NationStates Jolt Archive

Rath carefully dips his pen in the ink pooled in the hand of the slave next to his desk. Its hand is flayed, revealing bone and sinew, skin unwrapped from its fingers and sewn into webbing between them, to serve as an inkwell for the Archon. Its blood slowly oozes into the bowl of its hand from a cut wrist; a cocktail of drugs and chemicals render the blood thick and make it keep as ink.

He lowers the pen to page once more, carefully finishing the last of the invitations. "To Host a Murder," it reads, "You are cordially invited to attend a dinner party as guests of the Archon of the Manmen Kabal." It goes on like this for a time, in several languages, before ending with the neat signature of Kher Rath le'Sheya. A bit of ground bone dust serves in the place of sand to dry the ink. He neatly replaces the pen in its place, the small cup carved from the living body of the unfortunate slave, before he stands to give the stack of invitations to an aide.

Tapping the last invitation, the one on top and addressed to Sirithil Nos Feanor, he says, "This one must arrive. See to it immediately."

"As you wish, my Lord," is the simply reply. The aid knows a dismissil.

Finally, Rath is left with only the last of the preparations for the little get-together; transportation would be an issue, as well as final arrangements for the reception. Ah, but what a reception it would be.

((This RP is open to basically anyone who'd like to join. Simply send an RSVP via telegram and you'll be added to the guest list.))

"Milady... for you."

Sirithil looked up as an aide handed her a thin package. "What's this?"

"Came to the diplomatic mail address, oddly. Not sure who it's from, but we ran all the checks, and it's clean."

Sirithil nodded. "Thank you, then, that'll be all."

"As you wish, milady." The aide bowed slightly and withdrew, as Siri peered quizzically at the package, before tearing it open. Inside was a small envelope, and inside that was an embossed invitation, printed on some sort of odd-feeling paper. The feeling of it sent a shiver down her spine, and the words were written in a strange brown ink that seemed very much to resemble dried blood. It probably was, in fact, judging by the contents of the letter.

Still, she was intrigued; she didn't trust the Dark Eldar any further than she could throw them, though, so going alone (if at all) was out of the question. She reached for her comm, dialed a dear friend of hers.

"Mephet'ran, darling.... it seems I've been invited to something of a party... would you like to be my 'date'?" She grinned.

Long time no see Raem. I would love to go to your party but couldn't go with less than some torches and a lot of firepower. Tag for now.

The message reached the ‘Jackal God’ instantly, and the reply came fairly quickly, "A party you say? Of course... Though... With whom?"
"You're not going to believe this," she said. "The Dark Eldar."
A laugh is the only reply for a moment, "Yes... Are you going with or without a fleet?"
"Well, I'm not sure. That's part of why I wanted to invite you... aside from the fact that I genuinely adore your company, you're also able to eradicate them very quickly if they do anything rash."

"Eradicating them all might be a problem, but still..."
Sirithil smiles. "Well, enough of them that it wouldn't be worth it for them."
Mephet’ran sighs, "Right then. But I'm bringing a few guards I have for such things."
Sirithil blinks, her voice curious. "What sort of guards?"
"The kind with pointy ears and a large streak of racism."
"Eldar?"
"Indeed."

"I thought you and they were... in some sort of perpetual disagreement." Siri is a bit confused at this point. He shakes his head a little, "That doesn't mean that there aren't a few who have joined me, over the millenia..."

"Well, all right, then... so you'll come?" She seems quite happy at the prospect. He nods, "Yes, most definately."
Sirithil smiles. "Thank you... I look forward to it, then."
"I suppose I'll go as the human version though. Best to ensure that they know who I am..."
Sirithil nods. "Yes, definitely," she says.
"Good. Then, 'It's a date.'"
"I'll count the minutes, then," Siri says with a soft chuckle. "Thank you again." He nods, and ends the transmission, in a way, looking forward to it himself.

Sir Slobodan Gresko, the first to be honoured with the coveted title in Maserrat, was sitting in the drawing room of his million-pound mansion, looking through the day's mail.

"Bill...bill...bill...death threat...bill...hmmm, what's this?" He held the envelope up to the light of the fire, and could see a small folded piece of paper, about three inches by two in size. He opened the envelope, eager to see what words were held in the note. After reading through twice, he placed the note on the nearby table and spoke to nobody in particular.

"A party, eh! Not often somebody invites me to something! Except my own wake..." He took a die out of his vest pocket and rolled it along the table. It showed a two on the upmost face.

"A two. Very well, I shall attend this gathering of many folk." He replaced the die, and threw the invitation into the fire, where it shrivelled and disappeared.

Imperator Marshal Khaled Sudani was on mail detail that day, having been delegated to give the huge pile of diplomatic missives and inquiries a once-over every Monday. Despite the frequent complaints of others who had to do this, he never really minded it so much, and often used the time to clear his mind and settle his thoughts. Reaching for his mug of coffe, the Haradrim read over the missive he'd just opened.

Arching a brow, he reads the invitation, suddenly remembering why he hated this job a lot less than his peers. Every now and then, something cool would come up that he'd get to deal with personally, having been the first one to sort and read the message.

"Sweet."

#tagged...

'Our cousins certainly have a flair for the dramatic, it's possible that the Guests will be the entertainment of course... but maybe it is time to mend a few fences, and I suspect we will have things to discuss.' Iyaana was wrapped in thought as she considered the invitation.
'And if the guests are the entertainment?'
'Then we shall have to convince the Keigh of the mistake. Yes I shall attend, it has been a quiet time, and I would like to repeat the visit of Telgorthrind, send the reply, and select for me something approiate'


Cousin.

We send a simple confirmation of the attendence of the High Farseer Iyaana, to this evening.

Warlock Henvis
Secretary of the Council.

It was a fluke. Invitations such as this one were the area of Sero Relaren’s Diplomatic Service. The parties therein were handled by trained Administrators. However, either divine intervention, or some other quantum flicker thingamajig, possibly detecting the medium in which the invitation was written, routed it elsewhere.

Thus it was that the invitation ended up on the desk of one Jerrin Crane, Colonel, First Northfell Light Rangers. He took one look at it, and grinned. He could damn well and good use a bit of R&R.

He quickly made the proper arrangements, then set his mind to other things. More Important Things.

Like...

What to wear.

Harvey Bones looked at the house he was in. "This is a nice place to live." It was a giant mansion with a pool, several bedrooms, a game room, and many servants. The security was lax however, and that's where Harvey comes in. He doesn't live here. He never will. He was robbing the house when there was no one home. Harvey looked at a collection of priceless ancient Jamoscoman artifacts. But somthing on the table behind the glass showcase struck his eye. It was a letter, addressed to the owner of the house. One of the wealthiest men in Jamoscomy. LLyod L. Franken, one of the men who helped found Jamoscomy had retired and became quite a social person. But this isn't about LLyod. It's about Harvey. As he looked at the letter, it creeped him out, but also intregued him. "Hmmmm," He said, to no one in perticular, "A dinner party. Maybe there will be a lot of rich people there... I'm going to need some money to pull this off..." He started grabbing all the things he could find in order to sell them. He took with him LLyod's best suit. It was a little big for him, but he managed. Then Harvey disappeared.

Diana Minerve, Director of the Drakonian Diplomatic Corps., sat at her desk looking over the latest agenda for the visit of one very important person, ally, and hopefully a friend. She was still finalizing all the scheduling and details. After all, this was only the fourth draft of the itenerary.

Her office desk was a bit cluttered with various papers and material pertaining to the visit (including the three other drafts of the visit itenerary). The rest of her office did not look to much better. There was a blanket and yesterday's suit laying on the floor, next to the large plush sofa on one wall, indicating she had slept here the night before. And, half eaten chinese food on the glass table in front of the sofa, indicating her recent meals. She would have looked almost as mangle if not for the personal restroom adjoining her office. Her blond hair was done up and even though there were bags under her eyes she looked quite attractive, for her age.

The aide burst into her office before she even had time to straighten in her chair. "This invitation came, ma'am. You will want to see to it personally." Her staff knew her well, she would, she could tell by the quality of the envelope it was from someone important.

The aide was quickly gone, off to do other duties, so he opened the envelope and was shocked to see exactly who it was from. Her horror only grew as she remembered the tales of evil she had heard from survivors of the Raeman Holocaust. The writing was died human blood. It was horrific and she threw down the invitation in disgust.

Trying to clear her mind of those horrible thoughts, she went back to work. She quickly caught a minor detail that needed to be cleared up (either by luck or by her sheer tenacity to forget the invitation). There was only one thing to do; she made a call.

The connection on the other end of the videophone was made quick the face of an elven man, blond-hairs, thin, and gaunt appearing before Diana. "It's me again." She shot to the business at hand, leaving no room for real greetings. "I've got another detail that needs clarification. Would the Elentári like a Carnaval or Parade to honor her visit? Frankly, I think the Drakonian people would like both--"

The elf, a very nice young fellow by the name of Erchamion, aide to Lord Túrelio had to cut Diana off, just to speak. "The Elentári will have to postpone her visit, she has been called away on an urgent matter in Commoragh."

Diana was thrown entirely off guard. "Commoragh?"

"Yes, milady," he replied. "I am sorry, but there is a matter I must attend to. I will have an answer for you at the earliest possible time. Good day." He disappeared.

"Commoragh?" Diana was a bit confuse, she looked down at the invitation which had fallen under her feet. She leaned forward and slowly, carefully picked it up (as if it was cursed, which was not far from the truth), and set it on her desk.

There was a moment of consideration and then she clicked on her communication to her secretary. "Send for Marcus. I have another job for him."

Shortly thereafter an RVSP arrived in Commoragh addressed to the Archon of the Manmen Kabal.


Sir,

Marcus Sutherland as representative of the Imperium and brother to the Queen of Trinidad has accepted your invitation to your guest at the stated dinner party. Arrangements for his arrival are included with this letter. We thank you for your courtesy.

Diana Minerva,
Director of the Drakonian Diplomatic Corps.It was only a quick passing thought to Diana how odd it was for the Manmen Kabal to send an invitation to enemy such as Drakonia.

A hollow concrete cube, fifteen feet to a side, deep in the bowels of the Government Buildings in Slutbum Wallah. A bare, ugly little hole to keep beurocrats in, like a thousand other holes packed densely into the squat brickwork buildings. Two forgotten Ministers sit at tacky furniture, lit by the depressing efforts of one 60 watt bulb and chip away at the mounds of paperwork that some maniacal pixy delivers every day without fail.

Minister Franklin Operstuff sighed, slid another document into the 'Out' tray and moved grudgingly on to the next matter to be dealt with. He picked up the single sheet of paper and read it briefly. An evil grin spread slowly across his face. "Walters?" His tone of voice was suspicious simply by the amount of innocence crammed into each syllable.

"What now?" Walters didn't look up, the accounting department had delivered another feverish ultimatum. His quest was to find a way to calm a ravening accountant without cutting costs by a penny. It'd be easier to slay dragons with a bent spoon.

Operstuff grinned wider and licked his lips, "Who do we really, really hate in the diplomatic corp?"

This made Walters look up, "What are you planning to do to the Ambassador-General?"

Walters attempted to look as innocent as an evil man can, "Nothing more than send him on a diplomatic mission. It'll be good for the pompous little lardarse. He'll make friends, meet exciting new people and hopefully get arrested and tortured."

"Tortured? You're talking about a man with the whole damn country at his beck and call. If he finds out you sent him to some hellhole..."

"That's where it gets good." Operstuff turned the document around for Walters to see, "Confirmed guests include everyone from the Draconian Empire to Menelmacar. Menelmacar! All we have to do is drop a few names and Ambassador-General Butah will scurry off to the home of the most advanced masters of pain infliction this side of the annual dentist's convention with his cap in his hand! It's perfect!" Operstuff laughed out loud and began drafting a letter to the Ambassador General.

Walters shook his head, "I don't think it's legal to enjoy your work as much as you do."

With a snap the portal in Vinyatirion shut down, and Mephet’ran, accompanied by several underlings, whose number could be counted on one hand, a group that were thus far unknown to the Yvressi, another tiny splinter of their race. They were, specifically, the masters of the eldar ‘web-way,’ harlequins. For now, they would act as guides to reach the correct area, and then they would… lurk for a while. It was considered far more appropriate, in his mind at least, to use the few portals in Menelmacar and go there with their own guides than to trust any foul creature from the dark city. Pulling on a long cloak in an immaculate white colour that seemed to shimmer ever so slightly in the light, he walked off towards the door, and then took a short walk to pay a visit to Sirithil nos Fëanor.

The yngir whistled ever so slightly as he want.

The Lord Dao Yorinaga sat at his desk, sifting through various progress reports and invitations, eventually coming to a strange letter, from the Archon of the country of Raem. Methodically he opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. Instantly he recognized the peculiar 'ink' that it had been written in, having seen much of it in his extensive life-span. The being's interest was piqued, the barest hints of a smile flitting across his usually emotionless face.

"I will have to attend this one myself," he mused out loud, "though I suspect there may be more than simple dinner involved." He felt a small sense of anticipation, as he slowly rose to a standing position. Giving a deep sigh for no particular reason, and, in no great haste, Yorinaga swept out to make the necessary preparations.

The sleek black ship known as the Blade's Kiss, the flagship of the Kabal, smoothly pulls away from the kilometers-high spire that servers as its berth. It seems to float towards the omnipresent bloody-red sky as if carried on the wind, its massive gravity-drives slowly lifting it free of the Dark City's pull.

It disappears into the swirling Chaotic mass of the Eye of Terror, slipping out of the psuedo-real space around Commorragh and into the Warp itself, bound for Earth, to pick up the dinner guests who lack their own means of travel into the Eye.

Katarin Sorvik (cousin of the famous/notorious naval commander Erzsebet Sorvik, often called the most controversial woman in the navy) picked up the curious little envelope. It had obviously been sent by someone rich, but who? She opened it and immediately recognized the sinister nature of the 'ink' used to write it. "Such a waste... oh well." She read the contents of the invitation, raising her eyebrows.

She wrote an polite but standard RSVP quickly and then went to her closet. "Shall it be black or red" she thought as she grinned, revealing her fangs.

ooc: Doing a couple vast assumptions that will likely need a few edits

The letter came as a... surprise, to say the least.

Under normal circumstances, no one would have bothered with it.

However, a short while ago, soldats had received some information.

The first guess was 'blow 'em up'. However, this was kinda... Hard to do, considering the guests.

Cursing a little, soldats begun working on a less brute idea, the men and women feeling some sort of pressure on their minds... Well, it was nothing, likely.

And after a short while, they came up with something. Not too much, but certainly better than nothing.

A few hours later, Denise, who was just crawling along the murderous surface of Io, searching, hunting, killing the weak, occasionally uttering a high pitched scream of joy, generally being way to accustomed to the local Burning Mountain folks, received her orders. It was a direct transmission, for her mind only...

Now, normally, one could expect the four divisions on Io to disrespect orders. In fact, many did already consider them some sort of independent entity of Angstian origin... In this particular case, however, she obeyed eagerly.

For reasons that were too easy to guess, reasons her superiors kind of disliked.

Cutting the head of an Amarthi she had just killed, she uttered maniacal laughter.

This should be amusing.

And she waited, patiently, for her hosts to arrive, to bring her to the fun.

Needless to say, she was certainly equipped for this... matter. In every possible sense.

Of course, a message was sent, in whatever way was appropriate/ possible, that she would come. Or rather, wait.

Mephet’ran arrived shortly afterward, leaving his minions in a waiting room or some such in the palace, and headed on up to pick up the Elentári.
Sirithil hummed softly to herself as she got dressed; she had decided to wear something a little more daring than her usual fare, appropriate dress for where she was going, and so browsing through her closet she came up with something like this. (http://img78.photobucket.com/albums/v257/Sirithil/divine_def.jpg)

Knowing Mephet'ran would arrive any minute, she wanted to be ready to go. Pondering accessories, she glanced in the mirror... the outfit didn't seem like it would work well with a necklace, so instead she settled on an ornately engraved set of matching anklets, armbands, and bracelets wrought of shining mithril. Mephet’ran smiled as he enters, walking over to Sirithil and hugging her, "Nice," he commented, looking her up and down, and adjusting her collar just a little. "It's wonderful to see you again," Sirithil said as she embraced him happily.
"A few things before we go..."
"What things?" she asked.
"Well, firstly, I'd quite like you to stay very close to me the whole time..."
"I will," she said.

Mephet’ran nodded, "Have you a glass of something?" he asked, taking a box from his pocket.
"Are you thirsty?" she asked. "I can get you a drink if you like..." She went and got a bottle of wine, and a pair of glasses.
"Not really," he said, taking a glass anyway, "I want you to swallow a few things..."
Sirithil arched one eyebrow. "What sort of things?" she asked.
Mephet’ran opened the box, about the size of a cigarette case, and took out a small object, about a millimetre across. "Tracking devices," he said.
"They'd, er, pass through on their own, yes?" she asked, pouring some of the wine into his glass, followed by her own. Mephet’ran nodded and sipped a little, "After a few days."
Sirithil nodded, and accepts the tablet, tossing it into the back of her mouth and washing it down with some of the wine. He then gave her two more for good measure which Siri then washed down as well.

"I just need to do my hair, then we can go," she said, smiling. "Unless you'd like to."
Mephet’ran smiled a little, "Certainly," he said, sipping a little more wine and standing up to walk behind the elf.
Sirithil stood in front of the mirror so she can watch. "Thank you," she said.
Mephet’ran nodded, then gently and attentively styled Sirithil's hair.

Once he was done, she thanked him again, before pulling on a sleeveless over-cloak that matched her outfit and hooking her sword and scabbard to her belt. "Shall we go, then?" Mephet’ran hummed, stood in front of the mirror and changed his appearance until he found something that matched her current outfit, eventually settling on something very much like this (shamelessly stolen from the same source) (http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/suit.jpg), but in a slightly off-white and gold. "I think we shall," he said, finally, making himself taller too while he's there. Mephet’ran walked over to Siri, and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Well then..." he said, and gently led the elf off toward the door and picks up a bag of… items… he left by the door. Siri giggled softly, wrapping an arm around him as well, walking out alongside him.

With a blaze of brilliant light, Blade's Kiss tears open a hole in the barrier between physical reality and the Immaterium, dropping out of the Warp practically on top of the shining blue-green world known as Earth. As soon as it emerges into realspace, the communcations officers aboard begin scrambling to transmit messages to the nations who indicated an interest in attending. "Greetings in the name of the Archon..."

...

The massive hall selected to host the dinner party bustles with activity, crowded with slaves and the occasional overseer. A wraithbone table is being erected in the center of the room, a titanic affair meant to overwhelm the visitor as much as the vast emptiness of the chamber itself. Halfway up a tower that lances kilometers into the sky, the chamber itself is an entire floor.

Light panels on the walls leave deep shadows cloaking the ceilings and corners of the room, and play up the carefully placed blood stains soaked into the stone of the walls and floor. If one looks hard enough, horrible patterns and mad designs emerge from the stains, depicting a scene of atrocity following horror right up to the cold wraithbone throne at the far end of the room. The throne itself resembles the trwisted body of a woman of impossible beauty, whose arms and legs form the seat itself and whose head would peer over that of anyone seated on it.

Temporary stages and daises have been erected along the walls of the room, where haemoculi plan the evening's entertainments and surprises. All in all, things are proceeding precisely as anticipated.

OOC: If this thing says I am a guest, ignore it. These fourms are certifiably dumb.

The door to Benton Tirian's office opened to reveal a woman, her coat drenched in rain, who thrust herself into the room, all but falling into the nearest potted Palm Tree.

"Mail for you, sir." she gasped.

"Must be important, for you to come over here at 4:34 in the morning, in the rain, nonethelss." commented the Grand Prince, helping her away from the tree ind into a chair on one side of his desk.

"Not really." she said. "It's just that you haven't got foreign mail for three years now and..."

"Foregin mail?" Exclaimed Benton, his face a perfect reprisentation of his shock. "From who?"

"Someone known as 'The Dark Elder'" she replied. "Could be 'Eldar' though, I can't really tell, the writing is a little smuged."

"Never mind that! What does he want?"

"It's an invitation, sir. To a dinner party."

"A dinner party?!?"

"Yes, and I'm not too sure about this one, sir. It might be a trap."

"Still, I am intrested as to why somebody would invite me to a dinner party, especially someone I've never heard of before."

"It dosen't say that you in particular have to attend, sir"

"Is that so, well, I am curious, but I don't really want to walk into a trap. Send Nolan. He should be able to handle a trap, whatever it is."

"A-are you sure about that, sir"

"Yes, send a message to him right away. And Marissa?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You might want to buy an umbrella."

-----

Nolan Tirian arrived at exactly 7:00 PM the following day. He was tall, of slender build, and of a humanoid-type race. He had brown hair and eyes, which both went perfectly with his brown tuxedo. He surveyed the room and the guests carefully, and then retreated to a far corner of the room.

A darted landed on the dart board, quivering slightly. Another dart hurled through the air and landed a few centimetres up and above from the first. Another dart hurled through the air. After a while he ran out of darts. Sighing he heaved himself up and walked towards to mail bin. Sorting it quickly he happened to notice a letter which smelled somehow metallic. Opening it he screamed and dropped it to the floor. Running out of the room he burst into tears. That was the third letter this week he had got from the library. Darn overdue books. Summoning up all his courage he walked back into the room. Pouncing on the letter he through it in the bin and slammed down the stainless steel lid.

A few minutes later he found the invite. Reading it he smiled, and pulled out a pen and wrote a reply.

“Dear Sir,

We would be honoured to attend. Please make room for two Honorable Members of the Water Coolian government, plus there pet monkey, Gazebo – this monkey preforms tasks for the otherwise handicapped Ivers, and as such must attend. Thank you for your corporation.

Sincerely,
Minster of Otherworld Affairs,
Jack Frost-Blaze”

Signing his name he sent it. A few moments later he noticed the bin was shaking. The letter wanted out. He ran for the door.

"Lord Inqusitor?" A servant had poked his head into Magnus' chambers. He sighed and looked up from the moniter.

"Yes?" he asked looking at the man. He was new obviously, probably his first day away from Earth.

"We have a message, it was sent to the Masters but we intercepted it. I was told to bring it to you. Is that acceptable?"

Definately his first day off of Earth "Yes, of course," Magnus anwsered, "give it here and be on your way.

The servant looked dismayed. "I was told to wait for your reply if there is to be one."

Magnus sighed and glared at him. "If I need to make a reply I shall do it myself, no go!"

The man handed him the letter and ran. Magnus snickered to himself and looked down at the computer again, his settlement had been overrun by bandits. He growled and decided to actually read the letter.

Five minutes later he had donned his formal black hooded robes and a weapons belt containing a pistol and chainsword. He ran for the the hanger while speaking into his subdermal comm. "I need a pilot to take me to Raem, and I need a suitable honour guard. Six men, flak armour, armed as heavily as possible. And for gods sake make sure this ship has a propper suite and armoury."

Twenty minutes later they were on thier way into the unknown, for no reason except Magnus wanted to get some decent food and get away from the damned game for a while.

It took awile, but at last Iyaana was ready to depart, in the end her escort had been kept to a minimum, little point in bringing a large force, as short of a full army, she would be in their hands no matter what. Therefor she came with only a Warlock and a couple of minor functionaries. Her Outfit on the otherhand did show some concern for safty, bearing a distinct likeness to that warn at a different Party she had attended in the past, for it was the Vaul Armour, the rest of the Council had insisted on it.

Also of course she did not seek to be collected by the Fallen, she would arrive by her own power, in this case for most of the Journey the Khaines Second Fleet acted as honour guard dropping her off an hour away.

Now she walked towards the world of the Fallen, and she smelt the change in the air, they where within the Eye now, wihin a place of darkness and corruption, and within the ancient long lost empire of her people, she had at once both came home, and stepped into a nightmare.

Slobodan Gresko was fully prepared for dinner now. The die had chosen for him to wear a pink dress with frilly bits at the bottom. Gresko was feeling uncomfortale, and so decided to consult the die again. This time he was allowed to wear a black dinner jacket with a green tie. He felt a lot better.

As he entered the car (in the back seat of course) he sudenly remembered that the national team, Dinamo Maserrat had played in the NIL World Series, and that he hadn't found out the score yet.

"Youltin," he called to his chauffeur in the front of the vehicle, "How did Maserrat do today?"

"Quite well, Sir. They beat Shakhtar Donetsk 3-1, and they'll play CF Monterrey tomorrow." Gresko was pleased. They drove to the front gate where, as usual, a bunch of protestors had gathered. Youltin sighed and flicked a switch on the dashboard. There was a loud buzzing noise, and as Youltin drove into the crowd, several people were given electric shocks. After a few minutes they were through and on the way to the Eye. As they entered the area, a large gust of wind almost knocked them off course. Gresko was suddenly aware of a presence in the back with him. He turend and looked, but could see no-one. He shrugged and faced forward again.

Katarin had finally decided on the black dress. Simple, but elegant. She took no escort. If things got nasty, an escort wouldn't be able to save her. However, she did carry the ceremonial/functional one handed battle axe that every Callisdrunian had. A private transport hired from a friendly space nation came to pick her up. Within minutes, she had found the ship's main stereo system, and stopped the elevator music that was playing. She then used it for what all stereos are built for: sharing one's musical taste with others.

A few hours later the private ship landed on the Blade's Kiss.

@ Callisdrun: Raem's located in a really hostile place. It'd be best to assume she landed on the Blade's Kiss, as the trip would be safer.

@ Callisdrun: Raem's located in a really hostile place. It'd be best to assume she landed on the Blade's Kiss, as the trip would be safer.

Ok, that's fine, I'll edit.

OOC: Admittedly, when your ride is a Dark Eldar cruiser, safety is relative. :D

~Siri

OOC: Admittedly, when your ride is a Dark Eldar cruiser, safety is relative. :D

~Siri

It always is.

The small shuttle sped away from the Blade’s Kiss, back to Liang's only space station, leaving behind the Lord Dao Yorinaga, completely in the hands of the Dark Eldar. He wore the same uniform as always, a long red cape attached to thin, smooth, blank black armor.
At his side, resting in its black sheath, was a great mithril longsword, named in High Liangite Gûlveig. When unsheathed, an unearthly scarlet glow encompassed the blade, and seemed to increase in potency as did the extremity of Yorinaga’s emotion. Conflicting legends were told in the Domain of its creation, its history, and its power, but none could say with assurance that they knew the truth, excepting perhaps Dao himself.
As he was escorted through the ship, he showed not the slightest bit of emotion, only maintaining the slight, almost-smile he always wore. The astute observer, however, would notice that his hand remained firmly on the hilt of his weapon.

Nascia waits at sharp attention as Yorinaga debarks from the shuttle, a cluster of her father's Incubi standing rigidly behind her. Only her face is visible, though to assume that the incubi are inattentive would be a crucial mistake, and her eyes follow the alien. She nods once he's within a meter or two.

"Shuttles have been dispatched to retrieve guests without their own transportation. You may find the interior of the ship more hospitable than here, once the shuttles begin returning and the atmosphere is pumped out of the bay. Follow me."

She turns to lead him through the thick, gravtank-sized blast doors at the far end of the bay. Beyond, a nearly cramped corridor snakes up to the heart of Blade's Kiss, flaring open into a number of suites clustered around an expansive foyer. On a spaceship, and especially a warship, empty space is opulence.

...

Each shuttle streaks like a meteorite through the atmosphere of Earth, bearing towards one of the nations who reserved a place at the dinner. Soon, they will be on their way once more, and the long-awaited party begun.

Mephet’ran wandered into the shuttle-bay with Siri on his arm, trying to resist the urge to kiss her cheek a little. Sirithil led him towards a nearby Vilyulairë-class dropship... with a production run of thousands and at least a dozen different variants, the Vilyulairë is Menelmacar's generic 'gee I wanna haul stuff' military craft in the tradition of the C-130, only even more versatile. This one was a particularly comfy executive version.

Mephet’ran followed, sort of, accompanied by about four tall figures dressed in fairly drab mottled-grey cloaks, who found it a slightly familiar vessel, and assume it's a rip-off. Until they are inside. Also along with Mephet'ran's guards were a quartet of Mornahossë, plus the pilot, who would remain with the ship after reaching their destination.

With clearance from the palace's air traffic control facility, the dropship lifted off the deck and launched into the sky above Vinyatírion. Siri, meanwhile, poured her 'date' another glass of wine, while pointing out various landmarks out the window. He took the glass and looked at everything she pointed out, rather fond of the place.

He smiled a little, "When we arrive, try to suppress your disgust Finlaurë," he said, "Everything I've heard about this place is bad..."

Sirithil nodded, frowning a little. "I'm trying to keep an open mind. In terms of not instinctively retching. But if nothing there is palatable, I can always conjure up a tolerable equivalent." The ship turned northwestwards, towards the city of Silharthad, on whose outskirts lay one of the MIDF's larger research facilities, including the largest of Menelmacar's webway gates.

"It's the kind of place that doors on the slave's quarters are unneeded," he said, "and the entertainments are likely to be unpleasant too."

Sirithil nodded. "I appreciate the warning... thank you."

"I don't suppose you know any spells for poison detection?" he asked, curiously.

"I do, yes," she said.

"I suggest you make a point of using them then," he said.

"Most assuredly," she said. "They're surprisingly simple spells to cast. I'd be amazed if anyone even noticed me doing it."

"Excellent. Oh, and we'll have to grab one of those Eldar splinter pistols at some point," he added, "they work well when I do that phase shift thing."

Sirithil smiled. "We can set down somewhere outside of Commorragh, and leave the Mornahossë with the ship. Then we can walk the rest of the way. I don't want my ship in their landing bays anyway." Mephet’ran nodded, and sat next to her quietly for a few moments. Sirithil leaned gently on his shoulder as the ship descended towards Silharthad. "Look, there's the facility," she said, pointing out the window again. Indeed, the Vilyulairë was carefully nosing into a cavernous bay... the webgate was at the other end, and crackled to life, providing the ship access to the web. Mephet’ran seemed to be concentrating on something for a minute, and to Siri at least, he felt somewhat different than usual, bigger somehow. Sirithil blinked a little at this change... the ship, though, passed effortlessly across the plane of the gate, entering another dimension entirely, the webway, a network of tunnels physically constructed from the stuff of hyperspace itself.

Suddenly it was rather easy to see how he gets the title star-god, the middle distance turns gold instead of the usual blue of the webway, even distorting a little in shape, and the dropship itself was filled with a silver-gold aura, reflecting off every surface, and seeming to permeate the air too.

Siri gasped in surprise and a little bit of awe... she smiled at him happily. "It's beautiful..." He smiled back, skin glowing faintly too, "Well, yes. Though it makes me feel kind of vulnerable. It's like you climbing into a nest of ants through a single hole..."

Siri said nothing, though she was very reassured to have him with her. The ship, meanwhile, set down inside the tunnel, the pilot informing the passengers that Commorragh should be only a short walk distant. Mephet’ran stood, picking up that bag again, and nodding to the Eldar, heading off with his 'date.'

Below: Menelmacari Vilyulairë (Skywraith) -class dropship
http://www.forgeworld.co.uk/acatalog/vr1store.jpg

Magnus walked into the cramped cockpit and looked around, this was a top of the line ship, where old systems had been taken out and replaced was obvious. "What have we got for an escort?" he asked calmly.

"Not a thing," the pilot anwsered matter-of-factly, as he ran a check on the weapons systems. "But we won't be needing anything. This bird has the latest Teldra Drive, only the newest warships have 'em. Admittedly ours is a bit smaller but we still get better speed than those lumbering beasts."

Magnus stared at him for a long time, waiting for the "Joking" part. When it didn't come he shook his head and looked at what would probably be his coffin. "Don't worry, besides the fastest drive there is I've got a few tricks installed including an infinity complex, and some of those new plasma gun batteries." Magnus didn't feel re-assured. He walked away and headed to his suite.

Timewarping

Io

Denise uttered a high- pitched, hollow laughter as she entered the Blade's Kiss, carrying a few things that looked kinda like light arms, clad in an surprisingly elegant dress (It was amazing how fast one could get some things to Io, if one just wanted to do it), however, her very statue, the twisted, almost insane- looking expression of her face, one or two stains of blood on her dark skin, and finally her general behaviour, her movements, made her look less than 'elegant'.

Well, perhaps it was the scalp of an Amarthi covering her cleavage that added the less innocent parts to her personality and look.

So this is an Eldar ship... Well... I will see what they have to offer. She looked around, searching for the other guests who would use this chance.

"Interesting... this offers a rather... opportune.. opportunity. Ack."

It's not every day that one actually recieves a letter written with actual ink, and upon paper, no less, in the Imperium.

It's also not every day that the ruler of the aforementioned nation changes while giving little to no indication that anything has happened, but then again, the planning was just that good.

Lirella leaned back in the veritable La-z-boy throne, turning the paper over in her hands.

"Now, where is that pesky Lume when you need him..."

She allowed herself a rather threatening looking grin, before tapping a small control embedded into the desk.

"Ambassador Lume, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that you shall accompany me to a diplomatic event... in Commorragh. I trust you will find this event satisfactory." The tone of her voice was completely unmasked, dripping with her rather hostile intent.

Lume would attend, or she would flay him herself. She was no Emperor Dajal, but she had acknowledged that after his rule, certain techniques were more... effective, then others, and that she would need to change Imperial policy gradually. A rather abrupt about-face wouldn't do well.

"You will meet me at the Imperial hangar, and board my personal dropship. At that point, we shall proceed to dock with the destroyer Lirel Myrka, and proceed to Commorragh.

Failure to do so will result in a somewhat untimely demise for you, my dear ambassador."

Of course, Lume had done as she had told. Mental Domination wasn't even half of it.

The Lirel Myrka itself was a rather unique ship in the Imperial Navy, having been one of the few that had actually journeyed out to perform survey missions in areas of space not unlike the Eye of Terror. It was one of the advantages of Kajal's subspace travel systems - warp storms did not have all that much of an affect on the ship's ability to get to it's destination.

Of course, the Lirel Myrka had been refitted expressly to survive once it had reached it's destination.

With speed slightly above that of the average Kajali cruiser, the destroyer disappeared through a subspace launcher after the Imperatrix' dropship had docked, boosting it's velocity well above what it would normally be able to attain with the help of the large ring shaped construct.

(OOC: Incidentally, this (http://theros.illuminati-fiction.net/images/imperatrix/imperatrix1.JPG) is the Imperatrix dropship, or as close to Air Force 1 as you'll get in Kajal.)

The Southron Marshal Khaled Sudani steps through the small webway portal connecting from one of his office chambers directly to the Blade's Kiss, his arms crossed behind his back and under his cloak in what had apparently become a trademark of Imperal Officers. With a bow of his head, he draws his hands to his sides and bows slightly with a warm smile. "Greetings, Archon Kher Rath le`Sheya. I am Imperator Marshal Kahled Sudani of the Five Kingdoms. It's an honor to meet you," he says with a slight cant of his head.

Archon Kher Rath le`Sheya looks over the human quietly for a moment, sizing him up. Whatever he may feel for the envoy of the Lord of Arda is hidden behind his expressionless helm. "I greet you, Imperator Marshal. It has been a long time since an Imperial officer has stood within Blade's Kiss. Not since the assault on Mars, if memory serves. It is an honor to stand with another servant of Lord Melkor again."

Sudani nods slightly, his face unchanging save for a slight tightening around the eyes. "Yes, those were trying times," he admits with a creased brow. "Much has changed since those days." He manages to grin perhaps a bit mischeviously. "But some things never change," he adds, compulsively straightening his meticulously tailored black and white uniform. "There seems to have been quite a turnout for tonight," he comments, nodding thoughtfully. "This should be fun," he surmises, raising his eyebrows at the emphasis.

Rath turns and gestures to the corridor leading away from the rather small portal room, and the two start down the corridor in uniosn. "I had hoped for a good turnout, but I admit the number and variety of those who responded is interesting. The Drakonia Imperium is dispatching someone to attend. I had not thought enemies as old as they would accept my invitation. Yes, this even promises to be spectacular."

His arms almost instinctively cross again behind his back. "Many of the attendees I've found surprising," he concurs, with a curiously arched brow. "Why some of them would come is entirely beyond me," he admits. "I'd have thought most nations were strongly prejudiced enough against Arda and its affiliates to attend to such an event."

"It seems that curiosity has overcome their distrust in many cases. However, there are some who accepted the invitation without understanding our nature or our relations with Arda," Rath answers thoughtfully. The corridor is completely transparent on one wall, overlooking the sapphire blue world and the starfield behind it. The Kiss was currently in orbit on the dark side of Earth, in the lee of the planet.


Khaled attempts a laugh. "Being aware of the cultural...differences inherent to the Dark Eldar, I'd rather like to think I can handle it," he says, squinting at the earth below. He grins. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

The Dark Eldar pauses as Khaled turns his attention to the Earth. He looks down upon the world as well, expectant. "Your timing is perfect. You arrived just in time to watch dawn from space."

The Marshal stops as well and turns, his hands dropping to his sides as he does. He peers at the not-too-distant cure of the earth, over which the first rays of sunlight began to creep. He blinks twice and reels his head back slightly, as if realizing something. "I don't think I've actually seen a sunrise from orbit before. Odd, that."

Rath watches on quietly as the ship slips out of the umbra of Earth, the dazzling sun breaking over the crest of the horizon much more quickly than it would for the world below them. "Many do not understand the nature of my race. We are not seekers of death and blasphemy. We simply tired of living banal lives, and death is the ultimate experience of a lifetime."

Sudani nods absently, reaching up to stroke the stubble on his chin. "I fear I have far less of an understanding about your people than I desire," he admits, lowering his hand a moment later. "Any nuances of my action I speech I assure you are not intended to offend," he says slowly but confidently. "Though I think I understand what you're getting at."

"The machines in my helmet are adequate for interpreting the meaning of your words, Imperator Marshal," Rath replies. He turns back to the corridor once the solar show is more or less over, leading the human forward towards the suites just this side of the prow weapon batteries. "I am confident in Lord Morgoth's choice of envoys."

Sudani bows his head again. "Yes, of course," he says with the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. "I take it preparations for this feast should be near complete," he says, turning to walk with the Archon. "What's the main course?" He asks with a snicker.

The Archon smirks just a bit behind his helmet, though the metallic voice of the translators betray none of his amusement. "That is a surprise, though I can assure you it will be to Lord Melkor's liking."

"A surprise?" The Southron asks, cocking a brow. "I'm sure that will do much to comfort the other guests," he notes with a slight grin.


"I imagine that many of the are not expecting to be terribly comfortable for the duration of their stay, if you take my meaning," Rath muses. The hall opens up into the foyer connecting to the forward suites. Several of the officers of the ship longue in the foyer, drinking from delicate crystal govlets. Of course, mind-altering substances wouldn't be banned on a Dark Eldar ship.

Khaled glances around the room with no small amount of interest, crossing his arms once gain behind his back as the proceeded through it. "True enough I admit. I suppose most of them will be glad to leave," he says with a chuckle.

"The evening will be a memorable one, that I promise. Would you like anything? We're still awaiting the arrival of the other guests before we depart for Commorragh."

The Marshal grins. "No, I think I'll be alright," he answers, looking back over to Rath. "I'll probably catch some sleep before I do anything else."

Rath nods. "Take any suite you like. You'll find them all... hospitable."

Khaled Sudani
Lieutenant, Imperial Marshals
http://upl.silentwhisper.net/uplfolders/upload6/Sudani.JPG

The RNS Draconian was a fine ship, and a rather new one at that. A Chevalier class Pursuit Cruiser, to be specific. Its graceful ovoid form stretched five hundred meters from fore to aft, the same size as the Revenian Star Navy’s rather effective Slayer class of Battlecruisers.

The Draconian was quite different from that tried and true design, though. It was of the type of ship referred to among the RSN as a “Capital-Fighter.” It housed inside its armored and shielded hull, a number of dedicated AI systems, allowing the crew to be reduced considerably. To an operational crew of one.

The ‘Capital-Fighter’ design had been pioneered with the Catalyst class of Strike Cruisers, which had shown the merit behind the design for specialized work. The Chevalier class was built for penetrations, it did its job well.

Two things had made it the ship of choice for this assignment, firstly: the need for a quick ship, capable of sustained solitary action within the Eye of Terror. Secondly, the ship was the personal craft of the man chosen to attend the…ahem…event, that necessitated the need for a ship to penetrate the Eye of Terror for a sustained period of time.

Jerrin Crane was glad he’d made the choice. He knew, peripherally, of the ship that the Dark Eldar had sent to Sol, but it was a long journey there, and he didn’t particularly want to make use of his higher-speed mode of transportation four times in one journey.

He wasn’t sure how the Drakonians had managed to get out to Supremacy space, and the way the man who’d transferred them to his ship had looked, he didn’t particularly want to know.

It was a bit crowded, but he’d ever-so-politely ordered the Drakonians to stay shut in their quarters for the duration of the trip. His bridge was bare, which would have probably bothered him, but he wasn’t worried, as he would spend most of the trip ‘Communing’ with the ship’s AI.

Now, assuming Ronnie Soak was as good as his word, his input for all but the most critical bit of the trip would be unnecessary. The Draconian had been outfitted for this trip with a few goodies, including the personal seal of the aforementioned pseudo-deity.

It made sense, y’know. The Eye of Terror was the stomping grounds of Chaos. If Chaos didn’t respect the “This is mah ship, BIATCH!” of one Ronald Soak, Fifth Rider of the Apocalypse, and Chaos Incarnate. Then Chaos had some problems.

And as far as physical threats went, well, first they’d have to see the Draconian, which, given the amount of technogadgetry that the RevTek engineers had built into the Chevalier class, stuff that Jerrin referred to as “Stealth Junk,” would be a matter definitely in flux.

Then, if the seals and paintings and the recorded message didn’t do the trick, they’d have to catch the Draconian. There was a reason the Chevalier class were designated Pursuit Cruisers

And, of course, finally, if all else failed, they’d have to actually manage to destroy the speedy little ship, without getting annihilated in turn. Which was easier said then done.

All in all, it summed up to one thing: The Draconian had as good a chance of surviving this mission as its pilot did, because the only way to have been more secure would have involved dispatching an entire fleet. Something that the RSN was, understandably, not about to do.

Captain-Commander Stark and Mr. Soak had agreed that a single, quick, well-equipped ship had an infinitely better chance of getting to Commoragh and back alive then practically anything else.

And that was why the RNS Draconian made Starrise as close to Commoragh as was feasible. Further, that was why its High Drive lit almost immediately, glowing like a small star, propelling the ship rather quickly towards its eventual target.

The Draconian entered High Orbit with grace, then the Induction Drive took over for maneuvers, and the Pursuit Cruiser descended right gracefully towards the multi-kilometer tall tower that had been caretted as its destination.

Jerrin, assisted by the Draconian’s Dedicated Piloting AI, guided the ship into a perfect slide-landing. At this point, with the hardly-ever-used landing struts extended, the Draconian made its transition from ID-supported quasi-hover to full, un-powered, deadweight.

Having successfully found that the deceptively wimpy Dark Eldar architecture could, in fact, support his ship’s weight, Jerrin issued a disconnect command. The leads and cables running from the exposed NI-Jack in his neck to the command chair retracted with a slight hiss.

His vision returned swiftly, and he reached up to smooth the bit of synthskin back into place, covering the slightly shiny bit of metal that allowed the whole CI-Implant system to work.

Jerrin slid to his feet, and smiled, as he authorized the LZ-clearing weaponry which the Draconian carried in a thin band around its lower hull to take itself off safety lock. The ports slid open, and the flechette projectors that were the preferred close-in ground clearers of RSN assault boats of all sorts extended their gaping maws to fresh air.

He quickly ordered a single safety protocol, one requiring his assent before the projectors could fire, then ambled off to his quarters to commence the elaborate rituals that could only be lumped under the terms “Preparation For Formal Occasions.”

OOC: Feel no need to reply to this post at this time. In fact, please don’t. I just wanted to get this post off my list of things to do in the future. Y’know, cut the nagging and so forth. Assume this takes place simultaneous with the arrival of other peopleses for simplicity’s sake. Or somesuch.

That makes sense, right?

((I'm on a temporary hiatus from RP, on account of packing up my life and driving across a continent. I'll be available to continue this in about a week an a half.))

((That was a really long week and a half.))

Rath stares out the forward port of the bridge aboard the Kiss. For once, he has doffed his menacing tormentor helm, and gazes out at the boiling stars with his own eyes. He ignores the soft hisses that accompany the approach of a mandrake, letting the shadow-skinned one wait. But not too long, only a fool angered the unstable mandrakes.

"Yes, what is it?" he prompts, of course using the dark ones' corrupt form of lam'Eldannar. Without his helm's translation devices at hand, he would sully his tongue with no foreign language.

The mandrake's words are silibant, hissing like a broken pipe. "We havve arrivved at Commorragh, masster."

"I see. And what of the Faceless One?"

"He and hiss sship are sstill missing, masster. None havve sseen them ssince they lefft," the mandrake says as it edges away from Rath. Every eldar on the ship had tred lightly since the report of the Faceless Lord's disappearance had arrived.

Rath's lips tighten for a moment, his eyes growing hard and cold. "Very well. Prepare the passengers to dock with the Tower."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Bloodlash drifts in the deep dark between stars, where neither the light nor the warm wind of a sun reaches. Its engines lie quiet, huge rents in the hull giving testimony to the fury of the battle and the energies it had unleashed. Yet the Faceless Lord had been triumphant, and nearly the entire crew of the Thelasi ship had been captured. Now all that remains is repairs, and the Bloodlash's glorious return to the dark city.

Dao Yorinaga takes his first step onto the Dark Eldar planet, and the blood-red sky hits him like a brick. The massive towers ascend into the sky, almost endless in their scope, and the various pale-skinned inhabitants of Raem moving about make an odd sight.

A large explosion lights up one of the towers as a gravitic craft gets a mite too careless in his piloting, and a slight expression of amusement lights up Yorinaga's face. For him, morals were irrelevant.

He did what he needed, or wanted to do, gauging everything by the corresponding reaction. He did not torture or kill for pleasure or fun, but he would do it to gain information. He could be roused to anger, but it would not be of righteous or dark intent. And so the screams of the dying did not cause him to wince, though he finds the Dark Eldar delight with pain an oddity, as one might find someone with a collection of old socks an oddity. The words 'pointless' run through his mind several times.

And so he continued on his way, walking behind whatever inhabitant of Raem had been provided for him to follow, observing and taking everything in, etching it into his infinite memory.

Jerrin emerged from his quarters. He wore a black tunic and loose slacks, and a black cape. Pinned to his collar was the Stark flash. His right hand bore a strange gauntlet, not very bulky, but presumably some sort of weapon. At his right hip, his whip-knife was coiled.

It was a twelve foot bullwhip, with twenty narrow blades set in the last eighteen inches, grouped in sets of four. It was tipped in an eight inch double-edged knife blade. Beautiful weapon to see in action, and Jerrin was a master in its use.

His large fighting knife rested in a hip sheathe, and a heavy pistol counterbalanced the whip.

Beneath his clothing he wore a suit of low-profile body armor. It contained a very thin backpack unit that mounted a quantity of liquid metal and an induction drive for manipulating it. The possibilities were endless.

He also had a set of four bolas looped around his belt. Lord alone knew why, but he was a firm believer in the value of 'spontaneous thoughts.'

So, he adjusted the golden circlet that rested atop his locks of silver, slid on his shades, and stepped outside, wherepon his retinue fell into step. Two men. One wearing a full set of black robes and a hooded cloak to conceal his face, the other clothed much like Jerrin, 'cept 'e had a great big honking sword.

Xan the Infernal, War Mage.

Caspian Del'Riva. Thingy.

Nope. Jerrin wasn't worried. Not in the least.

On the Revenian starship, RNS Draconian, the first of the Drakonians emerged from their quarters like ghosts. The first appeared from the Revenian Marines' quarters as a silent medieval terror in brilliant shimmering gold armor. Clad in the armor like that of the Tersanctan Templar Warriors (http://67.18.37.14/118/74/upload/p626746.jpg), except instead of a shimmering silver, it was that of polished gold. Under the golden plates, the black bodysuit was visible, with clear deep violet highlights.

Black, Gold, and Purple all the colors of the Praetorian Guard, those elite sworn by their honor and lives to service of Country, of People, and especially of Praetor. Culled from the only the most distinguished warriors Drakonia had to offer, the Praetorian Guard was charged with the protection of the Imperial Capital City and its most important rulers. Sometimes referred to as "Will of the Praetor" they also took on the most dangerous and unique assignments given them by none other than the Praetor of the Imperium.

Yet despite, or possibly because, of their highly trained status, each of the ten Praetorian Guards that soundlessly stepped out of the ship's quarters looked grim and firm in resolve. They knew (some even firsthand) what they stood up against, and they knew what to expect: terrible evil and brutality beyond all imagining.

For this reason they were armed heavily besides the built-in weaponry of the armor they bore. At their wastes' hung a sword short (excepting the leading officer, who wore a longsword in its place) and a dagger, while strapped to each of their hips was an automatic pistol. First and foremost in each Guardsmen's hands was a Dragon's Breath DIS-80 Automatic Rifle bearing a bayonet and modified with either a shotgun or grenade-launcher attachment. All the while concealed beneath there armor were other hidden secrets. To any observer they appeared ready to fight a horde of hell-spawn, and for once that seemed entirely possible.

They marched without noise to the Revenians and waited, as a moment later the final Drakonian exited his more private quarters. Marcus Sutherland stood tall, a gray trenchcoat streaming behind him, revealing the amazing longsword that hung at from his belt. Its hilt shone golden and as finely crafted as it was old. Yet, as old as it was, it was still sharp and strong a testament to the wonders of the great ancient Drakonian sword smith who had wrought it from the metals at his forge.

Marcus stood an imposing seven feet in height and was graced with the dark ebony skin of the men of his powerful family. His head was shaved smooth and his face looked stern readying itself for the horrors he would behold. The powerful air along with the military bearing about his body gave away some hints to his past.

The brother of the Queen of Trinidad and the Imperium, son of the retired Imperial Senate Speaker, he had joined the military to serve his way his country as his family always had. Such service had brought him experience with Dark Eldar few would want. Marcus had been there when the Dark Eldar had manifest their terrible selves in the arid nation of Raem.

Several years had passed, but it remained vivid in the memory of all who had been there. When the then human nation of Raem had faced an unknown catastrophe and called for international help, the Imperium had been all too eager to respond. Troops and humanitarian aid were quickly sent to stabilize the situation in the small nationstate.

They had been met with death, dealt out on a massive scale by the murderous Dark Eldar. The entire population of Raem from the youngest child to the oldest woman was terrorized, enslaved, or massacred. The international forces coming to help those suffering were met with only the same.

In the first few days of fighting the Imperial Drakonian Armed Forces sustained the greatest casualties they had ever sustained in a modern conflict. Thousands of soldiers died, were wounded, or simply disappeared, all inflicted by only a handful of the monsters that had taken control of the nation. However, when the tenacity of the Drakonians and the other allied nations became clear the Dark Eldar enacted the worst tragedy of the conflict. In all major cities, excluding the one where the Drakonian forces were fighting, there were massive nuclear explosions.

The Drakonians were given a special surprise, a terrible unnatural explosion and that left nearly the entire city a crater torn deep into the ground. Thousands of soldiers vanished in the explosion, never to be seen again.

In the aftermath, the surviving allied forces, having taken unthinkable casualties in only a few days of conflict, withdrew. They reasoned, correctly, that there was really no one left to save. The Drakonians (further showing their tenacity) fortified the sliver of territory they controlled and firmly entrenched themselves.

A great barrier of defenses was erect to firmly protect their forces and the handful of surviving human refugees. Gatling emplacements, watch towers, walls, motions and heat sensors, a series of minefields, trenches, and a large force of Drakonian troops permanently set themselves to defend the survivors, by claiming the territory as a Protectorate of the Imperium. Some would have called it overkill, but they had not fought the Dark Eldar. For a short time, a scattered few refugees continued escaped, but that quickly subsided until it was rare for a even one to show up and seek the relative safety of the Drakonian territory.

The Dark Eldar ever a presence (although a lessened presence as their interests turned elsewhere) continued to raid the small strip of Drakonian territory, continuing to increase the overall death toll. Currently, being assigned to Raem was the most dangerous assignments available in the Imperial Drakonian Military.

Marcus pulled himself from his dark thoughts. Gesturing with the brown leather gloves that hid his hands, he indicated the exit. "Shall we get this over with," he said, his voice betraying his lack of enthusiasm.

Prompted by the statement, the Praetorian Guards silent took leading, flanking, and covering positions around the group in preparation for the exodus out of the starship. Some would have called such action foolish for such a diplomatic mission. But, more knowledgable others would quickly reply that you do not go to Raem without at least an entire military division on standby. The reason for such was clear, the Dark Eldar were dangerous, very dangerous.

OOC: Credit to Ainudalinion (from EsperNet's #nationstates on mIRC) for the paraphrased quote: "You do not go to Raem without at least an entire military division on standby."

They where ready and now the tiny craft departed from the Fleet as it stood ready to come to their aid if it should be needed. Slowly through the many remaining corridors of the Web they moved now, cautious of any lingering surprises. Not from the Fallen but from the creatures that where so close now in this part of the Web, only the sealed Gates kept them out and even such Seals could be broken given time. This was not an easy journey for the Kionash but it was a neccersary one.

As they approached the ancient home of the Fallen the craft slowed a moment and a signal was sent to the Cabal. We have arrived Keigh now we await final directions for approach

The Lirel Myrka had made excellent time in the trip to Raem, and it was now hovering, the towers in full view, as it waited for the directions for approach. Aboard the ship were two full squadrons, normally reserved for boarding actions. They were... a precaution.

The Imperatrix Lirella had chosen garments that she felt were rather fitting (http://theros.illuminati-fiction.net/images/raemparty/lirella_attire.jpg), considering the company, although they did, in all honesty, cover slightly more of her then she would have liked.

Of course, she had chosen the attire (http://theros.illuminati-fiction.net/images/raemparty/lume_attire.jpg) that the good "Ambassador" Lume would wear, although she had revoked his ambassadorial powers long ago.

If her thoughts were any indication, the Dark Eldar would likely appreciate the... gift that she had brought.

The letter had found it's way into Urien's hands. It was certainly fascinating, if not perpleaxing to read. It seemed so, so bloodless, so devoid of the long sarcastic words usually used by a Dark Eldar. It contained none of the usual insults against the mon-keigh, or their craftworld brethren. But, weird writing style or not, Urien would go. Albeit with an entourage of personal slaves, the slavering things that occupied Urien's halls were definetly not suited to this type of party. Commorragh's denizens would be spared, for this night. He boarded his raider and set off for the halls, traveling over commorragh's sky...

Silent as a clouded sunset, and just as spectacular, the golden clad warriors descended out of the Revenian vessel. Only a whisper could be heard of their movement. Not a sound, not the rush of troops, not the clink of metal, only a whisper of movement. The first pair stood crisply straight as they stepped forward and out of the ship, ever vigilant for an ambush or attack. They immediately broke off and took flanking positions as the next pair descended and moved inbetween them. They were followed by another pair, all crisp, all ever-watching.

Next to descend were the Revenians and Marcus Sutherland, followed at last by the final two pairs of rear guard. As the Revenians and the Drakonian official passed the flanking Praetorians they assumed their flanking position on either side of them and began to move with the group.

They had arrived.

OOC: Rev, I hope this is alright and a bump for everyone else.

(OOC: 's fine, Drak. On a note, this post will take place in accordance with Drak's post.)

Jerrin Crane nodded, slowly, as he slowly walked down the Draconian’s landing ramp. He was flanked by his two companions: Xan on his left, Caspian on his right.

Del’Riva braced a flute to his lips, and the eerie sounds of the ‘Chaos March’ accompanied the three Nobles as they prepared to set foot on Commoragh.

Jerrin appeared perfectly calm, as if nothing in the world bothered him. It was, of course, an act. His left hand, the one wearing the strange gauntlet, seemed to twitch slightly, then stilled to a perfect rest.

His was the image of the Ascended Noble: Beautiful, Majestic, and Deadly. Perhaps, he did not pull it off as well as Warprince Stark did, and perhaps it would have been wiser to send Warprince Stark.

The three men stopped half-way down the ramp, for there was a fourth member of the entourage. They stepped aside, Xan and Caspian to the left, Jerrin to the right.

One black armored boot stepped out onto the ramp. Caspian took up his flute again, and the melody he played set even Jerrin’s bones a-chill.

The being took another step, and the three men were unable to keep from bowing their heads.

The black-armored figure stood somewhere around six foot four, he, and that he was male was an assumption that would just have to be made, was clothed entirely in black. He wore a set of intricate black robes over what was presumably a suit of full-body power armor. Over these robes, he wore a hooded cloak of black cloth. The hood was pulled up, and underneath it he wore a helmet, presumably that of the power armor.

Held in his right hand was a long-hafted black-bladed glaive. Belted at his left hip, situated for the cross-draw, was a Warblade of the type used by Ascended Nobles. The gauntlet he wore on his left hand was of the same design as that of the one worn by Jerrin Crane; curled on his left hip, counter-balancing the Warblade, was a whip-knife, effectively identical to the one worn by Colonel Crane, except that the blades and leather were blacked, instead of left un-adorned.

He wasn’t particularly well-armed for a modern battle, but it didn’t matter. He exuded confidence and power. This man, without even dressing the part, put Jerrin’s Noble Image to shame.

Yes. The Lord Reaper was an intimidating figure, and if he was a perfect enigma, what of it?

Jerrin fell in to The Lord Reaper’s right, Xan to his rear, and Caspian to his left. Del’Riva drew out the last note to its wispy end, and then returned the flute to its case.

As the four men took their first step into Dark Eldar territory, one might notice an almost imperceptible tightening of The Lord Reaper’s fingers around the haft of his glaive; a tensing of Jerrin Crane’s muscles; a slight flicker of light from the depths of Xan the Infernal’s hood; a slight twitch of the eye from Caspian Del’Riva. Otherwise, the four men appeared completely unworried.

‘n this time, it wasn’t an act.

Marcus noted the new arrival to the group with a slight smirk. Always good to have Revenians along, he noted. They just come...so well armed.

He would have thought this knew arrival a bodyguard, if not for the respect the other Revenians showed him (if indeed that was the figure's gender, rather hard to tell with the cloak and apparent power armor). He inclined his head in the classic Drakonian sign of respect toward the dark figure, and then went about surveying their surroundings. He had expected some sort of welcoming committee, but at the moment could not see any.

The Praetorian Guards as well were surveying the area with almost noticeable tension. They kept their positions around the group, standing straight and tall in a military fashion, but still it was clear by the way they eyes darted around, looking for an attack, that they were ready at any moment to give battle.

What the golden armored guardsmen saw was enough to give anyone pause. Commorragh was stereotypical hell, if not in reality, then metaphorically. It was a place of suffering under a blood red sky and below the spires of a city build by terrible evil.

None of the Drakonians could shake the feeling that they were now in the grasp of the enemy, with little hope for escape or survival. But they had known that from the beginning and met it with grim determination.

For a moment Marcus clenched his left hand, but then it opened again and the tall man (slightly taller than the new arrival at seven feet tall) forced himself to show a more outward calm. Idly he wondered if they were supposed to find their way to the even, or if this was an ambush.

Rath watches the assembled dignitaries through a remote feed, a quarter-life projection hanging a meter or so off the floor of the grand room. Tables line both sides of the room, leaving a large walkway between his throne and the doors at the far end; the walway is broken only by another table, situated just below the dais his throne rests upon.

Each place is marked with a neat placard bearing the name of the person meant to sit there. Rath had seen to the seating arrangement himself, placing Sirithil and Melkor's agent at the places of honor at the central table (and also as far apart as possible at one table). He gives the arrangement and the rest of the room one last, quick survey before ordering the dignitaries shown inside.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the top of the tower, six kilometers above the blood-soaked streets, the visitors have been coralled onto a large platform beneath the Kiss. At some unseen signal, the dark eldar honor guard begins down a massive open-aired ramp that spirals down the side of the tower. It's broad enough to allow passage of several raiders at once, but the sheer distance to the ground and the lack of a rail makes the ramp seem much, much smaller than it actually is.

About three quarters of the way down the tower, halfway from the Kiss at the top to the ballroom, the sounds of the city give way to silence. A single, keening note drifts up to the visitors, but it is soon eclipsed by an entire choir of voices, raised in a stirring march that gives the walk down the ramp a beat. Almost unconsciously, the Fallen slip into lockstep in time with the music.

Quite how Mephet’ran and Sirithil joined the guests was unclear to everyone but them, but they were there nonetheless. Of his former radiance, only a trace remained a slight golden corona, indeed, it seemed to be something of a diffuse halo if one regarded his head. More interestingly he’d changed the form he wore once more, this time, he was an exceptionally tall necrontyr man, quite seven feet in height, replete with the blue-grey skin, white hair and pointed ears of that race, however, that was about where the resemblance stopped. The general build of this form appeared to exude physicality quite unlike the frail race, except apparently, to his companion, who was pressed up against him, adoringly, as they walked along the eldar ramp. His own body language was very much similar, an arm around her waist playing with a part of her long golden hair idly as they walked along the platform.

From somewhere in the city below he’d acquired a splinter pistol as well, which was currently thrust through his belt, making him look something less than diplomatic…

Urien enters the building, he clutches the data-slate on his hand, presses the quadrant keys and then relays it back to the Palace of Eternal Pain. He then dismisses his bodyguards, and walks through the long corridor,steeping lightly, hoping not to fall into a pit-trap or invisible force wall. He then opens another door at the end of the corridor, inspecting the ancient, congealed blood smeared onto the hinges of the door.....

Jerrin adjusted the collar of his shirt, as he advanced towards the area highlighted on the cryscreen attached to the command circlet he wore. Xan, whose common title was 'Xan the Infernal,' was along for just this reason. Xan was an extremely powerful War Mage, which was the Ascended term for a 'Generalist Psion,' he was, as such, a rather capable clairvoyant.

It was a simple act to pinpoint the destination of the influx of guests, and even simpler one to drop it onto the Revenian Delegation's HUD screens, then trace a least-time, appropriate, route.

Caspian and Jerrin flanked the Draconian head delegate, standing directly behind the dominating presence that was The Lord Reaper. Xan followed up directly behidn Marcus, and about this core the Draconian Praetorian Guard moved in an odd formation. They left the front open, forming up on the sides and the rear.

At the agreed upon point, both Jerrin and Caspian place their hands upon their weapons: Jerrin, his whip-knife, Caspian, his Warblade.

You see, a reason -did- exist for this formation. Jerrin would have preferred to have the Warprince before him, and a full company of Twilight Seraphim at his back and sides, but the elite Draconians and The Lord Reaper was probably the next best thing.

The Lord Reaper, most assuredly was, anyways. The armor he wore beneath his robes was actually -superior- to a suit of Myrmidon Combat Armor, the armor of the elite Seraphim Divisions. Second, the glaive in his hands was at least as effective as the Warblades used by said elite individuals. If it wasn't, the Warblade at his side most certainly was.

Finally, The Lord Reaper was possibly the best combatant Jerrin Crane had ever seen, save, of course, for the Warprince himself. In fact, the two men had very, very similar styles. Slightly eerie, that.

Sir Jerrin smiled at the thought, then turned his attention to the matters at hand, which were, simply 'nuff, arriving at the destination without getting Dead.

He noticed the slight shift in the way the tall, black robed figure in front of him carried his glaive. This set off a number of alarms, and Jerrin increased his watchfulness. Beside him, he felt Caspian shift slightly to do the same.

...and the procession marched on.

((This isn't going anywhere.))

No one saw it coming. Rath could not have predicted the rebellion of the Faceless Lord, or the strength he had gathered in a simple raid against the broken Thelasi fleet. He could not have predicted his daughter's death at the hands of his former lieutenant, or that the union of Kabals he had pounded into existence would fracture beneath the psyker's careful plotting.

From the darkness, the aliens had come, to a small desert kingdom. In the darkness they had taken it and grown fat, and sown the seeds of destruction. They had built a forbidden empire, and lost it to the wiles of Feanor's wife. Now, again, the alien power was broken, and the Kinslayer was surely involved.

From ash and shadow they came, and into ash and shadow they descend once more. The age of Manmen Kabal is ended, in blood and flame.

((
All that you touch
All that you see
All that you taste
All you feel.
All that you love
All that you hate
All you distrust
All you save.
All that you give
All that you deal
All that you buy,
beg, borrow or steal.
All you create
All you destroy
All that you do
All that you say.
All that you eat
And everyone you meet
All that you slight
And everyone you fight.
All that is now
All that is gone
All that's to come
and everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
))