of the elements may reveal clues that may assist ones’ opponent in uncovering the conspiracy.
Turn order: Players challenge each other in order of dice roll.
Build your Inquistor and Ret to a fixed list but beyond that game size will be based on a mutually agreed point cost.
If your Inquistor is killed roll on the following wound table:
2 Head Wound: The Inquisitor is at 1 W for the remainder of the Campaign
3-4 Chest Wound: The Inquisitor is at -1 W for the next battle.
5-6 Leg Wound: -1 Initiative for the next battle.
7-8 Arm Wound: -1 BS and WS for the next battle.
9-11 Minor Wound: No effect
12 Bionic Replacement: The Inquisitor has Bionics for the rest of the Campaign.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Ten: Hiding Places
There are few real places to hide in this universe. Once they first spy what they believe to be treason, the eyes of the Inquisition never really leave you. When my closest confidant, Colonel Steib, was struck down by a Monodominant blade, and the command of the 27th Mordian Hammers was replaced, my disgrace was complete. Before I was aware of it my Inquisitorial rights had been stripped from me at the conclave of Haspax. I had only days to sow the seeds of my eventual return, board my ship, and escape. Fast behind me were the Black Ships that I had once proudly commanded. I prayed for them even as they chased me across the segmentum. Eventually, I came to hide in plain view ~ on Mordian itself. I set down with my comrades, The Sisters of the Cloistered Heart.
There I stayed for two years. Waiting. Waiting for times to change. Waiting for the era of the Monodominants to wane and for more progressive leaders to hold sway over the Inquisition. While I tended the grapes and irrigated the fields. I waited for the politics of the Imperium to change. While I gave sermons to the cloistered sisters and tended to their individual needs I hoped for my time to rise again. Perhaps one day they would reinstate me. I hoped.
But to wait out an Inquisitor is a fools task. To wait out Inquisitor Gulofil is the full breadth of insanity. However my faith in the Emperior is vastly more powerful than the symbol of the Inquisitor. When I heard news that those that sought me had returned to Mordian I knew I must leave lest the foul taint of the Monodominant find my cloistered ladies. As Inquisitor Gulofil and his followers set down and were bid welcome by the Mordian Tetriachs I bid my sisters fairwell. With me I took some of their sweet wines and cast away from Mordian to a place I knew that even the Inquisition would never find me. I cast away to Commorragh.
The Archon known as Actev Nu has spies across the universe and from these spies come his true power. His is the power of knowing things. Though I see myself to be only a small part of his machinery of knowledge, he has served my needs as I have served his. That is the way of the dark lords of the Eldar. As they use you and you use them. And so their society perpetuates. Woe to you when the use you provide becomes less valuable than the use you desire. I knew that when those sybarites took me, blind folded, through their secret gates, I would have debts to pay. I would rather pay those debts than have the Inquisitors land at the Mission Del Mordia and burn me and my ladies as heretics.
Commorragh is like any vast city. Some places are built well and polished to a high shine. Other places, falling apart and in ruin, are left over from the old times. Bathed in blood is a good description for that city. From the perpetual crimson sky to the literal bathhouses of blood Commoragh is soaked in it. Some cities sound with the call of traffic or songs of adoration. This city sings with the sounds of misery, murder, and horror. The Archon, always with deviousness in his mind, protected me from the horrors outside his walls ~ and within. I was not to be touched or harmed, unless I asked for it. My quarters were wide and sumptuous, with long curtains, lush pillows, and a vast balcony overlooking the city below. I could see creatures swooping on wings through the city but they daren’t approach my vantage point. They and I were under the watch fulleye of my minder, a Sybarite called Brugoyle.
Brugoyle was both my minder and guide to the dark city. As he approached Kabalites cowered and cultists smiled in false friendship. I could see the hate in their eyes for me. They would whisper hatred to me as I walked past. Soon I learned their language and it was filled with anger and hatred. Brugoyle instructed me in its use. As I grew to know him I grew to see his hatred of me also. Though he was powerful amongst the Eldar he also was a slave of the Actev Nu.
Brugoyle introduced me to the Murder Pits of Qyvank, the Temple of Mirrors, and even the great Arena of the Rancid Blade. It was here that I sat beside The Grand Actev Nu and watched his gladiators kill for sport. During my time in the dark city I was tempted by (and succumbed to) vixens. We bathed in the blood of the recent dead at the Kulux Blood Bathes. I drank vile liquids prepared by the Homunculi and then wandered the passageways of the citadel alone as my own fears and fantasies became real. I partook in the Orgy of Long Days. The things I saw in the Dark City were not outside the realm of my imagination. Any human is capable of these things. The difference is that here guile, trickery, abuse, butchery, and murder are all meaningful. Here they are currency.
Years had passed when the Grand Archon’s second personal concubine called me to my chamber. The mistress of the chamber wore the long orange robes of the Rancid Blade. Detailed tattoos covered her cheeks and back and her dark eyes guided me to an odd piece of furniture that had been placed in the center of the room. It was a simple torture chair. I had seen many before but it was the occupant that made my heart leap. In the chair sat Inquisitor Gulofil. He had been captured by the Rancid Blade.
He was an old man now. It seemed like a hundred years must have passed for the change in his appearance. He was naked and strapped to the chair. A Janjii mask held his face forward and eyes open. When I stepped in front of his field of vision I saw his eyes grow wide. I could hear the foot falls of the mistress' long heeled shoes receding into the background. This man had chased me across the galaxy. Through my years in Commorragh I had almost forgotten him. I knew that this was a message for me from my friend the Actev Nu. It was a message that my time in the Dark City was drawing to a close. Without Gulofil on my trail there was no reason I could not return to the Imperium.
As I approached I took my Dire Blade from its sheath. I had become versed in its more unique uses. Standing before him ready to begin working on his stomach I now saw that around his neck was one last gift for me. He was not entirely unclothed. He still wore his Inquitorial seal, his mantle of office. He whimpered as I took the icon from around his neck. I placed it around my own. I still remember thinking that he shouldn’t have concerned himself with the misery of my taking his title. Over the next several hours I gave him much more to whimper about.
~A section from Confessor Sylax's personal recollections.
There I stayed for two years. Waiting. Waiting for times to change. Waiting for the era of the Monodominants to wane and for more progressive leaders to hold sway over the Inquisition. While I tended the grapes and irrigated the fields. I waited for the politics of the Imperium to change. While I gave sermons to the cloistered sisters and tended to their individual needs I hoped for my time to rise again. Perhaps one day they would reinstate me. I hoped.
But to wait out an Inquisitor is a fools task. To wait out Inquisitor Gulofil is the full breadth of insanity. However my faith in the Emperior is vastly more powerful than the symbol of the Inquisitor. When I heard news that those that sought me had returned to Mordian I knew I must leave lest the foul taint of the Monodominant find my cloistered ladies. As Inquisitor Gulofil and his followers set down and were bid welcome by the Mordian Tetriachs I bid my sisters fairwell. With me I took some of their sweet wines and cast away from Mordian to a place I knew that even the Inquisition would never find me. I cast away to Commorragh.
The Archon known as Actev Nu has spies across the universe and from these spies come his true power. His is the power of knowing things. Though I see myself to be only a small part of his machinery of knowledge, he has served my needs as I have served his. That is the way of the dark lords of the Eldar. As they use you and you use them. And so their society perpetuates. Woe to you when the use you provide becomes less valuable than the use you desire. I knew that when those sybarites took me, blind folded, through their secret gates, I would have debts to pay. I would rather pay those debts than have the Inquisitors land at the Mission Del Mordia and burn me and my ladies as heretics.
Commorragh is like any vast city. Some places are built well and polished to a high shine. Other places, falling apart and in ruin, are left over from the old times. Bathed in blood is a good description for that city. From the perpetual crimson sky to the literal bathhouses of blood Commoragh is soaked in it. Some cities sound with the call of traffic or songs of adoration. This city sings with the sounds of misery, murder, and horror. The Archon, always with deviousness in his mind, protected me from the horrors outside his walls ~ and within. I was not to be touched or harmed, unless I asked for it. My quarters were wide and sumptuous, with long curtains, lush pillows, and a vast balcony overlooking the city below. I could see creatures swooping on wings through the city but they daren’t approach my vantage point. They and I were under the watch fulleye of my minder, a Sybarite called Brugoyle.
Brugoyle was both my minder and guide to the dark city. As he approached Kabalites cowered and cultists smiled in false friendship. I could see the hate in their eyes for me. They would whisper hatred to me as I walked past. Soon I learned their language and it was filled with anger and hatred. Brugoyle instructed me in its use. As I grew to know him I grew to see his hatred of me also. Though he was powerful amongst the Eldar he also was a slave of the Actev Nu.
Brugoyle introduced me to the Murder Pits of Qyvank, the Temple of Mirrors, and even the great Arena of the Rancid Blade. It was here that I sat beside The Grand Actev Nu and watched his gladiators kill for sport. During my time in the dark city I was tempted by (and succumbed to) vixens. We bathed in the blood of the recent dead at the Kulux Blood Bathes. I drank vile liquids prepared by the Homunculi and then wandered the passageways of the citadel alone as my own fears and fantasies became real. I partook in the Orgy of Long Days. The things I saw in the Dark City were not outside the realm of my imagination. Any human is capable of these things. The difference is that here guile, trickery, abuse, butchery, and murder are all meaningful. Here they are currency.
Years had passed when the Grand Archon’s second personal concubine called me to my chamber. The mistress of the chamber wore the long orange robes of the Rancid Blade. Detailed tattoos covered her cheeks and back and her dark eyes guided me to an odd piece of furniture that had been placed in the center of the room. It was a simple torture chair. I had seen many before but it was the occupant that made my heart leap. In the chair sat Inquisitor Gulofil. He had been captured by the Rancid Blade.
He was an old man now. It seemed like a hundred years must have passed for the change in his appearance. He was naked and strapped to the chair. A Janjii mask held his face forward and eyes open. When I stepped in front of his field of vision I saw his eyes grow wide. I could hear the foot falls of the mistress' long heeled shoes receding into the background. This man had chased me across the galaxy. Through my years in Commorragh I had almost forgotten him. I knew that this was a message for me from my friend the Actev Nu. It was a message that my time in the Dark City was drawing to a close. Without Gulofil on my trail there was no reason I could not return to the Imperium.
As I approached I took my Dire Blade from its sheath. I had become versed in its more unique uses. Standing before him ready to begin working on his stomach I now saw that around his neck was one last gift for me. He was not entirely unclothed. He still wore his Inquitorial seal, his mantle of office. He whimpered as I took the icon from around his neck. I placed it around my own. I still remember thinking that he shouldn’t have concerned himself with the misery of my taking his title. Over the next several hours I gave him much more to whimper about.
~A section from Confessor Sylax's personal recollections.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Lady Hosphel's Raiding Party
HQ
Archon 60
w/ Agonizer, CC wep, Shadow Field, Drugs, Vexatrope 81
Elites
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Troops
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Fast Attack
Reaver Jetbikes 6 with 1 succubus 166
w/ 2 blasters, 1 agonizer, T helm 45
1999
Archon 60
w/ Agonizer, CC wep, Shadow Field, Drugs, Vexatrope 81
Elites
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Wyches 10 including 1 sybarite 135
w/ Wych weapons, Agonizer, plasma grandes42
Raider w/ Desintegrator 60
Troops
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Warriors 10, Including 1 Sybarite 86
w/ 2 Dark Lance, Webway portal 70
Fast Attack
Reaver Jetbikes 6 with 1 succubus 166
w/ 2 blasters, 1 agonizer, T helm 45
1999
Monday, February 13, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Nine: The Healing Arts
A rough wood framed window was a portal to a dry and lost landscape. No glass stood in the window. Since this world began the earth beyond had been punished by the unforgiving Mordian sun. Blue sky above the silent dunes gave no indication of the smoke and smog that filled the urban land on the dark side of this planet. Within the room old plaster made up the walls of the room. A well swept floor of simple tiles, probably hand made. A wooden bed, also probably made by hand, sat in the middle of the room. A small side table. On the table an earthen bowl, some sort of electronic device, and a neatly folded white cloth. On the other side of the bed, close to the window, a metal hanger with an intravenous tube. The bed was occupied.
The door slowly opened. Two women entered. They wore simple loose threaded cloth robes. Deep crimson, blue sashes. One was taller, older. A scar traversed her cheek, down, to under her chin. White hair. She was the Nurse. The younger, an adolescent, had light fine red hair and no signs of the trials of battle. Their sandaled feet walked across the tiles until they both stood at the end of the bed viewing the creature.
Succubus Yanaloo was secured to the bed. Her arms and ankles had been bound by leather fasteners that were chained to the frame of the bed. The Wych had been given a similar robe to that of the spectators. She had clearly been seeking escape as her robe was spread across the bed and a blanket had been kicked to the floor. Her vast dark hair was similarly spread across her face and pillow. Yanaloo’s bare legs and arms bore the ruddy scars from where her drug injection tubes had been removed. Intricate tattoos covered her stomach, biceps and theighs. A deep purple bruise was all that remained of her fractured leg. The Dark Eldar was awake but still. Her black eyes viewed the women before her.
The younger woman spoke “She looks upon us with such anger. Sister, what is wrong with her?”
The older woman turned “Adept Sylvie”, she began, “this is a cursed eldar. She has sinned against the almighty Emperor and is suffering the consequences that all Eldar souls shall suffer.” Sylvie walked forward, closer to Yanaloo, alongside the bed, but not within her reach. “Be careful Adept" the Nurse said "This creature will kill you with no concern or remorse” The adept stopped. She peered deep into dark eyes as though she were looking into the dead eyes of a shark.
“Why do we not kill her? She deserves the flame”. The older woman was silent. Yanaloo looked back at this young girl and gritted her teeth and hissing in pain and anger. She revealed sharp, pointed teeth. They had been filed to points. As she hissed the youth could see that Yanaloo was in considerable discomfort. She lent closer. At this Yanaloo vomited. A spray of yellow mucus and bile hit the young adept. Splattering. Sylvie sqeualed and recoiled. “Kill her, kill her” the youth cried out. She tried to brush the sickly mess from her clothes. The warm dampness clung through to her skin. The older woman was unmoved. Still a spectator.
“She is sick; she is lacking the Emperor’s love”. Yanaloo’s face contorted. Her need for pain and her need to inflict it were being stifled. Her evil soul was being pulled from her body. The hand of the Great One Who Thirsts was tightening around her neck making her nausios. Soon she would be dead.
The nurse, walked around the side of the bed opposite Sylvie. From her sash she pulled a small leather pouch. She took from the pouch several needles each about eight inches long. They were silver and pointed on each end. She also pulled several rolled parchments from her pouch. They were small rolls about four inches wide. Once unrolled each were about three feet long each. They were old and on them were written great litanies to the Emperor and his domains. Some were written in Old Gothic and others in more obscure languages. Some, written locally, were simply long strings of numbers. The Nurse gathered her robe from her arms revealing the well muscled arms of a warrior.
Then the Nurse, quickly but precisely, placed her elbow on Yanaloo's throat and put the full weight of her body on the wyche's neck. The drow gasped. She was too weak to have avoided the pinning move. With the same arm with which she lent on the wych the Nurse's hand clutched the eldar’s chin. She forced Yanaloo's head into a controlled position so that there was no risk of a bite from the sharp teeth. With one arm the Nurse had pinned the eldar and subdued her. Sylvie marveled at the more experienced sister. The restrained arms and legs of the wych struggled but the Nurse had her pinned effectively. Yanaloo gasped against the well muscled form of the Nurse.
In her free hand the nurse took one of the long needles and placed the fine point against Yanaloo‘s exposed shoulder blade. The needle pearced the flesh just above her breast. She pushed the needle in with the ease of a healer. Yanaloo screamed in pain as the needle slid into the flesh. A bead of blood pooled around the entrance. Once the needle was through the Nurse tilted the needle so it was almost parallel with the skin. The pain was searing. Yanaloo cried out as the needle was threaded through her. The Nurse angled the needle so that the fine, bloody point protruded back out from the flesh. She then took one of her long scrolls and pushed the needle through the parchment twice pinning it. She then returned the needle back to Yanaloo’s tissue threading it back through. The cries of the eldar seemed to fly out into the desert beyond the window. Once finished the needle threaded through her skin, through the end of the parchment, and then back through her flesh. Were she were standing one would have been able to read the parchment as it hung down.
“How does the forgiving pain of the Emperor feel?” the Nurse asked. Yanaloo had bitten down on her lip and she now tasted her own blood in her mouth. She was relieved. Though the fiery point of the needle was excruciating, she drew some sustenance from her own suffering. Her own torture and pain brought some relief from the hand of the One Who Thirsts. Yanaloo had pitied the souls in the streets of Commoragh who could only prey on themselves. Now she had become one.
As the next long needle was placed against the flesh of Yanaloo’s cheek the eldar fixed her eyes on the adolescent who still watched. Yanaloo regarded the damp portions of Sylvie's robe. It clung to her skin tracing the outline of her body. Sylvie saw the pain shoot through Yanaloo as the Nurse pushed the needle into her face. As the pain washed over her, Yanaloo could see deep into this young creature’s soul. She could see into the back of this girl’s mind. Yanaloo could see Sylvie had never witnessed the fires of battle, never observed the hell that her older sisters had seen. She had certainly never enjoyed the pleasures of Commoragh. She had a pathetic innocence to her. Yanaloo was resolved to stay alive. The pain of the needle, the imagined defiling of this nubile would have to sustain her.
Sylvie’s own flesh trembled as the black eyes of the eldar looked at her. The vixen seemed to be smiling.
The door slowly opened. Two women entered. They wore simple loose threaded cloth robes. Deep crimson, blue sashes. One was taller, older. A scar traversed her cheek, down, to under her chin. White hair. She was the Nurse. The younger, an adolescent, had light fine red hair and no signs of the trials of battle. Their sandaled feet walked across the tiles until they both stood at the end of the bed viewing the creature.
Succubus Yanaloo was secured to the bed. Her arms and ankles had been bound by leather fasteners that were chained to the frame of the bed. The Wych had been given a similar robe to that of the spectators. She had clearly been seeking escape as her robe was spread across the bed and a blanket had been kicked to the floor. Her vast dark hair was similarly spread across her face and pillow. Yanaloo’s bare legs and arms bore the ruddy scars from where her drug injection tubes had been removed. Intricate tattoos covered her stomach, biceps and theighs. A deep purple bruise was all that remained of her fractured leg. The Dark Eldar was awake but still. Her black eyes viewed the women before her.
The younger woman spoke “She looks upon us with such anger. Sister, what is wrong with her?”
The older woman turned “Adept Sylvie”, she began, “this is a cursed eldar. She has sinned against the almighty Emperor and is suffering the consequences that all Eldar souls shall suffer.” Sylvie walked forward, closer to Yanaloo, alongside the bed, but not within her reach. “Be careful Adept" the Nurse said "This creature will kill you with no concern or remorse” The adept stopped. She peered deep into dark eyes as though she were looking into the dead eyes of a shark.
“Why do we not kill her? She deserves the flame”. The older woman was silent. Yanaloo looked back at this young girl and gritted her teeth and hissing in pain and anger. She revealed sharp, pointed teeth. They had been filed to points. As she hissed the youth could see that Yanaloo was in considerable discomfort. She lent closer. At this Yanaloo vomited. A spray of yellow mucus and bile hit the young adept. Splattering. Sylvie sqeualed and recoiled. “Kill her, kill her” the youth cried out. She tried to brush the sickly mess from her clothes. The warm dampness clung through to her skin. The older woman was unmoved. Still a spectator.
“She is sick; she is lacking the Emperor’s love”. Yanaloo’s face contorted. Her need for pain and her need to inflict it were being stifled. Her evil soul was being pulled from her body. The hand of the Great One Who Thirsts was tightening around her neck making her nausios. Soon she would be dead.
The nurse, walked around the side of the bed opposite Sylvie. From her sash she pulled a small leather pouch. She took from the pouch several needles each about eight inches long. They were silver and pointed on each end. She also pulled several rolled parchments from her pouch. They were small rolls about four inches wide. Once unrolled each were about three feet long each. They were old and on them were written great litanies to the Emperor and his domains. Some were written in Old Gothic and others in more obscure languages. Some, written locally, were simply long strings of numbers. The Nurse gathered her robe from her arms revealing the well muscled arms of a warrior.
Then the Nurse, quickly but precisely, placed her elbow on Yanaloo's throat and put the full weight of her body on the wyche's neck. The drow gasped. She was too weak to have avoided the pinning move. With the same arm with which she lent on the wych the Nurse's hand clutched the eldar’s chin. She forced Yanaloo's head into a controlled position so that there was no risk of a bite from the sharp teeth. With one arm the Nurse had pinned the eldar and subdued her. Sylvie marveled at the more experienced sister. The restrained arms and legs of the wych struggled but the Nurse had her pinned effectively. Yanaloo gasped against the well muscled form of the Nurse.
In her free hand the nurse took one of the long needles and placed the fine point against Yanaloo‘s exposed shoulder blade. The needle pearced the flesh just above her breast. She pushed the needle in with the ease of a healer. Yanaloo screamed in pain as the needle slid into the flesh. A bead of blood pooled around the entrance. Once the needle was through the Nurse tilted the needle so it was almost parallel with the skin. The pain was searing. Yanaloo cried out as the needle was threaded through her. The Nurse angled the needle so that the fine, bloody point protruded back out from the flesh. She then took one of her long scrolls and pushed the needle through the parchment twice pinning it. She then returned the needle back to Yanaloo’s tissue threading it back through. The cries of the eldar seemed to fly out into the desert beyond the window. Once finished the needle threaded through her skin, through the end of the parchment, and then back through her flesh. Were she were standing one would have been able to read the parchment as it hung down.
“How does the forgiving pain of the Emperor feel?” the Nurse asked. Yanaloo had bitten down on her lip and she now tasted her own blood in her mouth. She was relieved. Though the fiery point of the needle was excruciating, she drew some sustenance from her own suffering. Her own torture and pain brought some relief from the hand of the One Who Thirsts. Yanaloo had pitied the souls in the streets of Commoragh who could only prey on themselves. Now she had become one.
As the next long needle was placed against the flesh of Yanaloo’s cheek the eldar fixed her eyes on the adolescent who still watched. Yanaloo regarded the damp portions of Sylvie's robe. It clung to her skin tracing the outline of her body. Sylvie saw the pain shoot through Yanaloo as the Nurse pushed the needle into her face. As the pain washed over her, Yanaloo could see deep into this young creature’s soul. She could see into the back of this girl’s mind. Yanaloo could see Sylvie had never witnessed the fires of battle, never observed the hell that her older sisters had seen. She had certainly never enjoyed the pleasures of Commoragh. She had a pathetic innocence to her. Yanaloo was resolved to stay alive. The pain of the needle, the imagined defiling of this nubile would have to sustain her.
Sylvie’s own flesh trembled as the black eyes of the eldar looked at her. The vixen seemed to be smiling.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Grand Archon Actev Nu
A rare sight... The Grand Archon Actev Nu riding to battle atop his pesonal raider.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Eight: Darkness is a point of view.
Darkness is a point of view. For many stepping into darkness from the light is a cause of apprehension. For others crossing into the dark is stepping into a comfortable space of relative warmth and security. To be sure this darkness hides many fiends that watch and things that crawl yet if you know the darkness and have lived in it for years then it is something that you relish. Dark shapes lit by red flamed candles give the darkness contours. Those with adjusted eyes would see a wide chamber with a low domed ceiling. Flickering lights cast shadows and color. On the broad ceiling an ancient fresco had fallen into disrepair. Mighty images of enlightened Eldar looked down on the room, their eyes had been chipped out of the old stone. They would not see the things that go on here.
As one’s eyes adjusted one would see an animated figure in the center of the room. An observer would see the Drachite Hosphel pausing from combat for a moment. She stood with her legs wide apart in an animated combat position. Long black heels led up to boots that flared out at the opening above the knee. Her purple robe was splayed wide its light material still traced the sweep of her last quick motion. Her torso was turned so the stride of her legs was opposed at right angles to the direction she faced. Her right arm was held back and clasped a long multi tailed whip that, like her long dress, was reeling back from the recently executed movement. The little armor that she wore included shoulder shields that accentuated the impressive muscle in her torso and upper arms. Her braided hair swung from their also animated motion back to around her shoulders. Her hard lower jaw protruded in a vengeful style and she prepared to swing her whip into a death blow for that which crouched before her.
For a moment she surveyed the warrior. She was breathing hard and as she pulled air into her lungs her breasts pulled against the material of her dress. The large human before her crouched, having received a blow, he had recoiled to a crouching position. When fully standing he stood much taller than she. But now he looked up at her and she saw the scars on his back and side from her years sparing with him. He was breathing hard. She saw that he was less of man now than she first surveyed years ago. She had first found him at the Pits of Majullo in the Deep City and had taken him as a prize. For years she had fought with him and relished the fear of death in his eyes. Many times she had injected him with quixotic fluids and taken him to her bed, brutalizing him. One time she had sliced his right arm off above the elbow. His agony ringing in her ears she had worried her prize had been damaged beyond repair. One of Homunculi had reattached the arm. She remembered that the reattaching had seemed more painful than the severing.
As she brought the agonizing whip down across his back and face she knew the lashes would kill him. In a graceful arch over her head she brought her whip down against him. The skin on his face recoiled from the lashes of her whip and as they hit his back the tendrils of the hateful poison burnt into his bone. The last several times they had fought she had seen that he had not feared her. He had come to believe that after several years of sparing and abuse she would never kill him. That could not stand. The only reason she fought him was to see the fear in his eyes. She could see him becoming immured to the pain. He began to enjoy it almost more than she. She could have killed him at any moment over those years but it was his fear that sustained her and kept those demons at bay. She had found another play thing, another whose fear would sustain her.
As one’s eyes adjusted one would see an animated figure in the center of the room. An observer would see the Drachite Hosphel pausing from combat for a moment. She stood with her legs wide apart in an animated combat position. Long black heels led up to boots that flared out at the opening above the knee. Her purple robe was splayed wide its light material still traced the sweep of her last quick motion. Her torso was turned so the stride of her legs was opposed at right angles to the direction she faced. Her right arm was held back and clasped a long multi tailed whip that, like her long dress, was reeling back from the recently executed movement. The little armor that she wore included shoulder shields that accentuated the impressive muscle in her torso and upper arms. Her braided hair swung from their also animated motion back to around her shoulders. Her hard lower jaw protruded in a vengeful style and she prepared to swing her whip into a death blow for that which crouched before her.
For a moment she surveyed the warrior. She was breathing hard and as she pulled air into her lungs her breasts pulled against the material of her dress. The large human before her crouched, having received a blow, he had recoiled to a crouching position. When fully standing he stood much taller than she. But now he looked up at her and she saw the scars on his back and side from her years sparing with him. He was breathing hard. She saw that he was less of man now than she first surveyed years ago. She had first found him at the Pits of Majullo in the Deep City and had taken him as a prize. For years she had fought with him and relished the fear of death in his eyes. Many times she had injected him with quixotic fluids and taken him to her bed, brutalizing him. One time she had sliced his right arm off above the elbow. His agony ringing in her ears she had worried her prize had been damaged beyond repair. One of Homunculi had reattached the arm. She remembered that the reattaching had seemed more painful than the severing.
As she brought the agonizing whip down across his back and face she knew the lashes would kill him. In a graceful arch over her head she brought her whip down against him. The skin on his face recoiled from the lashes of her whip and as they hit his back the tendrils of the hateful poison burnt into his bone. The last several times they had fought she had seen that he had not feared her. He had come to believe that after several years of sparing and abuse she would never kill him. That could not stand. The only reason she fought him was to see the fear in his eyes. She could see him becoming immured to the pain. He began to enjoy it almost more than she. She could have killed him at any moment over those years but it was his fear that sustained her and kept those demons at bay. She had found another play thing, another whose fear would sustain her.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Seven: Twice Cursed Abomination
Brugoyle was clad in a long coat. It was buttoned and a high collar reached around his neck to his pointed ears. His head had been shaven clean. The few lights that illuminated the dark area reflected off his pale dome. Delicate tattoos traced circles on his forehead and high cheeks. Small bones hung as earrings from his pointed Eldar ears. He stood in a space between the walls of two buildings. The red night shy of Commorragh whaled above him. A slight warm wind caught his coat and made it move as if it were alive. The buildings were left from the old times. No slaves had built these walls. They had been crafted by the minds of the Eldar. They were crumbling now and in some places had collapsed. These buildings had once been places of pleasure from where the Eldar had ruled the cosmos.
The Kabalite called to the darkness before him. There was very little echo from the night. As always in Commorragh there were things in the darkness that baffled sound. Things that could not be seen but that could kill. A bizarre voice called back from the darkness.
“Why do you come here Sybarite?” the voice seemed to crackle with a restrained energy. It was as though it took all the power of the speaker not to cry out in a rage. “Why to you venture alone down the paths of Cymric Solor? You know this place is not for you”. Brugoyle swallowed. This part of the city was not protected by the Kabals. He was surprised that he had made it this far.
“I come seeking a parlay” he returned.
“Parlay? You know that is not what we do here” the voice called. “These streets are for murder. Discussion and deception are the work of the Archons and their courts. We do not talk. We do not reason. We do not discuss. Cymric Solor is a place of silver knives in the darkness, of muffled pain, and lonesome whimpers. Is that what you come for?”
“No. I have…” his words were cut off by laughter from the darkness. It was the laugher of someone ill. Interrupted by coughs. The sickly laughter was at first simply from in front of him but then it spread and soon it seemed the laugher were coming from all around him. He was surrounded by invisible fiends. He spoke louder than the cackling forcing his voice through the noise. “I come with a message from Archon Actev Nu of the Rancid Blade”. The laughter stopped. "I bare his message" he called out "It was told to me by sixth personal concubine, delivered to her by his second secretary".
The original voice from the darkness called back "Why does the Grand Archon stoop so low to send a messenger to us? Why does he need us? After all these years, decades, since he abandoned us. All the Archons and Players have abandoned us." Anger could be heard in the strange voice. "Kabalites never bring us on their raids anymore. When did you ever hear the names of Mandrakes called through the fields of battle? When did we strike terror as even the lowest Kabalite may?"
There was silence in air.
"The Archons and their politics and the Cults preening by their side. All of them have abandoned our skills" silence "…our talents. Even the Homunculi Covens ignore us at the behest of the Archons. We are forced to remain here alone with no prey things. We crawl through the passages of this cursed city, cursed by the most cursed. We have been abandoned by the lost. You Kabalites leave us here alone with none to prey on but our own kind and those few unfortunates that wander here".
Another voice called from the shadows reclaiming the end of the first speaker's sentence "... unfortunates and messengers who wander here". The laughter began again and this time it was loud, the noise crowding around, pushing in on the Sybarite. He knew it would be foolish to break their laughter. They were right. The Archons had cursed the Mandrakes. The Mandrakes were not to be trusted. They were caught between this world and the demon world and they had been driven insane because of it. To many times their blood lust had led to their own failure. They could not participate in the Kabals or work even with their own kind. The Archons and Dracons had cursed them as the Exarches had cursed the fallen ones and now few even mentioned the Mandrakes. The arrogant Wyches would not even recognize their existence. Sybarite Brugoyle waited until the laughter died down. He stood seemingly alone as the laughter died. "You may kill me if you will but you will never hear my message".
"We shall hear and you shall pray that your message is worthy of our lost time". As the voice spoke a slice appeared before Brugoyle. It was as if a knife had made a cut in reality itself. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. Then another, and another. Tens then hundreds. Then thousands. Through the cuts in the air could be seen a shape as though there were something on the other side of the cut. The cuts in reality became so many that a form appeared before the Sybarite. It was that of Mandrake Lethal stepping forward from the shadows. The Mandrake was twisted and bizarre. He was an Eldar but wrong, even for a Dark Eldar. His face was twisted. A long curved bird’s beak extended out from his nose. Leather armor covered most of his body except where chains linked tattooed and pierced nipples or simply entered straight into his flesh. One of the creature’s arms was mutated into a large curved blade that extended almost twice as long as a natural arm. Brugoyle could see how difficult it was for this Mandrake to stay in the 'real world' of Commorragh rather than his half life in the warp. As the cuts sliced through reality and were sealed again parts of the creature seemed to break out of alignment with the rest of his body or were replaced by the wrong image. He guessed the image of the creature’s thoughts rather than the reality. This creature was a twice cursed abomination. He lived half in the demon world and half in the cursed world.
“The Archon will trade souls in exchange for tasks” the Sybarite slowly said to the shifting image before him. He had never seen the shadow skin before. Some said that in full light these beings could be seen even when they were not projecting themselves on reality. A moving shimmering shadow cast from the warp.
“What kind of souls? His weak slaves?”
“Space Marines” Brugoyle said slowly. The laughter began anew.
The Kabalite called to the darkness before him. There was very little echo from the night. As always in Commorragh there were things in the darkness that baffled sound. Things that could not be seen but that could kill. A bizarre voice called back from the darkness.
“Why do you come here Sybarite?” the voice seemed to crackle with a restrained energy. It was as though it took all the power of the speaker not to cry out in a rage. “Why to you venture alone down the paths of Cymric Solor? You know this place is not for you”. Brugoyle swallowed. This part of the city was not protected by the Kabals. He was surprised that he had made it this far.
“I come seeking a parlay” he returned.
“Parlay? You know that is not what we do here” the voice called. “These streets are for murder. Discussion and deception are the work of the Archons and their courts. We do not talk. We do not reason. We do not discuss. Cymric Solor is a place of silver knives in the darkness, of muffled pain, and lonesome whimpers. Is that what you come for?”
“No. I have…” his words were cut off by laughter from the darkness. It was the laugher of someone ill. Interrupted by coughs. The sickly laughter was at first simply from in front of him but then it spread and soon it seemed the laugher were coming from all around him. He was surrounded by invisible fiends. He spoke louder than the cackling forcing his voice through the noise. “I come with a message from Archon Actev Nu of the Rancid Blade”. The laughter stopped. "I bare his message" he called out "It was told to me by sixth personal concubine, delivered to her by his second secretary".
The original voice from the darkness called back "Why does the Grand Archon stoop so low to send a messenger to us? Why does he need us? After all these years, decades, since he abandoned us. All the Archons and Players have abandoned us." Anger could be heard in the strange voice. "Kabalites never bring us on their raids anymore. When did you ever hear the names of Mandrakes called through the fields of battle? When did we strike terror as even the lowest Kabalite may?"
There was silence in air.
"The Archons and their politics and the Cults preening by their side. All of them have abandoned our skills" silence "…our talents. Even the Homunculi Covens ignore us at the behest of the Archons. We are forced to remain here alone with no prey things. We crawl through the passages of this cursed city, cursed by the most cursed. We have been abandoned by the lost. You Kabalites leave us here alone with none to prey on but our own kind and those few unfortunates that wander here".
Another voice called from the shadows reclaiming the end of the first speaker's sentence "... unfortunates and messengers who wander here". The laughter began again and this time it was loud, the noise crowding around, pushing in on the Sybarite. He knew it would be foolish to break their laughter. They were right. The Archons had cursed the Mandrakes. The Mandrakes were not to be trusted. They were caught between this world and the demon world and they had been driven insane because of it. To many times their blood lust had led to their own failure. They could not participate in the Kabals or work even with their own kind. The Archons and Dracons had cursed them as the Exarches had cursed the fallen ones and now few even mentioned the Mandrakes. The arrogant Wyches would not even recognize their existence. Sybarite Brugoyle waited until the laughter died down. He stood seemingly alone as the laughter died. "You may kill me if you will but you will never hear my message".
"We shall hear and you shall pray that your message is worthy of our lost time". As the voice spoke a slice appeared before Brugoyle. It was as if a knife had made a cut in reality itself. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. Then another, and another. Tens then hundreds. Then thousands. Through the cuts in the air could be seen a shape as though there were something on the other side of the cut. The cuts in reality became so many that a form appeared before the Sybarite. It was that of Mandrake Lethal stepping forward from the shadows. The Mandrake was twisted and bizarre. He was an Eldar but wrong, even for a Dark Eldar. His face was twisted. A long curved bird’s beak extended out from his nose. Leather armor covered most of his body except where chains linked tattooed and pierced nipples or simply entered straight into his flesh. One of the creature’s arms was mutated into a large curved blade that extended almost twice as long as a natural arm. Brugoyle could see how difficult it was for this Mandrake to stay in the 'real world' of Commorragh rather than his half life in the warp. As the cuts sliced through reality and were sealed again parts of the creature seemed to break out of alignment with the rest of his body or were replaced by the wrong image. He guessed the image of the creature’s thoughts rather than the reality. This creature was a twice cursed abomination. He lived half in the demon world and half in the cursed world.
“The Archon will trade souls in exchange for tasks” the Sybarite slowly said to the shifting image before him. He had never seen the shadow skin before. Some said that in full light these beings could be seen even when they were not projecting themselves on reality. A moving shimmering shadow cast from the warp.
“What kind of souls? His weak slaves?”
“Space Marines” Brugoyle said slowly. The laughter began anew.
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Six: Cutting
A completely circular door with a seamless metallic white finish. A round orange device in the center of the door activated it and once activated the two semicircular halves of the door slid apart to reveal the small Nestle Chamber beyond. This was his personal space. His sanctum of reflection. Ari’Arshi had lived in this small room for over eighty years. His Tau eyes had watched as his people had continued to bring The Great Solace to the universe. Once he had felt comfort that so many had come to be welcomed by the Tau Empire and he had been a part of it. The chamber was only a dozen feet across and not much taller than himself. He needed no more room than this. The curved walls revealed an alcove for him to sleep in and his few possessions were stored in yet another smaller alcove. A light seemed to come form the center of the room as if projected from mid space.
He had recently come from the Chamber of the Ethereals. A place where they gathered to meet, plan, and reflect. The Etherials had met around a completely circular table. Each sat on his Hani mat on the floor with the low meeting table before them. Holographic projections would arrive describing various strategies and plans. Images were beamed to them from the field giving detailed information to their council. When Ari’Arshi had first returned to the council chamber after his absence some of his peers had been unquiet. He had disgraced himself in their eyes. His warriors had been butchered and many taken as captives. Yet he had found a way to escape. Many thought he should be cast down. The council had agreed to give him preference simply because he had held such prestige in the past. The chair of the council had commented that to cast down such honor, so dearly earned, because of one blemish was foolish and not for the greater good. Many had still looked at him out of the sides of their eyes. He saw them looking. He knew their hatred. He felt it in his head.
After several weeks of rehabilitation he had returned to his duties. Often as they reviewed the trade domination routes or the macro sector conflicts his mind seemed to focus on other things. His usually calm thoughts were conflicted with dark shapes and shadows. Grim faces or the tortured images of his massacred Fire Warriors seemed to arrive in his thoughts. Often he had to chant the Sava’shus in his head to expel the horrid images.
At a recent meeting the council had discussed a string of lost transport ships. The Council struggled with apparent miscommunication messages that the ships had received. The signals from the local Caste World directed the ships into unstable warp space or a gas giant and they were lost. As the Etherials had discussed how the computers could possibly have misdirected so many transport ships Ari’Arshi's mind became racked with the screams of his dead charges. He saw their flesh boiling off in horrible pits of oil. He saw parts of his old brethren sewn together with other creatures in twisted abominations. His mind seemed not his own and as he slowly chanted the Sava’shus in his head the council came to no conclusion about the reason for the lost ships.
Nights would pass and in his mind the images would return. When asleep he could not dispel them. Often it would feel as though he were looking through someone else’s eyes. He would see the grim and nightmarish things that those outside the Great Solace do. Dark passageways would confront him. Tall winding stairways ran with the dark blood of the Tau. The dreadful eldar pirates would appear in his mind, sometimes speaking to him, and other times he would see them terrorizing his captured warriors. One night he woke with a start. A dull klaxon sounded in the halls outside his chamber. As he awoke the faces and horrors retreated from his head. He later learned that somehow Eldar Raiders had been able to override the control codes on the proximity detectors of the Haf'nusu Frontier and attack local Tau Colonies. Soon in his dreams he came to see those very colonists being brutalized by the Eldar.
He relaxed on the edge of his rest alcove. His mind was tired. He had just returned from another long examination of the lost ships. Two more transports had been misdirected in the last week. No system errors had occurred. It was almost as though someone were sending the ships faulty commands. Ari’Arshi had barely been able to keep is mind on the conversation. The images were in his mind. A Dark Eldar pirate vixen queen had stood behind a kneeling Tau warrior. She had pulled his head back. Her hand firmly gripped on his top knot. The young warrior was looking up at her with his throat exposed. She slowly drew a long blade across his throat and let the arterial blood spray out. It hit her splattering wide on her stomach, chest, and chin. The sickly red splattering against her skin and dress. She grinned with blood stained teeth. Ari’Arshi felt she was looking directly at him. Her laughter haunted him.
He pulled his robe back from his leg. His grey flesh exposed. Long cut scars could be seen. They were not as the normal Tau tattoos but clumsy infected wounds. This was the only way he knew solace now. The pain he caused himself rivaled the images in his head much better than his almost forgotten chants. When the blade bit into him he felt the terrible images leave him alone. He felt that the pain satisfied them. He took a small blade from an adjacent alcove. It was a ceremonial weapon with carefully made etching and symbols. He placed it to an unharmed part of his skin and slowly drew it across his flesh. Crimson blood seemed to bubble from the new wound. He breathed out a slow sigh of relief.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Five: The Gift
It was a low cage. About six feet high and across. Some sort of straight wood lashed together held the entire structure tight. It was in a pit about twenty feet deep with straight walls and an opening to the sky. A number of other cages lay about the wide chamber. The wood cage had sustained very little damage as a result of the fall but this could not be said for its contents. When the grots had dropped the cage from the edge of the pit it had crashed down the wall. Its fall was impeded only by a small outcrop of rock. When it hit the rock it made the cage spin as it fell crashing to the ground on its side. Succubus Yanaloo’s leg had been smashed on impact and she had spent the first two days in the pit in a pain filled daze. By now she was so weak and feverish that she drifted from sub-conciseness to an uneasy restlessness.
When she first had seen rats moving about the floor of the chamber she had hoped possibly to catch one and consume it. Several of them converged on a shape in one of the other cages and the form offered no resistance. After some reflection she realized that they were waiting for her to die and consume her. She would rather they eat her alive than be returned to the goblin horde that had brought her here. When captured she and several of her kin had been transported on motorized trucks. With belching engines and large wheels they had bounced across the open territory of the grasslands back to the camp of the grot rebellion. She had been face down on the back of a wagon and seen very little of the camp or the cage before she had been placed in it. She had been surprised that they had not made a spectacle of her. Had things been reversed she would have bathed in the pain of her foe. Given the opportunity she would have stripped them, ridiculed them, and then butchered them. As the cage was carried toward the pit she had seen the bodies of the Dark Eldar warriors, armor removed, limbs removed, and eaten raw. The head and torso of a lifeless Eldar form, solid with rigor, bobbed from a black cauldron, cooking. She could barely fathom boiling something that was already dead. What was the purpose? She pitied the grots. They simply saw the Eldar as a meal.
On the third day in the pit she became aware that someone was watching her. Weak from solace and close to death she struggled to open her eyes. She could barely get them open. She lifted her head, weak from a lack of water and a lack of sustaining pain. The only misery she could take comfort in was her own. It was the only thing that kept her alive. The form that she saw regarding her was repulsive to her. Though he stood confident she could see his age. Long green robes, slightly worn, encompassed him. He wore several pendants and chains each with odd images, bones, and symbols that she didn’t recognize. Behind him she thought she saw several shapes. One seemed to move behind his head, several lights emanating from it. She could not see his companions but the man was bathed in a sickly almost putrid yellow light. The human spoke several words she didn’t understand.
“What gift is this that my old friend has sent me?” The confessor stooped down closer to the form in the cage. Yanaloo groaned and forced herself up onto an elbow. She could feel her life sapping away from her as she willed herself upward. The dried blood on her leg cracked and she moaned as her broken bones shifted. She reached her hand to the bars above her and pulled herself upright. Supporting herself on her good leg, her broken one hung limp.
Confessor Sylax viewed her. She seemed to snarl in pain or aggression, he couldn’t tell. Her leg was smashed. While she was well toned her body was on the verge of collapse due to lack of water and food. He could see that she needed some other type of sustenance but he couldn’t tell what. What remained of her armor hung off her revealing pale blood crusted flesh. Drug injection tubes that had once stimulated her were limp and cracked. Where they entered her flesh blisters and red sores had formed. Her skin and clothing was smeared with dried blood and dirt. Stands of matted hair hung at her shoulders and over her face. She was breathing hard, shaking from with withdrawal, and as she exhaled she blew her hair aside. The matted mess returned over her forehead and in front of her eyes. Relying completely on her arms gripped to the bars above she finally pulled herself to almost her full height. Solid eyes behind raged hair. She tried to speak but failed.
“Don’t speak my pilgrim” he was now speaking in the Dark Eldar language. Sylax raised his hand as if to bless her. “I shall purge you of your sins to the Emperor and while I will not be your ‘play thing’ I know you shall enjoy the plans I have for you.”
When she first had seen rats moving about the floor of the chamber she had hoped possibly to catch one and consume it. Several of them converged on a shape in one of the other cages and the form offered no resistance. After some reflection she realized that they were waiting for her to die and consume her. She would rather they eat her alive than be returned to the goblin horde that had brought her here. When captured she and several of her kin had been transported on motorized trucks. With belching engines and large wheels they had bounced across the open territory of the grasslands back to the camp of the grot rebellion. She had been face down on the back of a wagon and seen very little of the camp or the cage before she had been placed in it. She had been surprised that they had not made a spectacle of her. Had things been reversed she would have bathed in the pain of her foe. Given the opportunity she would have stripped them, ridiculed them, and then butchered them. As the cage was carried toward the pit she had seen the bodies of the Dark Eldar warriors, armor removed, limbs removed, and eaten raw. The head and torso of a lifeless Eldar form, solid with rigor, bobbed from a black cauldron, cooking. She could barely fathom boiling something that was already dead. What was the purpose? She pitied the grots. They simply saw the Eldar as a meal.
On the third day in the pit she became aware that someone was watching her. Weak from solace and close to death she struggled to open her eyes. She could barely get them open. She lifted her head, weak from a lack of water and a lack of sustaining pain. The only misery she could take comfort in was her own. It was the only thing that kept her alive. The form that she saw regarding her was repulsive to her. Though he stood confident she could see his age. Long green robes, slightly worn, encompassed him. He wore several pendants and chains each with odd images, bones, and symbols that she didn’t recognize. Behind him she thought she saw several shapes. One seemed to move behind his head, several lights emanating from it. She could not see his companions but the man was bathed in a sickly almost putrid yellow light. The human spoke several words she didn’t understand.
“What gift is this that my old friend has sent me?” The confessor stooped down closer to the form in the cage. Yanaloo groaned and forced herself up onto an elbow. She could feel her life sapping away from her as she willed herself upward. The dried blood on her leg cracked and she moaned as her broken bones shifted. She reached her hand to the bars above her and pulled herself upright. Supporting herself on her good leg, her broken one hung limp.
Confessor Sylax viewed her. She seemed to snarl in pain or aggression, he couldn’t tell. Her leg was smashed. While she was well toned her body was on the verge of collapse due to lack of water and food. He could see that she needed some other type of sustenance but he couldn’t tell what. What remained of her armor hung off her revealing pale blood crusted flesh. Drug injection tubes that had once stimulated her were limp and cracked. Where they entered her flesh blisters and red sores had formed. Her skin and clothing was smeared with dried blood and dirt. Stands of matted hair hung at her shoulders and over her face. She was breathing hard, shaking from with withdrawal, and as she exhaled she blew her hair aside. The matted mess returned over her forehead and in front of her eyes. Relying completely on her arms gripped to the bars above she finally pulled herself to almost her full height. Solid eyes behind raged hair. She tried to speak but failed.
“Don’t speak my pilgrim” he was now speaking in the Dark Eldar language. Sylax raised his hand as if to bless her. “I shall purge you of your sins to the Emperor and while I will not be your ‘play thing’ I know you shall enjoy the plans I have for you.”
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Revised Rules for Existing Units ~ Part One
Mandrakes
Mandrakes should be a unique and versatile unit. However but are rarely played simply because they carry little punch at the end of their nifty deployment tricks. Rather than giving them new skills or a leader their specialty should be enhanced to emphasize their character and improve them. I would make the following modifications to the Hidden Deployment rule: Rather than placing 3 models on the table to represent the location of the unit the DE player should be able to place all the models in the squad across the table as infiltrators. This will represent the possible lurking locations of the Mandrakes and create terror and confusion much as they should. Mandrakes may remain 'lurking' through to the last turn of the game. While Lurking they may move as described in the Codex. Mandrakes should never be scoring units.
Grotesques
Grotesques should be a more versatile choice. An army should be able to rely heavily on these units. They should be considered heavy choices. A variety of changes should be available. Regular Grotesques should be able to be taken in 20 unit squads provided they are lead by an Homunculi. Uber Grotesques: up to 10 unit size (as detailed in current codex). Sabotage Grotesques: up to 10 unit size. Hidden in a single 10 man DE Warrior squad. They act as a warrior squad until revealed in the movement phase and they become regular grotesques.
Mandrakes should be a unique and versatile unit. However but are rarely played simply because they carry little punch at the end of their nifty deployment tricks. Rather than giving them new skills or a leader their specialty should be enhanced to emphasize their character and improve them. I would make the following modifications to the Hidden Deployment rule: Rather than placing 3 models on the table to represent the location of the unit the DE player should be able to place all the models in the squad across the table as infiltrators. This will represent the possible lurking locations of the Mandrakes and create terror and confusion much as they should. Mandrakes may remain 'lurking' through to the last turn of the game. While Lurking they may move as described in the Codex. Mandrakes should never be scoring units.
Grotesques
Grotesques should be a more versatile choice. An army should be able to rely heavily on these units. They should be considered heavy choices. A variety of changes should be available. Regular Grotesques should be able to be taken in 20 unit squads provided they are lead by an Homunculi. Uber Grotesques: up to 10 unit size (as detailed in current codex). Sabotage Grotesques: up to 10 unit size. Hidden in a single 10 man DE Warrior squad. They act as a warrior squad until revealed in the movement phase and they become regular grotesques.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Four: Sabotage Grotesque
Viewed from above one could see piles of bodies were scattered across the ground. From the prospect of a jetbike flying high it could be seen that once this area had been a manicured lawn of a stately house. However, many years of war between the Tau and Humans had brought it low. It was now an overgrown rubble strewn field. An old impact crater could be seen beside what looked like some sort of empty fountain. Nearby was the brown and black husk of the long bombed out mansion. As with the ruined field the ruined forms of dozens of Tau warriors lay about. Recently slain by Eldar Pirates. Some of the forms still moved, slowly though. It was the quiet movement of the mortally wounded. The light colored earthen yellow and blues of their uniforms were contrasted with their highly oxygenated blood. The dark, almost black, of their blood was strewn all around. Dark Eldar warriors walked about seeking those Tau still in pain. Seeking to prolong it.
When the wyches descended on the Tau their fate had been sealed. Many of these young warriors had been expecting to fight humans. They were felled before they even saw the sudden arrival of the wyches. From warp gates activated in secret dozens of yards away in the ruin of a guest house three raider skiffs had appeared. The transport platforms were moving at full speed when they came out of the gates and it only took a matter of seconds for them to reach the Tau firing line. The few shots that the Fire Warriors did get off missed and were made more in panic than resolve. Thirty wyches leapt from the raiders in a mad frenzy of hatred and blades. Attacking over twice their number didn’t phase them because in a moment the Tau were reduced to only a hand full of warriors and mech battle suits gathered around their revered Ethereal.
Nets had been used to pull down the Mechs. Their robotic arms twisted oddly against the monophiliment wire that cut into the metal. The had Ethereal whirled about striking back at the wyches with a double bladed weapon. He inspired his few remaining kin to hold fast but he eventually succumbed. A Noose Foil swung by Gladiator Usanti looped around the Etherial’s head and one of his arms and pulled him off his feet. The Tau leader’s white robes had torn when he hit the ruddy grass. The strangulated leader had rolled about pathetically, captive and gasping. At the same moment Succubus Fynash’s Agonizer had cut across the last Crisis Suit’s hard exterior. The electrified poison had fried its internal workings and the massive wreck crashed to the ground smoke pouring from the joints.
Now the battle was over and Hosphel’s Jetbike slowly lowered to the ground stopping about three or four feet from the grassy earth. The bike had been augmented for two. A rider sat in the forward position and a second saddle had been added for the Drachite. Hosphel stood to step off the bike and indicated to her pilot to remain. Dark Eldar warriors moved quickly away as she strode confidently across the field. She walked toward a group of her fellow wyches that stood around one of the fallen battle suits. They parted as she approached revealing the object of their examination.
The bulk of the ruined Crisis Suit served as a platform. Its massive torso was shattered but the wide surface of its chest served as a table. The Ethereal lay on the platform. He had been placed there by his eldar captors. Still alive he struggled against the restraints he had been placed under. His deep dark blood seethed from beneath his bindings. He was tied face up with his arms and legs spread wide and secured by cables to the hulk on which he laid. His head twisted back and forth as he pulled fruitlessly at the cables. His robes had been pulled aside revealing the curve of his wide grey alien chest which was adorned with the circular tattoos of his rank. Hospheld stood over him looking down at him. The Ethereal’s dark eyes fixated on his tall pale enemy. The Ethereal’s mouth moved and odd sounds arrived. The Drachite ignored them.
She reached into a pouch that she had inside the breastplate in her amour. From it she pulled several small bean like objects. Not taking her eyes from the Tau’s dark orbs she crushed the beans between her fingers. Sickly black ichors appeared from the shell. She placed her long fingers against the Tau’s chest and rubbed the ichor into the creature’s pores.
“This is a gift from the Grand Archon Actev Nu” she said in the Tau’s odd language. As she forcefully rubbed the liquid into the grey skin of her captive the ichor seemed to run into the crevices of his body of its own accord. The Tau began writhing in pain as the liquid entered his body through his flesh. Spasms overtook him as he cried out. The eldar nearby seemed excited by the occurrence, some licking their lips as they watched his suffering. Hospheld continued to rub the toxin into his chest even as he bucked. She forced him down with the palm of her hand.
The Tau eventually relaxed and went quiet. Hosphel grinned. She took her hand, still with the seemingly alive ichor on it and rubbed it to her own chest. She could feel the small particles that made up the ichor moving on her skin, entering her pores, small robotic particles. She winced in pain as the microbe sized machines entered her. They would enter her body and then her brain as they had done with this Tau. Tonight, when in her chamber, she would enter the trance needed to activate her probes and would see through the eyes of this Tau. Through her microbes she could see through his eyes. She could control his actions. She could manipulate him without him even knowing it. This Tau would return to his home to his leadership role and Hosphel would go with him. He was her Sabotage Grotesque.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Three: Captured
Succubus Ylanoo was breathing heavily. Standing in a field. Her upper torso rising and falling with each breath. Short stubby grasses surrounded her on the gentle slope. A line of blood and button sized drops were scattered on her burnt orange amour. The blood continued onto the flesh of her exposed shoulder. The blood of grots was everywhere. It covered the ground and amongst it lay the chucks and forms of the rag covered bodies of small green goblins. She held her whip Agoniser to one side catching her breath. It writhed of its own accord. Her gladiators stood nearby in similar states of recovery. The sheer volume was almost overwhelming. Every time she had drawn her whip it had felled scores of them and still there were more. During the fight she had seen Dylathu literally picking them up and cleaving them apart with his Hydra Knives. None of the elves had fallen but they had been taxed.
What trickery was this? She asked herself. She had fought vile orks before but this fight was beneath her. The grots offered no resistance beyond their sheer volume. She looked up to see her raider being pelted with small slugs, it jerked about in the air, the impacts not really damaging it. Then a massive shell hit the front scoop of the raider lifting the gunner from his position and pulverizing the craft. Two of the gunner’s limbs came free of his body as the impact carried him. The flaming wreck of the Raider hit the ground before the gunner’s body did. She turned toward the direction the shot had come from and saw another mammoth swarm of these insignificant grots. They were close. Shells started hitting her brethren. Her rage at being forced to fight these pathetic adversaries was almost equalized with being caught in the open. It was all that sustained her.
One of her sparing partners, Accolade Gumath was hit in the jaw by a slug and his head came apart. Another wych fell, a shell hitting his chest armor, searing through it, and clearing a massive cavity in his back. Ylanoo loosed a cracked armor plate from her leg and ran toward the grots. It fell away like so may of her peers. This fight was punishment for her disloyalty. Her lord had become displeased with her. He had sent her to fight the foe that was most beneath her. Having her kill these was his way of punishing her. When the wyches finally hit the grots there were only three of the gladiators left. Ylanoo’s Agonzier flew into the ranks of raging grots splitting one clear in half. It seemed like there were hundreds of them. One seemed to almost fly out of the crowd and hit her in the head. He hung on. Another leapt up fastening himself to her wrist with a bite. Ylanoo pulled them off but they came back faster than they could be removed.
She saw the nets fly overhead and glanced to see her last peer pulled to the ground. A long rusty knife slid into the side of his neck, the goblin grinning. The net pulled her to the ground, her shoulder striking the dense earth. The mob closed in. She screamed not in pain but in anguish. The ultimate punishment had been metered out upon her. She was a captive to the lowest, a prisoner of the weakest, a plaything of the playthings. As they holstered her bound form up over them she pined for that rusty blade.
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Two: The Curved Courtyards of Commoragh
Small white up-lights along walls did little to influence the black granite floors bathed in red. Long passageways lined with pillars lead to open air chambers. Statues of the kin of old still stood in the curved courtyards of Commoragh. They stood with cloths or hoods thrown over their stone faces. The statues’ blasphemers had been unable to look upon the faces of their old cousins and were too afraid to pull the statues to the ground. Granite stairways led to rooms long empty and pillars supported the high ceilings. Each day slaves quietly scrubbed the floors to a high polished shine. Through arched windows along a passageway the bruise colored Commorragh sky could be seen.
Lady Hosphel walked these passageways confident in her almost supreme power. As she walked long heeled boots clicked on the stone floors and small pendants about her hips rattled together. A long purple robe hung about her shoulders to the floor. It was tied at the waist. She carried herself as one who holds the knowledge that none could best her in martial combat. Her mind had been excoriated of fear and muted to the horrors she had seen. In fact she had come to love those horrors that she had faced.
She entered a small open air court yard. It was octagonal in shape with no apparent exits. Beyond the simple arch where she had entered the wall sections were dull and unpolished. In some places the black stone seemed rotten, blotchy and crumbing. It was as if this small garden had been abandoned even by the slaves. It was in direct contrast to the perfectly manicured walls in the previous passageways. A burnt tree stood in the middle of the small court yard. It was about twice her height but seemed also to cower from her confident form. The tree had once grown from an opening in the ground but now its charred remains simply twisted up like an old skeletal hand protruding from a sleeve.
Statues stood where each of the wall sections met. They were raised on dais’ and looked down on the tree in the middle of the garden. These Eldar forms were from the old times when this was the city of all Eldar. Those old ancestors had their mouths and eyes bound with red cloth.
Hosphel stopped before the tree. She reached for one of the trinkets that hung about her waist and lifted it. It looked much like a small coin. She rubbed it between her forefinger and thumb and as she did she watched the covered eyes of the old ancestors to be assured they were not looking. In an instant the tree was transformed. Its branches re-knitting themselves as if a spasmodic force were shaking the tree and forcing it against its will to remake itself. As it formed into a gate before her, like a rusty gate into an old lonely garden, she recalled millennia ago when she would never have had to force this gate. It had been always open. As she stepped through the gate she recalled that once all the places these gates had led to had been bright and warm. She had never concerned herself about what lay beyond. Her dress whipped about her, blown by a strong warm wind as she stepped from the old garden into a chamber far below the surface of the city that few knew. As the wind settled the fabric of her dress she felt her flesh chill at the prospect of what lay before her and though she enjoyed the sensation her once mighty confidence was gone.
Lady Hosphel walked these passageways confident in her almost supreme power. As she walked long heeled boots clicked on the stone floors and small pendants about her hips rattled together. A long purple robe hung about her shoulders to the floor. It was tied at the waist. She carried herself as one who holds the knowledge that none could best her in martial combat. Her mind had been excoriated of fear and muted to the horrors she had seen. In fact she had come to love those horrors that she had faced.
She entered a small open air court yard. It was octagonal in shape with no apparent exits. Beyond the simple arch where she had entered the wall sections were dull and unpolished. In some places the black stone seemed rotten, blotchy and crumbing. It was as if this small garden had been abandoned even by the slaves. It was in direct contrast to the perfectly manicured walls in the previous passageways. A burnt tree stood in the middle of the small court yard. It was about twice her height but seemed also to cower from her confident form. The tree had once grown from an opening in the ground but now its charred remains simply twisted up like an old skeletal hand protruding from a sleeve.
Statues stood where each of the wall sections met. They were raised on dais’ and looked down on the tree in the middle of the garden. These Eldar forms were from the old times when this was the city of all Eldar. Those old ancestors had their mouths and eyes bound with red cloth.
Hosphel stopped before the tree. She reached for one of the trinkets that hung about her waist and lifted it. It looked much like a small coin. She rubbed it between her forefinger and thumb and as she did she watched the covered eyes of the old ancestors to be assured they were not looking. In an instant the tree was transformed. Its branches re-knitting themselves as if a spasmodic force were shaking the tree and forcing it against its will to remake itself. As it formed into a gate before her, like a rusty gate into an old lonely garden, she recalled millennia ago when she would never have had to force this gate. It had been always open. As she stepped through the gate she recalled that once all the places these gates had led to had been bright and warm. She had never concerned herself about what lay beyond. Her dress whipped about her, blown by a strong warm wind as she stepped from the old garden into a chamber far below the surface of the city that few knew. As the wind settled the fabric of her dress she felt her flesh chill at the prospect of what lay before her and though she enjoyed the sensation her once mighty confidence was gone.
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part One: The Rancid Blade
The Grand Archon Actev Nu of the Kabal of the Rancid Blade reclined on a solid backless Romanesque sofa aloft one of the many balconies of his mighty citadel. The view below of the Dark City’s towers was so familiar to him. Crimson, sultry, cruel. Behind him appeared the high mistress of the Archon’s gladiatorial court Lady Drachite Hosphel. She was dressed in the long orange robes of the Archon’s chamber rather than her combat attire.
“Why do you not prepare for the hunt?” the old Archon asked his eyes not moving from the skyline. “My arena grows silent”.
“My gladiators and wyches ready themselves as we speak” she spoke quietly also looking out to the red of the sky. “I need the shadow for my protection”.
“Do you not trust your own skills?” The Archon asked “Do you fear pain or combat?” He turned to face her, leaning on his elbow.
“No. I seek to gather the most tools and adversaries for your arena and do not concern myself with my own prowess” She replied. “I seek the most diabolical foes for thee, the best prepared and inconceivable enemies, and the most appropriate nemesis”. He slowly sat up on his sofa shifting his feet to the granite floor and looked up at her for signs of betrayal. She squatted down before him on the balls of her bare feet looking into his old eyes with no more vice in her heart than what he saw and knew was there. “Take all you desire, all the lances and reavers, all the raiders and all the keys to all the gates. Make your cult as ferocious as those you seek”. She grinned revealing etched teeth beyond cold red lips. The Archon grinned also reaching to a silver tray at his side and taking from it a large piece of blue stained cheese. He placed it between his lips.
“Why do you not prepare for the hunt?” the old Archon asked his eyes not moving from the skyline. “My arena grows silent”.
“My gladiators and wyches ready themselves as we speak” she spoke quietly also looking out to the red of the sky. “I need the shadow for my protection”.
“Do you not trust your own skills?” The Archon asked “Do you fear pain or combat?” He turned to face her, leaning on his elbow.
“No. I seek to gather the most tools and adversaries for your arena and do not concern myself with my own prowess” She replied. “I seek the most diabolical foes for thee, the best prepared and inconceivable enemies, and the most appropriate nemesis”. He slowly sat up on his sofa shifting his feet to the granite floor and looked up at her for signs of betrayal. She squatted down before him on the balls of her bare feet looking into his old eyes with no more vice in her heart than what he saw and knew was there. “Take all you desire, all the lances and reavers, all the raiders and all the keys to all the gates. Make your cult as ferocious as those you seek”. She grinned revealing etched teeth beyond cold red lips. The Archon grinned also reaching to a silver tray at his side and taking from it a large piece of blue stained cheese. He placed it between his lips.
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Prolouge: The Sunward Side of Mordia
The sunward side of Mordia is a twisted fractured tumult of blasted rock and glass. Desolate and lonesome, it stands in contrast to the night strewn side of the planet with its hives of congested humanity. The hive cities cling parasitically to the forever night side of Mordia.
There is a pilgrimage from the sweltering nighttime side of Mordia to the sun scrutinized side. It is told that Confessor Sylax made this walk once, as an accolade, a sandal footed novice. Long before he wore the mantel of Arch Confessor and long before the siege of Haruum. It was at Haruum where he led the newly formed 27th Mordian Regiment to victory. For fifteen years he led them against the vast alien horde and prevailed. He renamed the regiment the “Hammers” and they swore fidelity to him for all time. It is said Colonel Steib, the leader of the 27th, can withstand the horrible wounds wrought on him only because Sylax wishes it.
Preachers, zealots, evangelicals, pilgrims all have walked the eight year trek through the hive grottos and residential cylos, down across the Grand Gateway of Night, into the twilight shanty towns that surround the hives for hundreds of miles. Two years walking the Trail of the Desperate through the hive shanties fighting off underhive scum and brutal gangers. As the pilgrim walks he walks farther and farther from the protective watch of the Iron Guard and the calculations of the Tetrarchs of Mordia. Sylax walked these ways, sometimes in shadows and sometimes holding the light of the Imperium high above his head as a torch. He walked using the darkness when it suited him and revealing the light when he sensed fear among his foes.
The ‘sunrise’ of Mordia is one in which the farther one walks toward the sun the higher it rises in the sky. The point at which the pilgrim first sees Mordia’s stationary sun peaking above the horizon is called the Balance of Mordia. The ground in the place where one first spies the sun is strewn with the dead and their possessions. It is cursed. Shacks sit, many empty and dust strewn, where pilgrims have stopped on their journey often never to leave. Whispers tell that decades after Sylax first passed this way on his pilgrimage, he chose this place to parley with the cursed Eldar. He shared drink with the devil and his mistresses. Wretched fools who saw the horrible handshake were driven mad by Sylax’s scheming. Shrines have been erected to the mighty balance of day and night that this place represents. As one proceeds one finds the humidity of the night receding to reveal Mordia’s true character: the nearby sun’s hell blasted fury.
Pilgrims who have made it this far, when the sun is full above the horizon, are called the Wayward. The trail becomes vague marked only by the cracked bones of the fallen, the broken shoes, discarded objects, the skulls of twelve thousand years. Pilgrims have made this trek since before Horus made his foul pilgrimage to the halls of Terra so long ago. Pilgrims pick their way through badlands of razor rocks and blunt glass, of salt fields and sand dunes. They walk past the face of the Morall Mountains, and the Horn itself. As they walk for days the sun rises slowly, never setting, only as they move does the sun seem to slide toward the highpoint of the sky. There is a place, marked only by a sand torn imperial icon where Sylax’s last follower fell. Though the sun is high in the sky Pilgrims who make it this far know they still have a year to travel before they reach solace.
That place where the sun is at its most highest the pilgrimage comes to an end. It is called Mission Del Mordia. When most reach this spot they see only the lonely image of a shanty town. Many structures have fallen and others are scattered about the landscape encircling a small icon to the Emperor. To have traveled for so long and to find only ruin have driven men to die of madness. However, it is told that those of faith who see this desolation and still have faith in the Emperor find something beyond the shacks. They find an oasis in the desert. For those still faithful an old Mission stands along with a vineyard and a lake tended by cloistered sisters. The Order of the Cloistered Madam tends the grapes and bathes those that make it to the Mission and still have faith.
Though Arch Confessor Sylax has made peace with the Archons of Commoragh and holds sway over a vast Imperial Guard Legion and has hundreds of minions tending to his vile plans throughout the Imperium he still finds this garden when he visits, he gains sustenance from the wines of The Cloistered Madam, and is tended in by the sisters because he has faith in the Emperor of Man.
There is a pilgrimage from the sweltering nighttime side of Mordia to the sun scrutinized side. It is told that Confessor Sylax made this walk once, as an accolade, a sandal footed novice. Long before he wore the mantel of Arch Confessor and long before the siege of Haruum. It was at Haruum where he led the newly formed 27th Mordian Regiment to victory. For fifteen years he led them against the vast alien horde and prevailed. He renamed the regiment the “Hammers” and they swore fidelity to him for all time. It is said Colonel Steib, the leader of the 27th, can withstand the horrible wounds wrought on him only because Sylax wishes it.
Preachers, zealots, evangelicals, pilgrims all have walked the eight year trek through the hive grottos and residential cylos, down across the Grand Gateway of Night, into the twilight shanty towns that surround the hives for hundreds of miles. Two years walking the Trail of the Desperate through the hive shanties fighting off underhive scum and brutal gangers. As the pilgrim walks he walks farther and farther from the protective watch of the Iron Guard and the calculations of the Tetrarchs of Mordia. Sylax walked these ways, sometimes in shadows and sometimes holding the light of the Imperium high above his head as a torch. He walked using the darkness when it suited him and revealing the light when he sensed fear among his foes.
The ‘sunrise’ of Mordia is one in which the farther one walks toward the sun the higher it rises in the sky. The point at which the pilgrim first sees Mordia’s stationary sun peaking above the horizon is called the Balance of Mordia. The ground in the place where one first spies the sun is strewn with the dead and their possessions. It is cursed. Shacks sit, many empty and dust strewn, where pilgrims have stopped on their journey often never to leave. Whispers tell that decades after Sylax first passed this way on his pilgrimage, he chose this place to parley with the cursed Eldar. He shared drink with the devil and his mistresses. Wretched fools who saw the horrible handshake were driven mad by Sylax’s scheming. Shrines have been erected to the mighty balance of day and night that this place represents. As one proceeds one finds the humidity of the night receding to reveal Mordia’s true character: the nearby sun’s hell blasted fury.
Pilgrims who have made it this far, when the sun is full above the horizon, are called the Wayward. The trail becomes vague marked only by the cracked bones of the fallen, the broken shoes, discarded objects, the skulls of twelve thousand years. Pilgrims have made this trek since before Horus made his foul pilgrimage to the halls of Terra so long ago. Pilgrims pick their way through badlands of razor rocks and blunt glass, of salt fields and sand dunes. They walk past the face of the Morall Mountains, and the Horn itself. As they walk for days the sun rises slowly, never setting, only as they move does the sun seem to slide toward the highpoint of the sky. There is a place, marked only by a sand torn imperial icon where Sylax’s last follower fell. Though the sun is high in the sky Pilgrims who make it this far know they still have a year to travel before they reach solace.
That place where the sun is at its most highest the pilgrimage comes to an end. It is called Mission Del Mordia. When most reach this spot they see only the lonely image of a shanty town. Many structures have fallen and others are scattered about the landscape encircling a small icon to the Emperor. To have traveled for so long and to find only ruin have driven men to die of madness. However, it is told that those of faith who see this desolation and still have faith in the Emperor find something beyond the shacks. They find an oasis in the desert. For those still faithful an old Mission stands along with a vineyard and a lake tended by cloistered sisters. The Order of the Cloistered Madam tends the grapes and bathes those that make it to the Mission and still have faith.
Though Arch Confessor Sylax has made peace with the Archons of Commoragh and holds sway over a vast Imperial Guard Legion and has hundreds of minions tending to his vile plans throughout the Imperium he still finds this garden when he visits, he gains sustenance from the wines of The Cloistered Madam, and is tended in by the sisters because he has faith in the Emperor of Man.
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