NationStates Jolt Archive

It was the most common, easiest, and best way to win wealth and renown in the realm of the Witch King. Slave raiding was a tradition ages old, dating back to the beginnings of the druchii people millennia past on the lost homeworld. The most popular target happened to be humans, as they were arguably the best slaves; they were plenty in number, quick to replenish, suitable for all tasks, and easily expendable. So the raiding fleets of the druchii set up waystations far out from the home system and all over the galaxy, and even far from the usual routes plied by the great Black Arks, so as to not draw too much attention to themselves. Commonly, a well-duisguised base on a moon or large asteroid in an otherwise empty star system worked perfectly...

It ws on one such station, one that sat hidden in the complex canyon system on the moon of some nameless dead planet on the far fringes of the galaxy that Lord Bruglir Costin, a minor noble of Karond Kar, made a rather startling discovery. Costin had only recently anchored his small fleet here, after having plundered some sort of luxury vessel carrying what appeared to be the descendants of their oldest foe; the Asur of Ulthuan. If they were related in some way or not, then older druchii lord didn't care; they would fetch an amazingly high price back at the market in Karond Kar or Clar Karond. As he sat and plotted about how to spend his new fortune and who he felt like having killed as a result, a subordinant interrupted him with a soft knock on his cabin's door...

Having resigned himself to interruption and gritted his teeth, the highborn permitted his retainer entry.

"What is it?" he growled, seeing that it was Hakoth, one of the newest and youngest men to wear his hadrillkar. "I do have better things to be doing, so unless this is worth a good strip of your hide..."

"Dread lord, yes, we thought it important to tell you the storms have blown out below," he said frankly, trying to stare at a point on the wall over Costin's shoulder, rather then look directly at his tempermental lord. "For the first time in known record, we've been able to scan the planet's surface."

"Mother of night..." he sighed, then bared his teeth. "It's a bloody dead rock! Why should I care if I can see the dirt now?"

"My lord..." Hakoth paused, trying to swallow his obvious excitement, "We've discovered fairly extensive tomb complexes..."

"Wait..." the highborn grinned suddenly, and light coming to his eyes, "Tombs?"

"Yes lord, they... they do bear a striking similarity to some human burial places we've discovered on plundered worlds, and they appear to be very, very old..."

"Hmmm... And we can access them now?"

"Yes, dread lord."

"Good. Ready the Witch's Bride, we'll make planetfall at once..."

---

About two hours later, the lithe form of Costin's flagship touched down on the sandblasted wasteland of a planet that the druchii hadn't bothered to name. It was a worthless rock, so they simply gave it the number 874. He lead the party himself, clad in his full plate harness, ahead of a party of thirty of his retainers and soldiers all armed and armoured to the teeth, with the one notable exception of Shal'nir, their autarii scout, who deemed fit to don only loose black robes no matter where he went. He, along with a quarter of the army, carried the large repeater crossbow favoured by their people, the coils of energized bolts casting a soft orange glow over the polished metal features of the weapon. Another half of the party, Costin's regular corsairs, carried their heavy bladed spear-rifles, called draichinnar, and had reflec shields slung over their packs. The remainder, Costin and his personal retainers were the only ones carrying real swords, their blades, for now, deactivated to save power. They also carried heavy pistols, though these were smaller, single-hand versions of the repeaters carried by the others. They were armed for war... but no sane druchii lord ever went abroad without such precautions.

It was a tomb, after all, they all agreed as they found what might have passed for a door on the front of the largest of the black pyramids. Costin scowled at the large metal slab, apparently trying to will it to open itself for him, while the rest of the men began to unpack tools.

"So, my lord?" Kal'dar, his senschal, asked as he approached to just beyond sword reach, "Does it look profitable?"

"Yes, Kal..." he suddenly grinned, "It does. There's no obvious signs of forced entry, so we're the first ones here... and perhaps only the dragons below know how long those storms last," taking a few steps forward, he touched the glossy black stone wall. "This must be ancient... but there's no wear at all, as if it was built yesterday," this just made his grin broader, "That means that whoever built these were advanced. Which means they would have left plenty of valuables behind... and they're just inside waiting for us,"

Kal'dar shared his lord's grin, and idly dreamt of what unknown alien treasures might await them while Costin turned to yell at his men to go faster, as ten of them had managed to wedge thick crowbars into the large, heavy metal plate covered in strange runes and glyphs. Slowly, too slowly for their lord's taste, they prised the portal off and stood before a dark hall of stone.

An unspoken command went through the party, and they broke out and attached witchfire lamps to the spears and bows. Each light cast a pale glow in the dark as Shal'nir the scout lead the way into the gloom...

The slab moved slowly, very slowly. The bars pressed into its sides didn’t mar or scrape it in the least, though with work, they themselves were worn; if further proof was needed of the advancement of those that had built the place that was certainly it. It wasn’t obvious how the builders of the place had intended to open it, but then, there was no reason to know that it was, initially. But it knew, for it had felt the scrape of bare skin upon it, and analysed what was written therein.

It wasn’t particularly secure, for it had been part of a city, once, long ago, and needed no defences against outsiders at the time of its construction, nor had it ever been predicted to. Nor would it now, but for distraction elsewhere.

The block moved out, sliding, seeming black and oily, its inner surface lined with golden traceries and filigrees that shone brightly when the light passed over them.

As the Druchii passed the portal, they could feel a change, for although the storm raged outside, past the barrier, the air was cool, and free of the grit thrown up by the perigee-storm. Stranger still, the sand brushed against the pyramid surface they’d displaced the entrance stone from, and skittered off as though it were still there, though they felt no resistance in entering.

The hall beyond was vast, flights of steps designed for creatures eerily similar to the druchii lead upwards, golden patterns enticing the intruders on, until they reached an interior gallery of the pyramid.

Rising on each side of them were tiered rows, linked by steps. Along the vertical walls of each ‘layer’ were depressions, man – druchii, even – sized. But that wasn’t what was immediately liable to draw attention.

On a circular plinth a single step above the intruders, an image appeared, as harsh lights snapped on, and then dimmed a little. The hologram was of a creature not dissimilar to themselves; humanoid, and so on, dressed in long, sombre robes of a yellow colour not dissimilar to the sands outside, with white hair closely cropped. He had blue-grey skin, with a touch of a darker shade on one cheek, and shockingly blue eyes.

With a slight gesture to one side, the intangible figure began speaking in some alien tongue, with a heavy emphasis on ‘Rrr’ and ‘shh’ sounds. After about a minute of this, it crossed its hands in a serene gesture and closed its eyes, leaving the interlopers to look around the place they violated with every draw of its surprisingly fresh air.

Wandering across the polished floor to one of the alcoves revealed a number of features about each recession in the wall, not least that they contained computer terminals of some kind, though apparently composed of metal as much as the very walls. They displayed row after row of text made up of small cuts, seemingly in the metal itself. When touched, they would variously scroll around, or change completely, sometimes inducing sounds in the same alien language. Images could be invoked, of individuals of the same species as the ‘greeter’ clearly suggesting once more that it was some form of tomb.

But this was likely uninteresting to the dark elves. However, at about waist height in each alcove, resting on padded trays, were innumerate gemstones. Diamonds and sapphires, in great quantity; each alcove containing a weight equivalent to about a fifth of one of the intruders, more, if one included countless ornate casings; earrings, crowns, sceptres, necklaces (the most common) and uncut stones, some greater than any that could be produced naturally. Diamond was the most common, followed by sapphire, but other coloured stones existed, emeralds and rubies, and other things besides, some for which there were no names.

Rank after rank of such alcoves filled the chamber; thousands of them, in all, tonnes of stones…

The chamber was deathly silent as the druchii party advanced, the only sounds being the clanking of their plated boots on the smooth metal floor, and quiet hiss of their rebreather units. At least, untill Lord Costin started laughing. As he was second in the lead behind the autarii, he'd seen the long rows of gemstones, trinkets, and other valuables worked in gold and silver. Enough treasure to buy him anything twice over! His mind raced as he thought of the possibilities. He could even buy the drachau's death, and still have enough left over to buy himself the seat of power and assauge the Witch King's wrath! The possibilities were endless with such treasure here, and what he held already in his hold...

It was Kal'dar's muffled voice that woke him from his reverie.

"Dread lord..." he said, tapping the side of his helmet that contained the com link, "I've word from the Blade. It's very faint, but the watch commander says that the storms are picking up again, and in a little over an hour they'll be intense enough to make leaving impossible," he sighed, knowing that the druchii lord wouldn't like the advice, "We must fall back soon."

"What?" the lord indeed looked just as livid as expected, despite the rebreather that was attached to the front of his helmet that concealed most of his face, "All of this... and we have an hour? Men!" he called out, the sound echoing strangely in the large chamber, and drawing a disapproving stare from their scout, "Take everything you can carry... then we quit this place. I expect each of you useless dogs to carry nothing short of a king's ransom!"

So they set about looting every gemstone and bauble they could get their hands on...

The figure appeared once more as the looters moved out again, though this time, it was different; of indeterminate gender, and taller, dressed in robes of blue and white. It spoke again, its speech clipped, not harsh, so much as firm. It wasn’t clear what it was saying; but it might be easy to guess. The words were ones of caution, and they were ignored.

There might have been alarms and internal defences, and perhaps, in later versions, there were. But here, there was nothing stopping the druchii leaving. But it was noticed. And reported.

The sand blew heavily against the surface of the tomb, and howled between narrow streets of deserted city, sand particles skittering against the glassy sliver-layer covering other buildings, rubbing and drumming against the impervious structures like quiet raindrops by the billion, sliding against the face-masks of the spear-carrying raiders, and slipping into any cranny or nook in their armour that was exposed. The storm blew up a little more, buffeting the druchii in strange crosswinds generated by the maze of buildings and piled sedimentary rock that blocked some areas, and formed haphazard barricades and rocks.

The wind changed direction, sharply, and a discomforting static tingle could be felt for a moment against the skin. Visibility plummeted even more than before as they headed back to the raiding ship, and ghostly figures seemed to move in the darkness all around.


Elsewhere, a signal from the looted pyramid was received, and scrutinised. And creatures more intelligent than its own ‘mind’ thought upon the matter. Signals were sent back and forth, and under the planet, things long inert began to stir. A figure even less substantial than those that could be seen in the storm stepped onto the roof of one of the more intact buildings. A whickering bar of green luminescence moved across the roof. Then two more, followed by another pair.

A crescent of darkness appeared, with a flickering green light in its centre, moving, slowly.

Lord Costin was the last one up the boarding plank, his sword unsheathed and ablaze as he kept up with the line of retreating druchii. Each had a heavy leather satchel stuffed full with loot, and he grinned to himself, glad that his men had carried out his orders well and hadn't pocketed too many items for themselves.

The long, slender hull of the Witch's Bride rose above him as he stood on the ramp, and Bruglir reached up and touched it as he muttered a soft prayer to the Dark Mother for her blessings as they took off in the terrible storm. The noise of the ship's screaming engines were lost in the howl of the gale, though thankfully it hadn't quite risen to the point of buffeting the ship too badly. He heard the hull groan as they rose through the turbulent atmosphere, though he noted that that had faded as they cleared it.

He tore his breather mask off as he entered his personal arming chamber, and quickly gulped in the 'fresh' air of the ship. As the slight rocking of the ship halted, his personal slaves attended him, removing his armour and putting it away to be cleaned. Once his breastplate was removed and replaced with a fine coat of reflec mail, he left the chamber and attended the command pit.

"Deck officer," he yawned as he strode over to the vacant command chair. "Report."

"Ship is secured, and we're clearing the atmosphere en route to our transit point, where the Blade is now on station. We havn't picked up... wait lord, something from the planet..."

"Are the rear batteries charged?"

"Aye, dread lord. Ready and waiting," called the gunnery officer below and in front of him.

"Then shoot whatever you're picking up... I don't care what it is. I just wish to get home to Karond Kar as fast as possible..."

A beam of shield-skipping crimson brightness shot upwards at the departing ship, slicing into a piece of the aft, even as the ship’s batteries opened fire. Buildings disintegrated and necron warriors and pylons – several more just coming to bear on the target – collapsed into their ruin, some of the warriors having time to step back from the initial impact before subsequent blasts shook the buildings they were on to pieces.

Pieces of necron scattered everywhere, and broken pylons lay shattered across the buildings. Here and there, pieces of the warriors stirred, before finally disappearing, appearing to fade from existence.


High above, something else moved, a shape that had not been there moments ago, a three-sided claw of blue-grey metal, and glowing engines. There weren’t necessarily shared communication formats with the Druchii (yet) but the raiders were no doubt familiar with some of the more common formats, simply from eavesdropping on others.

A necrontyr – again, white haired blue skinned, but somewhat taller looking – appeared, this time speaking one of the more common galactic languages, he sat in a high-backed chair parts of which glowed with a blue-white colour that was quite relaxing.

“Unidentified vessel, you have violated the restricted surface of the planet Hidrin. We disavow all responsibility for any contagions that may be contracted from your presence there,” it was theoretically possible if immensely unlikely, and more importantly, the kind of warning intended to give intruders a little pause, “further, we require the immediate return of whatever you removed from the surface,” his look directed at the camera was one of stony resolve, even as he tapped at one of the armrests as if in impatience.

Staring at the screen built into the arm of his chair that currently displayed the visage of this new ship's captain, Lord Costin snorted, "Address us in a proper language, cattle, or be fodder for the slave pens." This drew a few chuckles from the bridge crew as he terminated the channel.

"Helm, two points to port. Tactical, target this upstart's engines and disable her in preperation for boarding. Coms, inform the Blade that we might be a little late, but if they wish for some of the spoils, they are welcome to join us."

His orders cam quickly and precisely The thought of fresh battle, bloody murder, and the chance to stuff his slave pens even more full made him grin broadly.

"Aye, dread lord!" came the quick replies as the nimble raider lept into action, scanners searching for a target as the guns hummed to life, charging up their coils with life-ending energy.

"Fire when you have something to hit..."

The ship shook slightly to the staccato rhythm of the main cannons as they spat searing death at the necrontyr vessel a moment later...

The Striker patrol ship surged backwards at once, its forward-facing engine set decelerating it sharply, enemy weapons hammering into its side, missing its forward engines. It was primarily gravitic, however, and was accelerating on a new vector a moment later.

A flurry of activity burst out about half way along the smaller necrontyr ship, and eight missile tubes disgorged score after score of small objects, scattering them through the volume surrounding the scout-ship with powerful thrusts from its forward fields. These tiny objects skittered towards the druchii ship, but they weren’t, in truth, intended for doing serious damage to an enemy, but rather, disabling or capturing small vessels. It had other weapons, but for now, it wasn’t using them, as the enemy wasn’t within their rather broad arc of fire.

Aboard, the ship’s pilot strolled towards a ‘window’ and looked out thoughtfully as the enemy vessel’s fire ceased. “Curious,” he said, almost to himself, doing several things within the confines of his own skull, and calmly pressing a hand to the ‘glass’ – which was in reality, meters thick armour, made to appear transparent – and sighing, “I think they actually mean to board us,” he said, to the ship itself.

“You wish to leave, or take action?” the ship asked. Much like its occupant, it was archiving snapshots of its ‘mind’ to a facility far away every few seconds.

“Neither,” he said, at last. “I think it may be more interesting to be captured.”

“I never had you down as a masochist,” the ship’s calm voice said.

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, “I’ve disabled my pain receptors, and full modification should be made in about an hour for that,” for longer-term discomfort, techniques and genetic modification had long ago been perfected to allow the necrontyr to entirely dodge discomforting diseases and cancers, and actually worked by destroying part of the nervous system, requiring extensive and wilful counteraction to allow a re-growth.

“Then why do you wish to be captured?”

“I’m interested. They’re not dark Eldar, you say?”

“Correct. I detect none of the characteristic warp emissions. Further, this system does not have a webway portal, and is not within range of one.”

“Certain?”

“Of course.”

“Very good. Wait until they capture me, and then disappear,” he said.

“You know, I could get a few dozen squads of necrons in here.”

“Ah yes. But I think it may be useful to go; I’ve mil-spec communications implants inside my skull,” he added.

“Very well. I shall try to make it look convincing.”

"They havn't returned fire?" Costin's frown deepened. The ship, half again as large as them and apparently quite resistant to their scans and targeting, was motionless and apparently uninterested in the fight. Tactical had told him it had disgorged a number of small metallic objects around itself, but they figured it was some sort of ECM. It's just sitting there...

The second druchii ship, the Blade, came into range a moment later. It's heavy forward beam quickly began slicing eagerly at the enemy's rear.

"Stupid Druglin..." he muttered to himself. The main gun on a raider was generally not used in a capture operation, and Bruglir was momentarily afraid that the other captain might end up slicing his prize in half. "How long untill we can board? Can we even tell if they've been disabled yet? And will someone tell Lord Myric to refrain from slicing my quarry apart?"

"They don't appear to have any active shields... we can begin lockdown and burn-through at your leasure, dread lord. Ah, and the Blade has hit their hindquarters, and is now also closing to board."

This brought a smile to Bruglir's face, "Good. Inform Kal'dar that he has the honour of leading the boarders in my name. I want as many, alive, as possible. They are to set charges and destroy the ship once they've taken as many as they can. I tired of this place and wish to quit it as soon as possible. Understood?"

The coms officer nodded, and got up to hurry off and inform the lord's seneschal personally.

---

Thirty men, most of the warriors Costin had and the same thirty who had been cleaning their armour and weapons from the sojurn to the planet, were assmbled on the main staging platform. All of them were fully armoured in articulated plate, and half carried large, suppression tower sheilds and small crossbow-pistols, while the rest carried full-sized bows. All had short, powered blades hanging on their belts. Four of them also had large, circular plates strapped to their backs. Lord Costin had, apparently, issued orders for them to carry charges. Strange...

"Remember, alive if possible. If they shoot back, kill without mercy. You've done this before..." the veteran seneschal's face was unreadable behind his full helmet, which was good, as it hid the concern on his face from his men. "So it'd be unfortunate if I had to skin any of you for botching it. First group will head forwards with me, while the second group under Hakoth will sweep the rear and then link up with the first. Burn-through will begin in five, so stand ready."

Pacing the deck a little, Kal'dar wondered why his lord wouldn't be leading them. It was... unusual. With an audible sigh, he pushed the through from his mind and tried to focus. They were boarding something entirely new here. No idea what to expect, other then it was very advanced. It made his spine tingle with anticipation as the lockdown clamps engaged and the boarding burners began to hiss as they sliced into the foe's hull...

Telavaid sat and watched with some amusement as the Druchii cut a hole in the side of his ship, rather than using the door, which would have saved them quite a bit of time. They probably imagined there were more defences there, which wasn’t a bad assumption.

“Shields,” he murmured, watching the Drcuhii boarders proceed through one of the outer rooms, alert for any ambush, “Quite unusual.”

“You know, I’m still quite able to kill them, or get you out of here. Hell, I could start teleporting their heads off.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Though they appear to be carrying mines of some sort.”

“Oh, joy. So now I’ve got to be exploded?”

“Looks like.”

“I hate you.”

“Hey, I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t…”


The Druchii were met by strange rooms, some of them empty, tall chambers of dark metal, with entrances and exits leading into other rooms, some of which appeared to be inhabited; a kitchen here, and a larger empty room attached with a polished obsidian table. If they could feel the heat, it would be oppressive, for necrontyr enjoyed a much warmer environment than Druchii.

At length, behind them, there was a quiet skittering of metal bouncing off metal, as a tide of metallic creatures flowed from some deep recess of the ship and through its rooms and corridors towards them, packed together in a mass, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, green eyes glowering at the intruders with impossible, dumb, malice…

Sweat was pouring down the druchii's back as he paced along behind the main advance. So far, nothing had moved to attack them, and Kel'dar was almost bored. Still, they were cautious. The men were complaining bitterly over the link about the almost impossible heat of the place. The layout of the place was unusual, but the veteran seneschal reminded himself that most aliens were just that; quite alien in thought and design. He had just about given up hope of meeting resistance when, finally, they came...

They heard them before they saw them. A soft clicking, metal on metal, coming from one of the chambers ahead of them. It grew steadily louder, untill they finally saw them, scuttling on relentlessly. The troop had stopped once they'd all heard the sound, and they formed up tight together. The air around them hummed with energy as they charged their armour and dropped their interlocking tower shields to the floor. Sparks danced from them as their fields overlapped, and the men tensed as they ranked up, preparing to fire.

Kel'dar merely frowned. His long-bladed draich still hung at his waist. The tide scuttled closer, nearly in the next room. "Useless mechanoids. You may fire when ready. Spare none," he said dismissivly as he adjusted the unusually bulky vambraces of his armour.

The chamber they occupied shrieked as the troop fired at once. Hundreds of energised darts screamed down chamber at the tide of machines in the first volley. A few wide shots burrowed through the doorway, leaving large, black grooves in the metal. More shots filled the air a moment later as they started to empty their weapons. The point men yelled for grenades as they kept on coming...

But their commander wasn't even watching. Kel'dar had finished his adjustments. Two thin tubes extended from his wrist joints to just past his knuckles. Thin wisps of smoke eminated from them. He merely grinned, and adjusted the breather mask of his helmet as a pair of troopers hurled plasma grenades at the tide of foes. "If they get too close, I shall step to the fore," he told his men, reassuringly, "Then the flames of the Dark Mother shall cast them into the outer dark..."

Scores, and then hundreds, of scarabs exploded, ripped apart by high powered projectiles, or by grenades and other, more exotic weapons, creating a storm of shrapnel as the useless mechanoids were torn into pieces, yet more seemed determined to bull their way through, heedless of the danger.

But they weren’t as foolish as they seemed, and as the veritable horde rushing toward them was winnowed down to the last few dozen, bouncing agitatedly off the walls, one of the druchii had the unpleasant experience of hearing a soft buzzing noise from behind him, and then the rather worse feeling of the heavy impact of a razor-limbed scarab high on his back just below the helmet. It chattered in the same tone, but now more agitatedly, and only for a tiny fraction of a second.

He felt nothing afterwards, as his head, protected by his helmet, traced a lazy arc through the air, without his body, the actinic flash of a small atomic reaction of some kind sending a few pieces of shrapnel from both the very edge of the dead man’s backplate and the creature itself pattering off the armour of the other Druchii like soft rain.

More scarabs were jumping from a small doorway, perhaps designed for them, high on one of the walls, disguised as an air vent, flying across through the dry, hot air. One exploded, and then more, as they erupted into flame and explosions, a few more got through, but only to be batted back by high, tapering, power-field covered shields.

Kel'dar had stepped forward as the tide of scarabs had dwindled, and he bellowed as he fired his paired witchfire burners down amongst them, melting and warping their forms with twin jets of strange green flame. He was almost satisfied that they were clear when the screaming started from the rear ranks...

They fought desperately. Blades flashed and crossbow darts screamed as they tried to come about and face this new tide. They were horrified to find the personal reflec shielding of their armour didn't even faze their attackers. They fought hard, slashing and hacking through small metal bodies. They died with hatred in their eyes.

It was only the timely arrival of the second team, responding to chopped interlink blurts about sighting foes that saved the last of them. As the last of the infernal mechanoid died, only four of the initial twenty remained. Kel'dar growled as they took stock of the situation. They wouldn't survive another attack like this...

"My lord..." the lieutant of the second group bowed, addressing Kel'dar from just out of reach of his draich. "What are your orders? Do we mine the place, or press on?"

"Forward," he said bluntly, striding off at the head of the group, murder in his eyes...

The control room of the necron ship was lofty and showed the stars all around. Two doorways in the forwards and aft of the room lead to a sideways facing room that terminated close to them, in a semi-circle in the middle of the ship, where consoles of several designs sat, mostly inert black screens now, that showed nothing below the dome of the sky. A chair of dark metals and glowing blue glass sat upon a plinth in the centre of this semi-circle, with wide arms, pointed to one side, where the other side of the circle was formed by the low point of the circular dome of stars above and a pair of steps to the lower level of deep-blue metals, where several fluted pillars of apparently decorative design stood. Beyond was a wide table on which a flat display of surrounding space was projected, and at either end, detailed layouts of the interior of the necron ship and the exterior of the druchii vessel.

The necrontyr pilot stood there, “Welcome. I’m flattered. How many is that you’ve brought to capture little old me?” he said, his words seeming, now, to be in Druhir.

Rage blinded old Kel'dar, and he didn't notice that the alien was speaking his language. He pulled a dagger from his belt, and growled as he approached the pilot, held it to his throat, and started asking questions.

"So, are you going to surrender? Where is the rest of the crew?" and so on...

The remaining men fanned out, searching the command deck. They found nothing. "Sir... we can't take her as a prize...

Angered by the alien's lack of immedient response, he shoves him away, into the arms of two of druchii warriors. "Bind him, and set the charges. I wish to quit this infernal ship and scatter it's ashes to the stellar winds. This was a waste of time."

The ship watched with a degree of disinterest that came from being resigned to its immediate fate as it watched the druchii set charges inside it. It could stop them still. It could think of a number of ways; it could even wait until they’d gone and teleport the charges (possibly with bits of itself still attached) outside of its hull.

Of course, if it did, that would rather defeat the object. It sighed inwardly, and with the mental equivalent of a shrug, watched the druchii dragging their prisoner off.

It didn’t help much that he was laughing. He found the idea that this had been a waste of time to be amusing, because he knew a few things that the druchii obviously didn’t. However, he managed to control himself after a moment.

“Of course I am. And I am the entire crew.”

This turn of events left the lord of the Witch's Bride in a state of abject fury. He now had to replace his boarding crew, had wasted a number of expensive boarding charges to blow the ship, and all he had to show for it was a single, unimpressive looking slave. He'd get a little satisfaction out of it by reducing this paticular specimen to a ruined slab of flesh...

"Take him to my chambers!" he bellowed as the survivors of his crew dragged the slave aboard. The airlock slammed shut behind them, and the deck give a slight shudder as they broke free and sped away.

Kel'dar knew that tone of voice, and saw how his master gripped the hilts of his swords. "As you wish, dread lord," he nodded, hurrying to get the poor man tied down on his rack. It would likely be a messy and unpleasently long death for this one, he thought, unsuprised. Costin was a well-known butcher. He probbaly wouldn't take his time on this one, though, instead opting to hack the slave apart to vent his anger.

"Well, better it then me," he sighed as they tied the captive down to the dark iron slab in the master's suite...

“Oh how tremendously clichéd…” the necrontyr said, looking around with apparent disdain. “Could you get any more gothic if you tried? Black this, black that? Doesn’t the monotony ever get to you? What’s your captain’s name, by the way? Because I can recommend some really good interior designers for him to get in here, presuming he survives until tomorrow, at any rate. Which isn’t too likely. If I were you, I’d be making tracks back to where you came from.

Doubtless they didn’t believe him, unfortunately for them, on this occasion, he was correct.

Tens of thousands of light years and yet less than a minute away, over the red planet Mars, a squadron of mile wide crescents powered out of orbit, letting the patrol routes adjust to compensate for their removal for a moment, before aligning themselves on the distant, raided tombworld…

Forty-five seconds after detonating the charges aboard the strange, empty ship, the pair of slender corsairs powered up and tore a temporary hole in reality, executing a perfect hyperspace jump, leaving the desolate system behind. They set course for Tor Anroc, one of the principle hidden trading port systems that surrounded Karond Kar proper. The jumpgate there was just two jumps away, making it about a day's trip. There, they'd offload and sell their load of slaves and other trinkets, then it was on home to fill Lord Costin's coffers on Karond Kar...

Meanwhile, though, the furious lord was quite intent to bathe in the gore of his captive. The butchery began in ernest, staring with the insolent creature's tongue...

The wind wasn’t the only thing that rustled through the leaves of the dark forest in one of the more temperate areas of Menelmacar. The place was “Private” after a fashion. It was a nature reserve with a twist. Its denizens weren’t birds or even great mammals, but a form of elf that had been almost extinct in its original home, and still numbered only a few thousand here.

The Kaldorei were reclusive to a degree that made even the most reclusive Avari seem positively outgoing. They’d refined seclusion to a degree where many of them exhibited an ability that seemed to be a form of optical camouflage.

One of them, a shockingly tall woman with blue skin and purple hair, along with softly glowing eyes and extremely long ears, walked along a little way behind the equally tall Elenaran, both of them, the woman, almost nude, like most of her kin tended to be - it was a rather warm forest - but with more jewellery than was typical, and the more heavily dressed C’tan, were watched by hidden sentinels armed with anachronistic but still quite lethal weapons.

The Elenaran tilted his head back suddenly, and frowned, “I’m afraid this is going to have to wait Serrah,” he said, “Something urgent has come up.”


Meanwhile, the necron ships flitted into orbit of the looted tomb-world, coasting into a wide ellipse.

But here, foresight played its part. There were a number of tracking devices in Costin’s haul, and more attached to his ship itself, and even one inside the skull of the necrontyr corpse currently being decomposed on board.

And so, when the Druchii ship re-emerged from hyperspace, its location was apparent. And the necrons stirred.


Telavaid gasped, and twisted against mesh-restraints, looking up at the ceiling above him through a veil of gelatinous liquid. He leaned up, as the restraints decomposed in the liquid. He heaved, vomiting oxygenated gel up into the bath. With his unconventional job he was one of the few necrontyr who kept a ‘replacement’ body on standby like that.

In an intellectual sense, he understood perfectly that he was dead. He was now a copy. Telavaid would probably need to pick a witty middle name related to that. But he had the memories of his predecessor, to the point of expiration. Which, even without physical pain, were far from pleasant or comfortable. He’d need to get those seen to now, too… If he’d not already been busy vomiting oxygenated gel, he might have done so again…

The ‘Ship of Theseus’ question was considered irrelevant to the necrontyr. The new Telavaid stood for everything that his predecessor had, and that was enough.


Somewhere on Garm, a young, dark haired, rather handsome human man was shopping for winter scarves. He was looking for something silver and white to go with the rest of his wardrobe. Then he suddenly… stopped. Enlil blinked once, and sighed.

He had to be elsewhere.


It was the best part of an hour after Costin's arrival before the necrons came for the outpost of Tor Anroc. But when they did, as was often their wont, it wasn’t by halves. A flotilla of vessels, ranging from one to eight kilometres across their longest dimension, twenty strong, appeared, and with ominous silence – not even more than a trace of thermal emissions came from them – began manoeuvring towards their destination…

Traffic in this sector of space wasn't uncommon. The jumpgate that the druchii corsairs commonly used was one of the three major transfer points for travel further into Naggoroth space. Most of the laden raiders, though, slipped off the main routes and decended into the asteroid belt a few hundred thousand kilometers away.

Tor Anroc was always awake. Druchii paranoia demanded it, along with the constant flow of raiders coming and going. They had their own armada on station in case of pursuit; sixteen cruiser-sized capitals and nearly a hundred of the sleek destroyers that they tended to favour were assigned to patrol and keep interlopers from interfering with the slave trade. And any corsairs on stopover were expected to aid in the defence if their holds were empty. Even the station itself, built out of an asteroid the size of a small moon, was armed to the teeth and kept on alert at all times... By druchii standards, it was a fortress matched only by the Homeworlds.

It was a trio of Talon fast interceptors that got the first auspex returns that seemed suspicious. 'Rogue asteroids don't move in formation...' thought the captain of the leader. Tor Anroc Control was informed that he was moving to investigate, and told to standby to repel, if things went poorly...

---

Dread Lord Costin was in less then a fine mood as his remaining crew unloaded their cargo, but he seemed better now that his arms and chest were quite splattered with that alien's blood. He hadn't bothered to clean himself up.

Kel'dar stood nearby, just out of sword reach, as his rank dictated. "My lord, payment for the slaves has already been transfered aboard... and as you instructed, the other trinkets are safely stowed."

"Fine, fine. Has our suite here been cleaned up?"

"Yes lord, everything is being brought aboard and prepared for out return to the Kar as we speak."

"Good. Once they are rid of," he practicly spat the word out as he gestured to the line of slaves being herded off his docked ship, "We can depart and return home. Finally..."

It wasn’t a vast fleet, but it was a massive one, in that its mass was titanic. Enough that it seemed as if a part of the asteroid field had detached itself and begun manoeuvring to attack the station.

The plan was simple enough. The main elements of the fleet would make a direct attack, starting with the jumpgate, and working their way through to disable anything that resisted, while another group, consisting of a trio of shroud class cruisers, would move in from ‘beneath’ the station, and attempt to board it as soon as possible.

The first interceptors reached the fleet, as it seemed to ignore them at first, simply continuing on its original trajectory. Even the smallest ships out-massed these guardians by a prodigious degree, and so they seemed to dismiss the Druchii vessels as unimportant.

They had their reasons, propaganda perhaps, or simply a lack of interest in any vessel that wasn’t overtly carrying slaves, or directly harming them.

A quick turn-around, that was something that Kel'dar drilled mercilessly into the crew as being of prime importance. The best raiders never stay in one place for long. Their hold was empty, and their coffers full, so the Witch's Bride made ready to slip out of dock. Their compainion ship remained behind, still re-fueling and re-arming. Before leaving, the usual servicing of the ship took place; the thin outer layer of the hull, which was essentially paint and ablative armour, was stripped off and incinerated in order to remove any possible identifying marks and trackers. A new layer would be installed in the Hydraphur docks, a little closer to home. The bilges and other parts of the ship were pumped out too, and the water and air recyclers were cleaned and recharged. Kel'dar was impressed at the speed his crew worked.

Not his crew, he thought sourly as he watched that blood splattered madman finally wipe himself off with a towel. With the money he'd hopefully get from this find, he'd be able to pay off the arrogant fop and finally be free of his debt of service.

That was, of course, assuming that Costin didn't just keep everything to himself and have the crew killed. It was known to happen, every so often. Usually when a captain manged to secure something very valuable, like a hold full of dwarfs. A captain could double his profits that way, and a new crew and the cost of the assassinations were not terribly expensive in comparison...

The Bride slipped quietly out of dock only two hours after it arrived, and swiftly cruised out of the system. Costin had finally bathed, and wore a fresh crimson kheitan and matching robes as he sat, looking rather bored, in the command seat. Kel'dar hadn't be given a break, and was still in his armour, barking commands at the bridge crew as they navigated the asteroid belt.

As they neared the transit range, their tactical map lit up. Something was shooting, a long way back nearer to the jumpgate. It seemed to be just a couple of patrol ships, perhaps firing at an escaped slave in a stolen shuttle. Then the system defence sentry guns started lighting up all over the place. It was a real firefight. Then something they'd never seen before shot back... suddenly the original patrol ships were gone. Just like that, three heavy interceptors were shot down. Then the sentry guns nearest started to blink out of existance. Slowly the blackout moved towards Tor Anroc...

"Sir... we're required to return and help protect Tor Anroc if they call... we can't transit," Kel'dar said flatly, frankly not expecting his lord to do anything but agree with him.

"Helm, you have the jump coordinates. Charge the engines to full and transit as ordered," came the curt reply.

"Dread lord... We can't! The House will have your skin if they found out..."

Costin cut him off, growling with restrained anger, his hand on the sword at his belt, "I can pay them off, idiot. Nothing's going to keep me from returning home. Now get off my bridge. Your stink is most unpleasent."

Furious, the seneschal stormed off the bridge. No, he wouldn't just be free of his service debt once this cruise was over. He'd kill that bastard. Slowly. And very, very painfully. His would be like a cleansing bath after all the years of forced servitude, not quite a slave, but not exactly free either...

Leaving behind a scene of death and chaos that only registered as small blips and pulses on their monitors, the Bride translated to hyperspace once again...

Pieces the size of houses, mansions, broke off from the smooth surfaces of crescent shaped starships, and flew through the void like independent craft, tumbling end over end and side over side, loosing sheets of matter as vapour and boiling droplets that quickly froze into discs or stranger shapes.

Now and then, as they flew through the void, the pieces of debris would disappear, as sub-systems of the necron ships busily denied space-junk dealers a living.

One of the ‘frigates’ had a sizeable part of one of its ‘wings’ break off, and spun side on, tumbling end over end before it too disappeared.


The necron ships came on, but there were surprises awaiting them in the asteroid field. Deadfall missiles and other devices fired upon them, and more of the attacking ships were damaged; each missile could blast a considerable amount of the living metal away, and while there were some point defences, the necrons were not aiming to be cautious, they were aiming to be swift.

And at last, when the ships deemed that they would have gotten the attention of the defenders, they sent a signal, in a language that wasn’t elven, and had indeed, drifted away from the language for countless millennia. A hard edged demand for capitulation.

No reply was forthcoming, save for the continual barrage of fire. They couldn't reply, even if they wanted to... there was not a sage or scholar amongst the pirates, briggands and slavers who lived and worked on Tor Anroc. So the barrage continued unabated.

The smaller patrol fighters continued to dance and weave about, leaving erratic trails behind them in the dust that filled the asteroid field. The bigger ships focused on creating a perimeter around the unknown attackers, trying to bottle them up so that they could fire the station's compliment of hydrogen bombs at the tough sods with minimal risk...

Until this moment, the ship had been assuming, from cultural similarities, that it was dealing with an especially innovative group of a race that was known to it. Now, however, their apparent incomprehension of the message induced the necron ship to take stock of the differences that had been noted in its limited knowledge so far. This time, the message was re-transmitted using a frankly magical Menelmacari system that made the lead ship uneasy.

Meanwhile, the squadron sent to attack the jump-gate began to do so, lightning flickering out to ripple against one of the free-standing prongs, the lightning arced down its length, flickered, and blasted pieces away.

The topmost prong of the jump-gate ripped and burst, in a eye-searing explosion…

Silence. The shooting stopped, for a moment, and the ships pulled back. Perhaps reason would prevail...

Feedback from the exploding jumpgate was the first sign that they were facing an enemy that might be more then they seemed. No, no reason would be had here, only madness and death. So the order was approved. Launch.

"All ships, condition zero, repeat, condition zero..."

Disbelief ran rampant through the motley assembly of druchii warships as they pulled out of the expected blast radius. They hadn't had a con-zero in almost sixty years... And even then it was a false alarm and they hadn't fired... but then the tell-tale pricks of light appeared, and began streaking in towards the waiting necrons. Five seconds to impact... they'd almost reached the con-zero line. Nobody had done that before. Most supposed that it was inevitable then, as those streaking missiles carried their deadly payload in unerringly...

The necron ships were comparatively clustered together, in two relatively small groups, and this favoured their opponents with a clean shot. For a moment, it seemed as if the Necrons weren’t quite sure what was going on, then their escorts fanned out, slewing prodigious amounts of energy into the void as they began to manoeuvre. The whole fleet spread apart, and a squadron of escorts trailed vapour trails from their auxiliary engines to lure the enemy missiles in.

They disappeared in fusion flashes, three becoming two – well, one and a bit, that quickly disappeared.

The other ship nearest the missiles disappeared in a flash of light as its escorts had, but this one was somewhat different, a deliberate emanation, a pulse of energy that matched the profile of a hot young star in the deep galactic core, that strobed slightly, rendering entire areas of space un Nonetheless, it wasn’t the best means of getting rid of missiles, and flaring twists in space-time and hordes of scrab drones darted to intercept missiles as they closed.

It was hard to tell how many of the bombs managed to detonate on target. There was a searing flash, an impression, for a moment, of the starship broken in two from stem to stern, and then, nothing, the image and its sensor contact simply faded away, as though it had disintegrated – not vapour, there was a relatively modest heat blossom, not enough to account for vapour. Instead, it disappeared.

Its compatriots, however, did not. For the most part, the damage caused to them was more modest, or their point defences preformed better, intercepting most of the missiles, or even shooting them down with flashes of lightning.

And then, they began to pursue the enemy vessels with murderous intent and speed, weapons lashing out towards them. They still had some concern with the station itself, but they wanted to punish the Druchii vessels too.

Sixteen minutes, from the launch of the warheads until the detonation of the singularity drive of the Wrathful, the last druchii cruiser who's displacement field had finally failed after taking a severe beating, was all it took. After the survivors had charged out of the expanding gas cloud at the retreating ships, they'd known that it was over. Nothing could have survived that... but they did. And on they came, sickly green lightning flicking out from their gun ports to rip the dark elf vessels apart. The displacement fields bought them some time; when a crippling blast breached the field, the entire ship teleported away. But not far enough... never far enough. And these things didn't miss... lesser beings would take precious seconds to re-acquire then and lock on again, never mind having to defeat their distortion and jamming fields all over again, which alone was quite a feat for most races.

But these things... they didn't miss.

And so the druchii died. A hundred vessels and over a thousand souls, (though some doubted the druchii possessed one,) gone. In sixteen minutes.

Naturally, those left on the station of Tor Anroc began to panic...

The necron ships brought themselves around to face Tor Anroc, staggered out in a wide pattern that covered the best part of a light minute, encircling the station from various angles. They carefully avoided the hulks of the ships they’d destroyed, save where they were likely to still support life, whereupon they would be boarded, shortly. Again, the necron ships transmitted an offer to accept a surrender form the Druchii, this time in some strange ‘universally translated’ format.

A portion of the fleet disappeared, too. The ‘shroud class’ scout-cruisers angled off, headed towards the nearest stars, and disappeared with sudden acceleration. The necrons were already planning their next attack, sending the ships deeper into what they believed was Druchii-inhabited space. Of course, they would rather have a decent map, which was part of why they were so keen to offer that, if the station surrendered, all its personnel would be well treated. Of course, quite what that meant was difficult to tell.

The necrontyr ships appeared again, the following day, at a point in orbit of a desolate – even by the standards of the region – world of ice and snow. Now, however, they had increased greatly in numbers. Some forty druchii capital ships awaited them, with three times that in escorts. Confronting them, forty two necron vessels, with sixty escorts.

The necrontyr probably had more experience working as a group, and their ships seemed to be considerably more efficient in picking targets and eliminating them as fast as possible. Between outmassing the enemy fleet heavily, and in one respect, even outnumbering them. The technologically superior necron ships were swift even their smaller ships resisting considerable firepower before being destroyed or disengaging.

The three largest battleships in the necron fleet devoted most of their time to a vast, almost city sized fortress floating in the void, teleporting tens of thousands of troops into it, even as eldirch lightning lit up its black surface, diving in and searing it, blasting pieces away.

Others, cruisers, formed into squadrons to hunt down their opposite numbers; which, while they were capable enough, soon found themselves retreating from the essentially unexpected attack.


On board the lead necron ship, the huge structure of a necron lord with a long tail structure, like the top half of a humanoid skeleton, with a tail attached, in metal, hovered, watching captives brought in.

They were, of course, wide eyed and panicky, the necron lord had long ago learnt to recognise the signs. Most of these, if not all, came off the Black Ark, Ssarintel, the lord, watched, and boredly picked out a few of those who looked most senior, drifting down and grabbing one in his long talons, drifting upwards, through the ceiling, into a segregated room above, before coming back to fetch another, his long, bladed tail twitching with boredom, as he watched them scurry away from him.

He had much to do…

The defence of the Black Ark Naggor was an utter disaster for druchii. Scores of ships were gutted and ruined, while the Ark itself was lost, and thousands of druchii were captured as the garrison was defeated. Once the Ark was lost, the remains of the fleet, a scant quarter of the original number, scattered and fled. It would be several weeks before they all limped back into ports across the system.

On the desolate planet below, the heartland of the druchii empire, the Witch King brooded alone in his lightless halls. At the feet of his marble throne lay the corpse of Alittar Vaan, the Vaulkhar of Clar Karond. The fleet had been under his command, and following his failure, he'd reporting directly to Malekith. He'd begged for his life by the end, and it was only right that his lord take his time in slowly ripping both his beating heart and immortal soul from his twitching body, just slowly enough to let him watch as he utterly destroyed them both. That had briefly sated his wrath, but even as the blood hissed and dripped off his taloned gauntlet, his mood was fouled by what the weakling had told him. They faced a vastly superior foe, one that had the ability and, apparently, the will to subjugate the realm and annihilate them. Already he had lost one of the irreplaceable Arks, and a Primary fleet besides. He had more to expend, but he knew it would be a waste. They'd barely made a dent in the enemy, and he was certain they had yet to bring their full strength to bear. No, he had to do the unthinkable, and he knew that it would mean an endless round of bloodletting and politicking until he had culled all of the druchii lords who were stupid enough to think this made him weak.

He had to offer terms. Nobody was able to explain how this had started to any satisfaction. If Khaine and the gods willed it, perhaps they would be spared if suitable reparations were made. The agonizing and lengthy death the failed shipmaster had enjoyed would be nothing compared to what would he would do to the wretch who'd dragged his realm into such a pointless conflict...

Even the Black Guard, Malekith's personal guard who were counted the most ruthless and fearless of the druchii, shuddered at their king's howls of rage as they echoed down the dark halls of the citadel...

The necron fleet that arrived over Naggarond was even larger than the one that had just been engaged, numbering one hundred and two warships. They sat like an enormous swarm, just waiting for something to arouse their wrath. They spread themselves around in a geostationary orbit, weapons overlapping one another and covering every point on the planet’s surface. There was no subterfuge now, each ship was generating and emitting vast, likely off the scales, quantities of power, mostly as infra-red radiation, ensuring that, between the whole fleet, enough reached the surface of the planet to be felt raising the temperature of the atmosphere.

After leaving long enough for everyone on the surface to feel this un-subtle warning that they were quite willing to do more than turn the snow into rain, they sent a message.

This was headed as coming from an individual called ‘Asirnoth’ aboard a starship named Jalkalaissatana. It was also quite impolite, demanding that Malekith (and it addressed him specifically) send a representative to receive dictation of the terms under which they expected a surrender…

It was only grudgingly that, several hours after the arrival of the necron fleet, a lone shuttle rose from the surface along the designated flight path. It was a small thing, only a few dozen meters long, just right for such an inter-atmospheric passenger shuttle. It was quite quick and quiet, though, as it gracefully landed aboard the Jalkalaissatana and touched down to the deck.

Several minutes later, the boarding ramp hissed open and the druchii delegates disembarked. They didn't know what to expect upon arriving, and had been denied a proper bodyguard by Malekith. Each knew that they'd been chosen for this dubious honour because they were either viewed as expendible, or had done something to irk the Witch King. The leader of the three highborn, Malus of Hag Graef, knew exactly why he was here...

Each of the three figures were tall and lean, as was usual amongst the druchii, and each wore a fine silver breastplate over their mail shirts and violet kheitans, and they all wore the dual swords of a highborn. Malus, half a head taller and then the others, stood at their head, and was flanked by a male and female. As was common, all three had long, fine black hair and flint grey eyes. Korhadric of Naggarond was the more muscular and scarred highborn to Malus' right, and Lillith of Ghrond was the graceful female who stood to his left.

Though they carried their swords, they were not armed for war. Despite the power feeding through their armour, they were horribly exposed. Only Malus had anything in his hands. It looked like an iron tablet, slightly shorter and thinner then a standard piece of paper, though it was thick and hinged. it contained a Writ of Iron, a proclamation made by the Witch King or one of his drachau's, which stated that the bearer spoke with Malekith's voice, and that to disobey him would be to invite His wrath, and the ruin that would bring. In this capacity, however, it permitted him to accept the terms...

Scowling grimly, Malus and the others waited to be addressed...

The landing bay was a small one, on the underside of the ship, basically created for the occasion, it was an inverted parallelogram shaped prism, with the smaller surface at the bottom, and the walls sloping inwards, decorated with tessellating hexagonal patterns. Doors opened in the walls, and ten lofty figures with austere, bone-white faces and gold pieces that gave them the appearance of some strange cooling system, appeared. They marched with a strange fluid grace, each holding a lofty, bladed staff that was obviously a weapon of some sort. One of them waved the drucii toward it, and, as they approached, each could feel, to a greater or lesser degree, a certain wrongness about the creature, not entirely unlike what could be felt around many types of demons, though somehow very different, though only one person present would be likely to notice that, and for him, it was likely a more acute unnatural repulsion.

A blue line appeared on one of the creatures’ mouths as it spoke, “You will come with us,” it said.

While there were many ways to get around the ship, but the Druchii were treated to the least impressive. They were lead through near featureless corridors, almost completely dark, so that the only light was provided by the emerald illumination from their guides’ weapons. The path they took was long, and winding, occasionally involving seemingly endless flights of stairs, measured for a tall race, like themselves. In all, the walk was about ten miles, longer than the ship itself was, before they reached a lofty chamber, practically cathedral sized, with a ceiling composed of glowing metal, and occupied by the vast, looming shape of a metallic wyrm, easily big enough to consume dozens of people in one movement.

It lay, on its fore-paws, looking down at them, even like this, from a considerable height… Seeming to speak by some strange telepathy, it said “I am Asirnoth… What terms do you wish to offer for your surrender, then, representatives of the Witch King?”

After having spent countless years in the service of the Witch King, who's own fortress was not unlike the darkened maze they were marched through, none of them seemed to be bothered by the long walk. They were, however, impressed by this Asirnoth...

They all dropped to one knee, and only after being addressed did Malus raise his eyes to look up at him. "The Witch King wishes to learn why this war has been waged. He accept that we have lost, and wishes to make reparations, but he also wishes to remain retain His kingdom and His people. State what you desire of us, and it will be done. In addition, the traditional reparation gift from the defeated highborn, if he is spared, is his firstborn daughter. In keeping with tradition, the dread lord Malekith wishes to offer Lhunara as a token of his... appreciation."

This made Malus smirk a tiny bit. In the presence of this, well, thing, the crystal shard that hung around his neck against his skin burned like a searing blade. It was testing him, probing the defences the lady Morathi had prepared for him.

"If he learns much of your true nature, Darkblade, you'll be meeting oblivion before you can flinch in protest. He is anathema. Do not trust him...

The voice, cold and unwelcome, slithered into his head. Tz'arkan had been quiet during the march through the ship, and he'd felt the presence of the daemon lessen during that time. But he was never gone for long...

Asirnoth disappeared, breaking apart into a silvery mist, and condensing to form an elven-like figure, tall, long haired, and regal, dressed in un-armoured dark blue robes, with a silver oriental dragon pattern winding around them, while Malus remained kneeling, though he removed the Writ from the crook of his arm.

"In answer to your question, one of your kind stole things that belong to us. Jewels, to you..."

"It is not uncommon, my lord," he replied, "We will see to the hunting down of this offender, and the return of your goods," he sighed, though going to war over some jewels seemed a little over the top, "What does my lord wish done with the criminal and his family?"

Not for them, but you wouldn't know...

"We shall see. What do you normally do with prisoners?"

"Slavery is normal, my lord. Perhaps tortue and death for the leader of the household and the criminal himself, but the rest of the immediate family is sold for the benefit of the victim," another smile crossed his lips, "Of course, the decision is yours..."

"Actually, I was thinking of what I'd do with the prisoners I have from your ships. But I'm sure I'll find somewhere to put them to work..."

Shruging Malus nodded in agreement, "Prisoner exchange would be welcome, but as we have none to exchange, they are at your mercy. If you choose to keep them, you may. How many do you have, lord?"

"A number," he said, "Now, I have some other commands to make, according to various political objectives..."

Slowly, Malus rose to his feet. "What is your will, lord?"

"We are aware that you operate a large number of fleets engaged in various forms of piracy and slaving..."

"Yes, my lord," he said, not denying it, "It has been our tradition for more then fifteen thousand years..."

"As you can probably tell. I do not approve..."

Nodding, Malus frowned, "Few do, but it is our way. Naturally, no further raids will be undertaken in the vicinity of your space. If you were to provide us with charts and information on what to avoid..."

He waved his hand, and a giant hologram of the galaxy appeared, "The big disk shaped thing..."

"I see..." he said, reviewing the charts... "That doesn't leave us with much ground left upon which to hunt, my lord..."

"Indeed. It is not our policy to allow people to take unwilling sapient beings slaves. I suppose exceptions can be made, for say, Krork..."

"They tend to make quite durable simple labour slaves once they've been properly lobotomized, I'm told..." he added offhandedly.

"But we will not tolerate continued raids on human shipping and colonies, and we expect progress to be made on emancipating your current slave population..."

"We can promise to curb raiding, my lord, but freeing slaves will be... unlikely. It would destroy our civilization if undertaken too hastily. Of course, we will need to adjust as the current slaves grow old and cannot be replaced, but that is a much more gradual process..."

"It will be likely. I'm sure we can provide you with the means to construct machine constructs to fill most roles..."

He bristled at this, and his two companions glared up at him, "We can make our own way on this, my lord. Indeed, that is likely the route that will be used, and perhaps we will request your assistance. But we must do this ourselves. Now, I can promise an end to sanctioned raiding, bring a halt to all slave shipments, and release unsold slaves. Will that be sufficient?"

"It will be sufficient, for today..." he said, "to release them into my custody. Yes."

Sighing slowly, he opened the Writ. Malekith's proclamation was embossed on it's own iron tablet on one side, and a prepared parchment sat opposite it. "Now my lord, please dictate the final agreed terms." He slid out a quill, and prepared to write them down in the proper place.

"First, you will assist us in recapturing our property and identifying the transgressors, who will be turned over to us for... chastisement... Along with all their property. Second, we will expect reparations from your government, according to your usual forms, to be determined by our own assessment later..." He paused, and grinned at the druchii, "Third, we will expect you to limit the aggression of your privately held forces, and ensure that state forces do not participate in raids. And finally, we will also provide a timetable for emancipations of slaves, save perhaps of those groups we disapprove of enough not to care, currently held in your nation, starting with initial release of all unsold ones..."

Grumbling to himself, the druchii lord wrote this all down rather quickly, though quite neatly. When he finished, he affixed a red seal to one side, marked with many complex elven runes. Then held out the Writ to Asirnoth, "Your seal, my lord."

He waved his hand, resulting in a circular image of a world, being mauled by the dragon he was earlier, appears in wax on it. The continents it's ravaging, not that he knows it, are of the original eldar homeworld.

The pact done and his duty discharged, Malus gave a curt bow. "Then it is done. I shall return to the Witch King, who will enact this writ."

And probably execute you for giving away the farm... the daemon chided, "You've doomed us both.

He grins, "Perhaps, but that's tomorrow's problem..." he thought to himself...