NationStates Jolt Archive

((This is half an RP, half a short story in the works. Obviously, only those who could somehow justify, IC, having characters aboard Blade's Kiss or one of the other ships may participate. Currently, those people are: C'tan (Nightbringer), Melkor or other members of Arda, or anyone from whom I've taken slaves (Siri, Aelosia, Tor, Atlantian Outcasts, etc.). ))

"My lord," a voice calls into the darkness, trembling with fright, "there is something that you should see."

Irritation briefly flares in Kher Rath le'Sheya, to have his practice-meditation cut short; he briefly considers killing the silhouette outlined by the soft red light let in through the doorway. Instead, he thumbs off the power to his relic weapon and begins gathering the scattered peices of his Incubus armor.

"Go and prepare my arrival, slave," Rath quietly commands. He pays no attention as the sniveling, tortured thing, which had once been an Eldar of the Necropolis Craftworld, sketches terrified bows and backs away from the door. It is, after all, of no importance, just another of the Haemonculus-toys jumping at its own shadow. Still, the scent of its fear lingers in the air and brings a thin smile to Rath's lips.

By the time the lanky Incubus dons his armor, as ancient as the arcane power-glaive N'wah Man, and makes his way past a small army of barely clothed slaves and eldar alike, every soldier on the bridge of Blade's Kiss stands at attention. Their tension strikes Rath like a blow as he enters. He pauses in the middle of a step, one foot inches from the floor, as he tries to sort out the psychic version of being in a room full of people sweating with nerves.

"What has happened?" he growls, fully aware of the spike of fear his presence brings to the mood on the bridge. Suddenly, no one will look at him.

Rath's anger grows at the sudden timidness of his soldiers. Only the cowering craftworlder dares stammer out, "Nascia has... has been... murdered, Great Lord. By the Faceless Lord. He... he has returned. And he was... displeased... at, at being replaced."


((To be continued...))

((Bump...))

The sepulchre of the Bade’s Kiss, as was the usual term for the ship-board residence of a Yngir, was bereft of many of the technological accoutrements that Khalis Ra would normally insist upon – not that many of them would be of much use to him now, as he was unable to use them. It had been a small miracle that he had been able to regain the strength to take an avatar once more. Instead it was a place of abyssal horror, a copy of the far larger lair he possessed in Commoragh.

This one was lined wraithbone, corrupted from the wraithbone that made up the craftworlds of the Eldar. This version oozed the agonies of its victims. It had victims – spirit stones of the Eldar, preserved within them were the souls of captured Yvressi from the last war between them and the Manmen kabal. Among those stones were others, containing the spirits of hemonculi who had provided particular amusement to the Yngir. They practiced their art on the helpless imprisoned Eldar for all time now, escape was impossible, as was the blissful release of death. Eventually, even the torturers succumbed to the hellish conditions in the agony circuit, but they were easily replaced.

Within the chamber, there was a vast pit of naked bodies – not yet dead, but mindless – psykers and telepaths captured from time to time were thrown in, there were about fifty of them now, in a pit of blood, tears, sweat and excrement, occasionally cleaned only to ensure they did not die (of course, the slaves assigned to clean it were thrown in afterward) – by that same logic the mindless creatures, the most sensitive of people, thrown in to absorb the leakage from the endlessly tortured elder occupying the very walls around them were occasionally fed and watered – writhed in maddened uncomprehending suffering.

From the centre of this pit of suffering – a pale reflection of the glorious horrors of Commoragh – a single tower soared. At the top of the tower was a plinth, occupied by the C’tan himself, and a bridge leading to the entrance to this horrific place. Some wretched creature was crawling along the bridge, in a desperate and likely fruitless pose of supplication. The nightbringer regarded it with the smouldering sulphur pits that served as its eyes, “Yes?” asked the black robed monstrosity.

Fear seems to have come to dominate the little slave's life recently. It fights the urge to scratch at the trickle of sweat between its shoulderblades. The corridors beyond the slave quarters are decidedly unhealthy; The Pit, as the Yngir's chamber has come to be known, is even more so.

"My Lord, the Lord Archon dema- requests! Requests your presence. He- what? No! Ple- AIIGHH!"

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Silence reigns on the bridge of Blade's Kiss. Not a single crewman dares call attention to himself, and Rath's bodyguards, Incubi and Mandrakes, are quiet shadows hidden in dark recesses. Like Nightbringer, Rath has a travel-sized version of his throne for the ship: a gravitic dais whose innards are hidden amongst countless humanoid skulls, surmounted by a shimmering throne of wraithbone. N'wah Man's stand rests beside the throne, in easy reach if necessary.

Rath himself stares out at the blackness of the void, and the glimmering stars.

A quiet hiss heralds the arrival of the Faceless Lord, one of the preeminent psykers among a culture that regards psychic power as a yummy treat. The eldar's blank mask is unmarred by any manner of speaker, eye slit, or rebreather. Such is his talent with his mind that rumor insists he consumes only souls for sustenance, and communicates directly with the minds of those around him.

"You have sent for me, Lord Incubus?" the Faceless Lord intones, almost as if at prayer. Even after hearing him speak, it is difficult to say whether the words were real or an illusion of a broken, if powerful, mind.

The tone of Rath's reply makes it clear it is not a question. "You were dead."

"I was, yes. But no longer. Killed in the dark streets of the false city, when our Archon was betrayed and the device detonated. The Yngir would have feasted that day, had he been present. "

"Why have you returned now?"

"You know why. You know who you face. Without Khalis Ra beside you, can you lay waste to the craftworld? Not you, but I can. They will see you, know your coming. I am hidden from their far sight." The masked man steps closer to the floating dais. "I was meant to command the Kabal. You were meant to command the Archon's guard. You will yield to me."

Rath's laughter echoes across the bridge, but does nothing to relieve the tension in the air.

((bump. Again))

The Nightbringer had taken a mild slice of amusement from watching the pit-creatures descend on the messenger, and paused for a while to listen to the howls as its body was torn apart by the ravenous, maddened creatures.

He stalked out, and picked up a few random retainers from the group that often lurked outside its chamber, and headed toward the bridge – if it could be called that – of the ship, to answer this Archon’s… request.