#View upon the arcane dark lords past

[noxvigil]

They had been very adamant about his choices...

Just as he had been, after gazing upon the lot hiding behind his back. Complexions of all sorts adorning their faces, ages of all sorts and upgringings as varied as their skin tones, hairs and eyes. Eyes whose concern and fear lied to their wavering resolution to seem strong. A thing to which he merely smiles warmly, solacing them with the acknoledgement of the situation as he ruffles the hair of one.

He knew they wouldn't budge down, but neither would he. And if he was honest? all of this had little matter to him, for he knew, just as he had done before, he would do now. In the face of the arcane members of the council. A face he bothers not gazing unto as he huffs towards the displeased sound of the younger individual, bah, that one hadn't even earned his place as he had, as those he mentored had.

No, he wouldn't bother with the council's gaze on him, even if it was protocol to face them. No, right now he had a higher priority, and that one, just as it had been the first time, was the same. To ensure the younger generations he had taken would not find themselves distressed with the action to plead his taking of their formation. Magic, as such age, was highly impressionable, after all. And he would be damned if he let their magics be traumatised by their own elders into rejection and abandonment, just because they had trouble teaching them with their special needs.

" One, old man, One you are to mentor personally. " the youngest said, eyes narrowed with annoyance he finally faces when he clears his throat into ordering his gaze be returned to him " You know our rules, a council member shall only take one apprentice, as suppossed by our traditions and laws, at the most, if the situation asks for it, 2. We had given you once leave for 8 in the name of the spectacular occassion they were of the same breed of wild magic as yours, and that they had only answered to your lessons well. But we will not agree for this time. Not 15. that was your only allowance, and besides, you are far too old to be taking so many and all these ages. Magic has granted you good timmings for aging, but that won't be enough anymore... then it was possible, but now it is not. "

Most members on the council nod, to which he snorts and crosses his arms, eyebrow lightly lifting in question with his one blinded eye gazing deeply into them. Age, really? Such a jest. He could take on his former apprentices all together still, and continued to be a terryifying authority to be in presence with to them. If anything he still was in his bronze and cuprine ages of service as one of the oldest active war-sorceror veterans. He could still, easily, do this.

Not like he would do it alone either, if he was honest. He had his wife and own children to help mentoring and herding them... as well as his former apprentices, who, he may add, also had grown quite fond of a number of them. And even seemed to be slowly following his steps into taking the nurturing mentor mantle on their own.

" I was not aware I was too old yet to serve, my fellow companions on the seat. Am I to be dismissed from service then? When did the council decide of this? " He begins, harshly. Cold and hard in tone as the northern blizzards of his hometown in winter, a single hand moving to brush aside the young council member from retorting to his words. He was not done. " I shall answer my own question, young man, for I know the response to my own inquire better than you know this system you have merely been inherited into: I am not, and for the comfort and advantages of others, it won't be for a a while more. Specially when I happen to give you what you direly need and I damningly loathe to deliver this way. "

" If you loathe this caritative and selfless work so much, then why do you insist on appealing at our court and give us your precious presence and time, Warlord? " One of the eldest inquires on his own, to which he turns with a light tilt. " One would think, with your generally tight schedules and activities, you would desire less work and more time for yourself and your own blood. As one would in our age. "

" I would, were it not your failure to your own people. "

" I believe they were not left upon the streets as orphans, and the orphanage for the arcanely gifted does, in fact, still teach them lessons. " Another intervenes, before blows to prides could start. " They would not be left to their own, as it had almost happened to your previous apprentices. "

" NOW, and yet even then, their mentorships would be subpar to those officially taken under patrons and paid for in their schooling on the arcane arts... and considering their needs, that won't be enough for them to properly realize into functional members. " he counters. " Do you expect me to stand idly by and let them drown on their own struggles for your own convenience or my own? No. Until you address and come up with a functional system to deal with orphans of unexpected prowess yet unconventional academic needs, and stop leaving them to fend for their own until they, somehow, survive long enough to come upon my doorsteps to plead their life. "

" We are already formulating methods to this issue- "

" They don't have time for the making of plans, or the process of seeing them start. With all due respect, archwizard. " He interjects, shaking his head to ignore the frown of the offending words. If not disruption of the place of dialogue of the other elder. " They need solutions now, before this causes the repercussions you had to bear with on my previous apprentices. They might not be wild or feral mages, nor on their scale. But I know where this will lead to. Even a wild fox can be a threat to the livestock as much as wolves can. If you can't yet, then I will be taking care of my 17 apprentices myself. "

" You would be breakin- "

" 17? we were informed of 14, You speak us of 15... but now tell us of 17?, where did you find these 3 new children? " One of the older females asks, eyes furrowed unto confusion. " Care to ellaborate? Warlord? "

" I will, on the condition my case is pleaded upon my favor, my lady, and that you hear my exchange of conditions and methodology for the 17 children under my care... otherwise I fear I will take this towards the king himself to plead my case. "

" ... "

" Arlaena, you can't be jesting! Are you really considering his words. "

" You both know the outcome of such a thing. "

" The king can't overrule our decision! this is our law and tradition! "

" and yet, we both know he will favor him, after mentoring his heir. "

Silence fall upon the hall.

" Very well then, but we will amend your methods to follow our orthodox ways, if we see need of it so. Old warlord. "

" This is ridic- "

" I wouldn't expect any less, archpriest. "

"you know you are only supposed to have 1 apprentice maybe 2 not 15." said the wizard council member "well until people stop leaving surprisingly powerful orphans at my doorstep I'll be taking care of my 17 apprentices." The council member snapped their wand "WHERE DID YOU GET 3 MORE!"

[morgulscribe]

In the Chamber of the Eye

Barad-dur by C.G. Gaposchkin

The Morgul Lord glided forward, the hem of his dark robes brushing over the glowing runes and arcane symbols which were burnt into the gleaming black marble floor. Though the room was unlit by torch or lamp, it glowed and pulsed with a brilliant light which emanated from the very walls and banished the darkness with fire. In ages long past, Sauron had consecrated this chamber with mighty spells, etching ancient words of sorcery into the stone and slitting His own veins to imbue the writing with power. The walls and floor had been bathed in divine ichor, and the reflection of Sauron's blood could still be seen shimmering upon the black marble, an undulating crimson flame which burnt ever and anon beneath the surface. Whenever he was summoned to this room, the wraith lord felt the overwhelming urge to tremble and bow in reverence and worship before the awesome might of his Master. This place of great sorcery was the Chamber of the Eye, the uppermost room in the highest tower of Barad-dûr, and the literal and symbolic pinnacle of the Dark Lord's power. In this lofty observatory, Sauron gazed out over the vast reaches of Middle-earth, watching protectively over His domain and studying the strengths and weaknesses of His enemies. Four great windows looked out towards each direction, and it was from these apertures that the followers of Sauron could behold the fiery aura of their Master's great power and bow their heads in worship. A domed ceiling made of glass allowed an unobstructed view of the heavens, where, far beyond the clouds and mists, there was the black and empty void, the prison of Melkor, the Master of Arda in Exile. In this chamber, Sauron kept the palantír of Minas Ithil, for the observatory offered a spectacular view, and the seeing stone only magnified the vision of the Great Eye. The Dark Lord also used the room for rituals of sorcery and necromancy, calling upon the spirit of Melkor to aid Him in crafting the darkest of spells. Often Sauron would summon the Nazgûl to the Chamber of the Eye, and in one voice the Master and His servants would sing the ancient songs of sorcery. It was at these times that the light which spilled from the windows of the chamber would burst into a brilliant flame which could be seen for miles around.

[isedonsdndgame]

Game Night 2020-11-14

Once the party is done healing their most immediate wounds, they head into the next defensive chamber, once more bypassing the guardian creatures that have now roused themselves and quickly passing through the transit tube to the Emerald Heralds chamber. The combat is furious but short lived as the party quickly focuses their attack on the central crystal while taking numerous wounds from the onslaught of many spined limbs and psychic assaults. Ignys quickly gathers up some of the green dust to complete the components he believes will be vital to the amber prison ritual that he learned in Barovia. The final green shimmers on the large warded door fade and it opens to reveal overwhelming white light that fills the chamber. An amused voice fills their heads saying “You fought hard for an audience with Bolothamogg, you have my attention.” As the voice of Bolothamogg speaks, the transit tubes leading from the current chamber are overgrown with spines and teeth that prevent any further use of them.

Considering their options for healing, they discuss the possibility of taking a short rest before entering the final chamber.  In response to their suggestion, Bolothamogg offers to allow them one hour to rest if they will let him have a small peak in their minds without any resistance. The party roundly refuse the offer and draw upon the last of their healing potions, scrolls and the last charges in Driscoll's staff of healing. As they prepare to enter, Samantha reminds them that while Bolothamogg is strong here, the very essence of their location can still be shaped by the strength of  their minds. Healed as much as they can, the party heads into the light of the innermost chamber. The brilliance of the light surrounds them and they seem to be someplace with an endless horizon and impossibly bright at the same time. The doors they entered from are no longer in view and they can feel the presence of Bolothamogg everywhere around them, pressing into them, seeming to know every aspect of themselves.

Ignys and Iltharian feel a presence burrow into their minds and dive through their memories while Iskafar and Driscoll manage to resist the attempt. The voice is once again amused and wonders how well they can deal with their past challenges now. The party then sees a writhing circle surround them, brown and green shapes rushing towards them from the distance. As they get somewhat closer, they can be seen to be thousands of the twig blights that they once fought before.  Ignys thinks about surrounding themselves in fire and they notice some flickering flames try to take hold but are unable to fully manifest. Driscoll hastily thinks about a wall of flame as well but is not able to cause it to manifest. Unable to conjure a quick fix, Iskafar throws down the adamantine fortress and it rapidly expands into a tower. They all rush in and manage to bar the door just as the wave of twig blights crushes up against the walls of the tower. 

Driscoll asks the group to think hard about him manifesting a supercharged divine aura and as the party aids in his concentration, the tower chamber becomes filled with radiant lights that swirl around. The others look outside and see the field extending 20 feet from the tower and turning the sea of blights to ash. After a while, when the last of the blights are destroyed, Bolothamogg voices his amusement and dismisses both the aura and the adamantine fortress. He then conjures up an incarnation of Strahd, the Baba Yaga, and the Icy Bladelord from the Alabaster Mansus, all three just standing around the party, watching and ready for any command. Bolothamogg then advises that it is time for their minds to be purified so they can join the other countless souls and their memories that are part of itself.

Ignys feels a pressure in his mind and his scene shifts to that of Ashbourne manor burned almost to the ground, his burned and injured father in front of him with a pleading look on his face saying “Ignys! If you can hear me, your ritual went horribly wrong and you went on a rampage! You've been burning everything and everyone while shouting about a psychic god or some other nonsense! Please let me put you in the vault before you cause any more harm!” Ignys, having prepared himself to be facing mental trickery of some sort, steels himself and argues with his father before killing him swiftly, anger rising at the situation he was put in. The rest of the party see Ignys freeze in his movements and appears to become partially see through.  Driscoll concentrates and thinks about Bolothamogg in physical form and a colossal entity of twisted tendrils and eyes appears, towering over them. It appears to peer at itself before expressing interest at the unexpected development.

Iskafar is next to feel the pressure on his mind and succumbs to the mental prison that shows himself covered in blood and holding his cursed axe while standing in the corpses of an entire village. The feeling of helplessness and the drive to continue killing creeping up on him as he looks to another village in the distance. Seeing Iskafar’s form freeze and shimmer as Ignys did, Driscoll concentrates and wills himself to duplicate with rethread fate into for copies of himself, and he dives into the form of Bolothamogg, each form radiating a divine aura that spins through its flesh tearing holes in the incarnation.  Driscoll feels a pressure in his mind but manages to shrug it off as he continues the assault, the extra copies of rethread fate burning out his ability to do so in the future. Bolothamogg redirects his attentions to Iltharian and traps him in a mind prison that has him apparently as a lord of an elven kingdom and swamped in bureaucratic duties that seem to overwhelm him. He struggles under that reality for a moment before violently rejecting the premise. As he does so, he hears chuckling and looks up to see the cut facets of a gem that seem to make up the sky. Beyond that gem surface, he sees a face that looks similar, but not the same as his own. He hears the voice from that face speak its humour at what a tortured mind gets up to as the soul gem is put back into a darkened storage.

Driscoll finally succumbs to a mental prison of his own as he valiantly tries to destroy the physical form of Bolothamogg. The illusion of his capture revolves around veneration of the Silence being outlawed and himself executed for violating that law. He is then cursed to wander as an undead spirit and watch all the temples being destroyed or repurposed into, all traces of the Silence being forgotten. Shortly after Driscoll is contained, Iskafar’s vision changes to that of Samantha, arms outstretched and placing a helmet on his head. Her flesh begins to ripple and change again as she gurgles out “Unleash…. Your….. Curse!” before collapsing to the floor as the transformation takes her once again. Free from mental influences, Iskafar rethreads fate to have a copy of himself, one with the cursed axe, one with the solar axe. The cursed axe becomes aware of the situation, its perception filled with the untold number of souls that compose Bolothamogg, and it tears free from Iskafar and stealing his warlock essence as it rapidly spreads through the bright expanse, pockets of darkness feeding on the light, and then receding as the light of Bolothamogg fights back.

The physical form of Bolothamogg fades as they hear the voice in their heads, clearly distracted, say “Noooo, what have you done!! This entity should not be here!” The party all freed from their mental cages, Ignys taking advantage of the distraction to pull out his luck sword and he wishes for the arcane knowledge to successfully cast the ritual of the amber prison to contain the entities. His mind fills to overflowing with arcane concepts and he quickly lays out the crystal residue and conjures a diagram on the ground to suffice for the ritual. With precision and wisdom born of the wish spell, he utters the incantations of the ritual, withstands the psychic assault that comes from the realization of what he is attempting, and sets in motion the amber encasement of Bolothamogg. The ritual complete, the arcane knowledge bleeds from his mind. They see the amber walls forming all around them and the worms and stone begin to turn to steam and mist. Driscoll rushes to Samantha and casts a remove curse spell to halt any transformation, and they run out of the brilliant chamber, the walls disintegrating at their touch as they flee towards the shark vessel.

They make it back on board as the Pyramid is rapidly dissipating, large amounts of amber compressing and containing it. Ignys being too wounded to risk connecting to the crystal again, Iskafar volunteers and suffers a large shock, but manages to hold on and speed them away as the orange light of the realm dims, the black stars appearing to wink out all around them in the distance. They activate the crystal to switch dimensions, reappearing in the deep ocean of the material realm. The divinatorium does not report anything on the alternate dimension.

Epilogue:

They rest and recover over the 10 day journey back to Neverwinter. The psychic barrier around the land now gone, trade resumes and the city will recover once more, as it always does. 

Samantha, free of her curse, bids the party farewell and heads back to find what has become of her family.

Ignys travels with Iskafar to visit Iskafar’s mother and see the magnificent mazes and labyrinths that she creates, and then heads back to his own family in Ashbourne manor to aid in the implementation of the newfound balance of frost and flame together in their practices. 

Iskafar returns home for a time, but stripped of his warlock powers, and desiring the decadence of luxury, he sets back out adventuring, this time on the path of the bard.   

Driscoll returns to the temples of the Silence to incorporate all that he has learned and to help as many as he can. He invites Iltharian into the order if he wishes.

Iltharian accepts and begins on the path of a Paladin of the Silence.

[aelaer]

Whumptober 14: Tear-Stained

I bounced around with what I should do with this one as there really are so many ways this could be done. I went with the completely self-indulgent route.

A "what if Tony and Peter were a bit delayed rescuing Stephen" fic has been written before, but now I'm writing it because Ebony Maw was wasted in the films and I just need more of him. He's such a magnificent creeper. And the setting in the donut ship has been tweaked to make this more plausible.

Warnings: Torture, non-consensual touching/getting way in the personal bubble space, horrid space needles

14. Tear-Stained

Stephen regained consciousness to find himself suspended horizontally in midair within a nearly bare room made of metal. The only light source seemed to be coming from above him, for his shadow was stark against the grey floor and the rest of the room beyond was currently pitch black to his weary eyes. He could see no one, but that did not mean no one could see him. Still, he was not a man to passively accept a bad situation; Stephen could feel the powers keeping him held up and while he was uncertain of their source, he pushed back against them, willing his arms, his hands to obey his commands again and do something.

"You will find struggling a pointless endeavour," a calm voice spoke from the shadows ahead of him. Stephen stilled and looked towards the direction it came from, and he did not need to wait long. From the darkness emerged the tall, lean figure of the telekinetic alien. One of the Children of Thanos, as he had dubbed himself.

A cold wave of terror engulfed him as he realised just how completely and utterly fucked he was. He was alone in what he presumed was the spaceship, far away from any type of allies, and assuredly the number one focus of this alien due to the Time Stone still around his neck. Well, at least that spell was resisting the efforts of this Child of Thanos.

He briefly closed his eyes as hopelessness took a grip upon his heart, realizing just what he was surely going to suffer with his oath to protect both the Time Stone and Earth. Stephen quickly pushed the feeling inward and tapped into his reserve of endurance for what was to come. He knew pain, he knew pain very well. And if he died? Well, it wouldn't be the first time, and it would have the added benefit of sealing away the Time Stone; breaking a dead man's spell would take a power that Thanos may have with the other Infinity Stones, but certainly not the knowledge of the arcane arts required alongside it.

It wasn't much, but Stephen held onto that thought even as the creature finished crossing the distance until he was but two feet in front of him. "You will save yourself from great suffering if you stop delaying the inevitable, Stone-keeper. I will have the Time Stone by the end of this; it is your choice as to how difficult this will be for you."

Stephen let his silence speak for him.

The slightest of smiles curled at the corner of the alien's lips. "Very well." He waved a hand towards the corner behind him, well beyond his sight, but it wasn't long before long, wicked needles came to view and surrounded his vision. They were all aimed at him. "Then we will begin."

———— 

Another scream tore its way out of Stephen's throat as yet another long needle pierced his head. Perhaps they were coated in some sort of irritant, perhaps it was just another type of technology or magic, but every single one of the needles burned, sending endless signals of pain to his brain that renewed themselves every time the alien tweaked or twisted one of his instruments of torture.

Beyond his bleary eyesight, however, his tormentor did not seem pleased. Stephen had lost all concept of time the moment the first needle pierced his skin, but from what he could tell, the alien seemed to be expecting something that was not happening.

Good.

A sixth needle was applied to his skull and he choked on another cry. His eyes were starting to water, but he quickly blinked the moisture away. It was terrible, excruciating, but it was not worse than anything he had suffered from Dormammu. The alien needed him alive, and that limited him in options; the Lord of the Dark Dimension had lacked that limitation.

He could endure this.

Some time later (goodness knows how long), all six needles were extracted from his face in a quick movement that ached, but it was nothing like their initial penetration. He focused his gaze upon the creature in front of him, who was looking at him as if he were something of a puzzle.

His torturer said nothing, but Stephen suddenly felt the trickle of something entering his mind, prodding at its defenses, and he immediately reinforced his wall around the most vital information he held, including all knowledge about the spell protecting the Eye of Agamotto. He did not have the strength to keep out all intrusion, however, and let the outermost wall of the defenses upon his mind be broken while all remaining strength he had kept up the walls deeper within.

However, the attack upon his mind barely tested the first of the inner walls before withdrawing, and when Stephen came to his senses again, the alien wore a strange look that he could not immediately place. He lifted two fingers and Stephen felt his body slowly tilt to a vertical position, the needles following his movement.

The creature began to circle Stephen as he repositioned him. "I admit I have had very few dealings with Terran before, but there are enough similar peoples within the universe to generate a broad understanding of your species. I know enough to see that you are a very singular person, Doctor."

He startled at the title, and then saw the alien was now in his peripheral vision. The creature moved some of the needles aside to step close to the left side of his now-vertical body, then reached over and settled his long-fingered hand upon his right shoulder. Stephen stiffened at the touch. "You have practiced your craft for so little time. If you had longer, you may even prove formidable. Your world has chosen its Stone-keeper well."

The hand slid from his shoulder to his neck and cupped his chin, then tilted his head up gently. He whispered into his left ear, "But the Ebony Maw is not known as the greatest of Thanos's interrogators for naught. And every being has a weakness." The alien— this Ebony Maw— slid his right hand down Stephen's right arm until he was stroking the scars upon his hand. "And I, Doctor, have found yours."

He hardly had time to process his words before needles, multiple needles were entering his hands, and the pain completely overwhelmed the rest of his senses. While the sensation of the needles upon his head were bad, this was on a whole new level of suffering that utterly consumed his body, mind, and soul. Sound was muffled and ringing, sight was impossible, blood filled his mouth and overtook all scents, and on top of it all was the knowledge that the only true feeling within his world was an utter, all-encompassing agony.

Stephen could not say how long he was in this state of being. When he began to regain his lost senses as the shock of pain began to wear into a constant, he first found that his inner throat was sore and felt used, as if he had been speaking for a long length of time— screaming. The ringing noise was from the screaming.

Despite the soreness, he heard a strangled sob make its way out of him, which is when he realized that he was crying and, somewhat alarmingly, could not stop; the pain was too great.

He dared not look down at his hands; while he had recovered some sense of presence, he could still feel the intrusive instruments sticking within him. They were stagnant now, simply releasing steady waves of pain that travelled through his hands, up his arms and to his very core, but he was certain that if any of them were touched, or any further needles placed, he would lose focus on the rest of the world again.

With one arm still over his shoulder, Ebony Maw's left hand travelled upward, past his chin, to carefully wipe away one of his tear tracks with his thumb. Stephen shuddered. "Consider your position carefully, Doctor. This need not go further."

Stray tears brushed down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and remained quiet. The silence sat for a moment further, and then his world was a whitewash of nothing but suffering.

((This was totally inspired by how creepy Ebony Maw was when he took over Doctor Strange's mind in the 2013 Infinity run in the comics. Also, I think I have a sequel to this I want to write.))

[alittlepieceofwarcraft]

Void Elf: A Character Guide

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History

Evolution (Year -13,500): The void elves, or ren’dorei (”children of the void”), originate from blood elves, a race of elf that come from the Highborne, or high elves. These elves in turn are descended from night elves (first reported in Year -13,500). Even further back, these night elves are products of Dark trolls being exposed to Well of Eternity, these trolls in turn descending from Zandalari trolls. The high elf queen Azshara attempted to summon Sargeras through the Well of Eternity in Year -10,000, resulting in the single continent splitting into the four we know today, known as the Sundering. After this, the night elves forbade any use of arcane magic, fearing a second Sundering. Most of those who refused to cease this were high elves, thus leading to their banishment night elven lands. After the Scourge invasion of Quel’Thalas (Year -20), the high elves chose to take the name “blood elf” to honour the dead. From the blood elves come an assortment of sub-races: Wretched are blood elves who have been overcome by magical addiction, Felblood are those corrupted by The Burning Legion, San’layn are blood elves risen in Northrend to serve the Scourge, and lastly came a faction of their people who delved into the Void, known as Void elves, but were subsequently banished for their actions 

Exile (Year -7,300): Many high elves refused to give up their use of arcane magic, seeing it as their birthright. They were then banished from night elven lands, guided by Dath'Remar Sunstrider. Their kingdom of Quel’Thalas is founded.

Exile ends: (Year -6,800): The construction of Silvermoon City is completed. Somewhere between the exile and this year, a font of power, The Sunwell, is created from a vial of stolen Well of Eternity water.

Joining the Alliance (Year 3): following the First War, the high elves ally themselves with the newly formed Alliance of Lordaeron.

Into Outland (Year 8): Alleria Windrunner accompanies an Alliance expedition to Outland and is later trapped on that side of the portal with her husband Turalyon. During their time, they find themselves on a part of the world close to Twisting Nether that was beginning to merge with the destructing world. They were found by Lothraxion, a former member of the Burning Legion who had joined the Army of the Light. They began training with the army under the guidance of the naaru Xe'ra upon the dimensional ship, the Xenedar wherein time moved differently for them than on Azeroth. During a raid on a Legion prison, she was attacked and infected with the void, learning of the Locus-Walker, a mysterious being who was a powerful master of the Void through its visions. She saw its potential in using it against the Legion, but Xe’ra rejected this notion. 

The fall of Quel’Thalas (Year 20): during the Third War, a Scourge invasion headed by newly-made death knight Arthas Menethil assaults the city to use the Sunwell tor resurrect Kel’thuzad. Anasterian Sunstrider, great-grandson to Dath’Remar, and Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner are most notably among those to fall, the latter to be raised as a banshee. The high elves who survived rename themselves blood elves in honour of the deceased and are led by their Prince Kael’thas, son of Anasterian.

Leaving the Alliance (Year 22): in the hopes of finding a new source of power after the loss of the Sunwell, the Blood elves align themselves with Illidan Stormrage and the naga and venture into Outland.

The fall of Kael’thas: (Year 26): by this year, the Outland blood elves have captured the old naaru fortress, Tempest Keep, and send naaru M’uru back to Quel’Thalas. They would later use his spark to reignite the Sunwell. With the aid of Sylvanas, now freed from the undead Scourge, Azerothian blood elves are accepted into the Horde. Kael’thas allies himself with The Burning Legion and is killed in Tempest Keep. After himself being resurrected, Kael’thas retreats to Silvermoon to try and summon Kil’jaeden into Azeroth. He is defeated finally and Lor'themar Theron becomes regent-lord of Silvermoon. After the Sunwell is finally restored, some blood elves were adamant to prevent such a catastrophe and sought to harness other powers to protect the people of Silvermoon. Magister Umbric was a magister who decided to delve into study of the Void much to the disapproval of Grand Magister, Rommath. When their activities were discovered, Umbric and those practising Void magic were exiled. He led his group away from Eversong Woods and into the Ghostlands and there they uncovered the research of necromancer Dar'Khan Drathir that noted how he had tried to enter the void world to seize an object of power, but failed. However, Umbric managed to use the past work to succeed and open a way to Telogrus Rift.

A Dang Long Time (Year 28): While 20 years had passed on Azeroth, 500 had passed for Alleria. During a battle with the Legion on the remains of Outland, she called upon the Void rather than the Light and was captured by the Legion on Niskara with the Locus-Walker as a cell mate. Alleria used his teachings to kill the inquisitor torturing them and Locus-Walker opened a Void rift to escape. He told her the Void was her destiny and agreed to tutor her in its ways. She later received a vision of Turalyon being attacked and went to his aid, using the Void. Xe’ra demanded that Alleria renounce the Void and when she would not, she had her imprisoned.

Sister Searching (Year 32): Years of searching for Alleria led her younger sister Vereesa Windrunner to her prison cell in Niskara. Alleria’s bow Thas'dorah, Legacy of the Windrunners is recovered, yet Alleria is nowhere to be found, leading her sister to conclude that she managed to escape. During the Argus campaign, the Xenedar is later shot down while Alleria is still imprisoned under Xe’ra’s orders, allowing her to break free and aid in the execution of Aggonar. She and Turalyon are reunited with their son Arator and Vereesa is forced to reveal to Alleria the fate of their sister Sylvanas Windrunner and her current position as Warchief.  Velen and Turalyon discovered that the Crest of Knowledge, a piece of the Crown of the Triumvirate, was inside the Seat of the Triumvirate on Mac'Aree and Alleria scouted the area before more go in. She uncovered that the naaru L'ura had become a beacon calling the Shadowguard after entering her Void state. She and an adventurer run into Locus-Walker again and wished to test her lessons. After slaying void revenant Nhal'athoth, he takes its heart for her to consume. Within the Seat itself, a battle between adventurers and Alleria and L’ura ensues, leading to Alleria absorbing her essence and fully transforming into a Void state. 

An Unwelcome Guest (Year 33): King Anduin Wrynn sends emissaries out to various locations in order to recruit new races into The Alliance. Alleria is insistent on attempting to bring the blood elves back into the Horde and takes a pilgrimage to Silvermoon. Upon arrival, she discovers First Arcanist Thalyssra of the nightborne is already taking a tour of Silvermoon hosted by Lor’themar now its regent-lord. He refuses the offer, although allows her to see the Sunwell as she was a hero of the city in the past. However, as she was close enough to the Sunwell, void energies began to corrupt it and void beasts came forward, including one named Aruun the Darkener. She managed to close her rift, but Rommath believed she was a saboteur and demanded to have her imprisoned. Lor’themar instead exiled her from the city, viewing her as a danger to its people. She managed to track down Umbric with an adventurer by finding his writings and they reached Telogrus Rift. There, he showed her their efforts to unlock the power from an item, but this spawned Nether-Prince Durzaan into their plane and he had to be put down. Thankful for her help, Umbric pledged his and the void elves’ loyalty to the Alliance.

Physical traits

Life expectancy: Void elves can be assumed to have the same life expectancy as their blood elf counterparts which can be for thousands of years without ageing.

Height: void elves are shorter than other elf races with females being 5-5.5 foot on average and males being around 6.

Eye colour: They can have eyes ranging from colours of white, blue or purple.

Cosmetics: Some void elves have hair that changes colour due to their void energies.

Personality traits

Did Someone Say Something?: Void elves sacrifice much for their powers, including hearing whispers of the void in their mind. While some can control the voices, others may be slightly more paranoid and suspicious based on what they tell them. Some may even be driven mad if they cannot stop hearing them.

Uncertain Loyalties: Void elves are the only race to have switched faction twice, and Umbric has stated that they never felt love for the Horde but only served to protect Silvermoon. This may call into question moral dilemmas when having to attack blood elves or in the even of a Silvermoon invasion, a void elf may have to think twice before attacking.

Other races: They may find a kind of kinship with night elves due to their shared kinship, particularly night elven demon hunters who too were rejected from their society for delving into powers their people didn’t approve of. It’s not secret that because of their exile they’d hold a bitter grudge against blood elves but also may still feel a bond or nostalgia towards them because of their love of Silvermoon.

Other creatures: They ride Starcursed Voidstriders.

Culture

Languages: Void elves speak Thalassian and Common although due to Thalassian deriving from Darnassian they may also be able to understand that even if it’s on a basic level. They speak in what we would consider to be a thick British accent.

Government: They are led by Umbric and Alleria.

Military: All of their forces are pledged to the Alliance.

Religion: Void elves don’t have a specified religion, merely channelling the void rather than worshipping it. Some may hold the view that the Shadow cannot exist without the Light and vice versa, therefore justify continuing the old practice of worshipping the Light.

[selowyn]

The Magistrate’s Mandate

“Confessor?” The question, following a knock and asked delicately from the doorway by a soft-spoken messenger, prompted a quizzical glance up from her desk inside the Sanctum.

“Yes?” Her musical voice further broke the silence.

“Pardon the interruption. The Magistrate would like to see you.”

Oh. Ohhh. “Very well.” Her voice was far steadier than she felt as she rose to follow.

The day was clear upon the Isle, the trees ever-bursting with eternal foliage of golds and reds. A small breeze teased up from the sea and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves as they made their way across the main square and up the steps to the summoning platform. The Magistrate’s office in Quel’Danas, situated high in a tower at Sun’s Reach, overlooked the harbor with a clear view of the Terrace. She had been here a few times before. Recalling it as well-appointed, she was curious as to the occasion. When she materialized before the open door to his offices, she was quickly ushered in.

“Ah, Miss Sunhawk,” the Magistrate intoned, rising from his ornate desk in a splendor of carnelian and cream silk, the faint crows feet in the corners of his eyes crinkling with the upturn of a smile. “Thank you for coming. A pleasure to see you. Please, please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. Yes, yes, have a seat, there you are.” Bowing low at the waist in the old way, the Magistrate pulled out a chair at his conference table, into which she invested herself following a deep curtsy. After offering her something to drink (politely refused), he admitted his time was short. A folder from his desk was fetched and brought to the table, slapped down softly as he took a seat opposite her.

Sliding wire-framed glasses over glowing golden eyes, he flipped open the chart, humming idly as he skimmed. “I have been reading your file, and am taken to understand that for a time you studied the arcane.” Peering at her over the top of the lenses, he awaited confirmation.

Interesting start. “Yes. My father was an arcanist and we shared a love of books.” The ensuing surge of sadness was expected, but could not be indulged presently. It was shoved back down with an intense exercise of discipline before it could pose too much distraction.

“How lovely! A right and proper calling for a highborne.” More skimming. “Ah, but that’s not all. He was an accomplished fencer, isn’t that right? And so perhaps it was through a mutual love of fencing you eventually found your way to more...martial pursuits.” A flip of a page. “How interesting. Was that here, in Quel’Thalas as well?”

She held her breath, shaking her head. His tilted in response and he sought his answer in the document rather than from her lips with a rapid shift of focus. “Ah. Ahh... I see. Perhaps it was in the City-State of...Theramore.”  

The rapid descent in his tone from praise to disappointment was palpable, and the Confessor shifted in her seat. This seemed a broad leap, glancing over many years and experiences, but... He wasn’t incorrect. “For a time, yes, that’s right.”

Tossing the dossier to the side, he leaned back in his chair, eyeing her appraisingly. “I suppose it at least shows some level of discernment that your family followed the Expedition rather than remain in Lordaeron, doomed as it was.” Breaking eye contact to peer out the window, he shrugged. “Why you all did not just...come home to the open arms of your Kingdom; well, that begs other questions.”

A swallow. “Sir, if you would like me to explain…” The wave of his hand silenced her.

“Those were dark times and Lady Proudmoore an accomplished sorceress. Many highborne cleaved to her side, and when the Prophet gave his warning she was wise to leave. Undoubtedly the Kaldorei are thankful for your aid at Hyjal as well.” A soft snort. “For all the good that’s done them.”

A blonde brow arched as lips set into a thin line, but prudence won the moment and she remained silent. Seeing no comment was forthcoming, the Magistrate fiddled with his robe before leaning forward once more to dig into her file. “Northrend. Uh-huh. Argent Tournament...working under the wing of her grace, Bishop-Confessor Morningdove...you know,” he suddenly remarked, tearing off the spectacles to rub his eyes, pausing a moment in thought. “I rather wonder how you rose to Confessorship so quickly. Not just any common arcanist or soldier can apply their brand of skill to cultivating the vulnerable minds of the Azerothian populace. Just what happened up there in the frozen North?”

She knew better than to comment, or raise objection to his tone, or to ask just how he knew all of this. His query was rhetorical, as was his pattern in this chess match. With a deep inhale, a prayer was whispered under her breath. Honestly is truth, and truth is pure. It would be her shield.

Her relief came quickly enough through his love of hearing himself speak. “Nay, please. It matters little for the issue at hand, and your station is one deserving of respect.” He sighed, his tone going conspiratorial. “It just seems the history written upon the annals our beleaguered world goes faster and faster, fate cramming as much as she can into the shortest man-measured years as possible. One war, two wars, three wars….a score of wars! One can hardly keep it all straight.” A wry hurmph is issued as he shifted in his seat. “Would that we had the long, languid eons of the past back...”

With that, the spectacles were shed, slapped to the tabletop with a clink of glass and wire. His hands wove themselves together, gathering at his midsection as he pressed forward. “Miss Silverhawk. You came here, a pilgrim to the Sunwell, and we granted your entreaty. You requested then to remain here, finding it to your liking--as many do.” His eyes sought hers. “This is a favor we do not grant easily, anymore.”

The quirk of her lips was surely visible and so he quickly continued. “Now. We understand all too well the siren call which our blessed font presents for our people; the importance it represents both symbolically and on a more personal basis.” The slightest smirk bloomed upon his face at that.

Her eyes sank downward to hide her shame. He doesn’t understand. I’m not like the others. I never sought to go to Draenor; never supped of the green crystals. I wasn’t even here when...

“We also wished,” his sharp voice cut into her internal cascade, “to display a show of good faith to your service to the stalwart Argent Crusade, in thanks for all they--and you--have done. After all, that was a very select organization, I’m told.”

“Yes, it...was.” Tirion hand-picked every one of us. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. “It still is.”

“And yet, for all the good offered the world,” and he did, to his credit, incline his head in respect, “the Crusade is just not what it once was, correct? I understand the Highlord and most of the prime force perished upon the...what are the humans calling it? The ‘Broken Shore’? And that now, the leadership has been assumed by a human paladin, a Lord Maxwell, and subsumed back under the auspices of their Order of Knights?”

A swallow. It was clear now where this was going. “Yes, that is correct.”

“Interesting.” Abruptly rising, the Magistrate recovered his glasses and wandered to his desk, fiddling with a few scrolls, fingers sliding down the pages until he found what he was looking for with a smart tap. “See here, it says reports indicate that members of this order, this...Silver Hand, have been present at the warfront of Arathi, fighting for the Alliance.” Peering up at her now, his face was void of emotion. He wielded fact with cold efficiency. “It would seem that they have chosen a side in this conflict. The side which, given the geographical location, represents a threat to the safety of the Kingdom.”

Her stomach lurched. She had wondered if and when this day would come, and...so it seems it had. Many of her new friends in the Outreach wandered in with their tail tucked between their legs, hesitant and vigilant. Is this how they felt, faced with conflicting loyalties?

Watching her a lingering moment, the Magistrate made his way to the nearby liquor cabinet, choosing a decanter of garnet hued liquid and pouring what looked to be a glass of dark port. Turning, he raised it in offerance - would she now partake, perhaps? At the shake of her head, he capped the pitcher once more and paced, robes whispering in time to the idle tapping his fingernail made upon the petite glass.

“You’ve been gone quite a bit lately,” he began again, the prior more circuitous train of thought replaced by a new level of directness. “Less and less at the clinic here, where some of our most wounded come for replenishment and renewal.” Long, pale hair shifted like melting snow with the disappointed shaking his head gave as he meandered to the window, eyeing the wide expanse of placid ocean as he sipped his drink

“Now, Miss Sunhawk, I understand completely the urge to follow one’s heart. The drive to offer your unique benediction to the far flung corners of the world, such as...salt-abraded prison islands and the shattered hamlets of Lordaeron. It must at times be practically impossibly difficult to resist.” The knowing smile he offered her with a side cant of his face made her blood run cold. “But lest you forget, you are a first and foremost, by right of birth and bloodline, belore’dorei of the Kingdom of Quel’Thalas, with all the rights, privileges and expectations that grants.

The world shrank, her vision clouding as her breath caught in her chest. With a soft clearing of her throat, she sat up straighter, mentally raising her shield to speak her truth. “Sir. With all due respect, I am, first and foremost, a Confessor of the Argent Crusade. Sworn to fight evil wherever it may manifest and offer healing wherever it is n--…”

“Confessor,” he interrupted. “Let me make this simple.” Turning toward her once more, he stood framed by the window pane, features in shadow as the light from behind streamed forward around his shape. “You will focus more upon your duties here. You will heal our wounded and you will counsel the bereaved. You will help train the Spellbreakers as needed. And you will do all of this not only because it is your privilege as one of us; but you will do this because you enjoy the proximity to the Sunwell afforded to those in Quel’Danas.”

A lead weight took up residence inside of her stomach. Her greatest failure now held her in chains. Despite all her discipline and work, the indelible mark Northrend had left on her made her vulnerable, a pawn for a war machine spinning out of control.

He must have noticed her wilt. “Oh come now my dear. Just to be clear, you are not a prisoner. No, no. However, we just wish…” He swirled the last bit of drink in his glass with a flourished gesture of his arm, casting garnets upon the wall as it caught the light. “For more of your precious time. That’s it.” Down went the dregs of the port, and so too her mood. “So. Are we clear?”

Her golden eyes meandered to the beveled glass in his hand. The intricate array of engraved facets glimmered with multidimensional promise of possibilities reflected, yet held in check by the singularly firm grip of his fingers.

“As crystal,” she whispered.

[breachy-breeches-creation]

Of Harmony & Discord

It had been almost a month since the grand ball hosted by Lady Lucille Trevelyan and the discovery of the truth of Jacquelyn being a mage.

The Trevelyans would've have been punished and disgraced for harbouring an "apostate" under Chantry laws if not for the thwarting of the assassination of the ball's honoured guest - a highly regarded Grand Cleric, the very reason why Jacquelyn's magic was exposed. Thus it was decided the girl was to be sent to the Cumberland Circle instead, which is considered to be the most powerful and resourceful of the Circle’s but also less restricted compared to the rest in Thedas.

It was curious, however, that Jacquelyn wasn't shipped to Circle immediately. Perhaps it was a reward from the Grand Cleric to let the girl spend her last remaining days with her family in peace before departing.

Jacquelyn had been having dreamless nights for the past few days, which is particularly rare unless she is truly exhausted.

What's more, Serenity - her spirit friend since back in the Hold when her magic manifested - disappeared, which never happens; they are inseparable!

Even if Serenity was to return to the Fade it would always notify her first and the departures were never long, a few hours, a day at the most.

But this? Completely vanished without out a trace? This is completely unheard of.

The thought of her friend’s disappearance made the girl feel restless, she feared for her friend’s safety and something about this abnormality tells her that her instincts are correct.

She is unable and won’t sleep until she finds out what is going on.

Jacquelyn made her way out of the bed, grabbing her robes and an oil lamp and left the room.

The moon is still high up in the sky which means her mother is most likely still in the library room. ‘Mama might know something.’ the girl thought to herself.

Vanessa knew of her daughter’s magic abilities and was the person who kept this fact a secret from the rest of the Trevelyan family - including her current husband Julian Trevelyan.

Despite Neverra having a more liberal attitude on magic compared to the rest of the Andrastian nations, being raised in a "civilized" society and of noble status, Vanessa knew how the Chantry and most of the population view magic and mages.

She had hoped to live a peaceful life from the grief of the death of her Avvar lover and former husband and wished not to lose her only child to the Circle. Perhaps also out of reassurance that Jacquelyn had acquired great knowledge in controlling her magic already.

As was expected, the tawny-haired woman is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, with unfinished embroidery in her hands.

Vanessa paused when she heard the approaching bustle of the footsteps of her daughter. She turned around and sees Jacquelyn's face in apprehension. Vanessa raised her brow in concern, putting her sewing kit aside and welcoming the little girl's embrace.

"Something’s troubling you my dear Lavena?" Vanessa asked softly as she pets her daughter's wispy onyx hair; 'Lavena' - “joy”, the girl's former name when she was still a member of her Avvar clan, and now only used as an endearment from the mother to her child.

Jacquelyn looked up at her mother, her eyes filled with confusion “Mama, They’ve been missing for days and I don’t know where They’ve gone! This never happens!”

The girl’s complaint had Vanessa pause and avert her eyes away. An expression of guilt, unable to look at her daughter. “Mama, Mama? What’s the matter?”

“Your mother did what is right, child”  a voice spoke from across the room; the voice that belonged to the master of the house - Julian Trevelyan. Behind the authoritarian man, a senior mage in a confident posture followed.

Jacquelyn shot up, facing both men, still confused but also afraid. “What…?”. The girl noticed a thick scroll in the mage’s possession, she rushed up to him, snatching the scroll from the mage’s hand.

As she opened up the scroll, her eyes went wide, horror crawling upon her face and her hands began to shake violently with disbelief as she read each word and magic symbol presented on the parchment. “What….have you done..!” she finally breathed out.

A rare and powerful artifact called “The Scroll of Banishment”, rumoured to be originated from the Ancient Tevinter Imperium.

As the name implied, it was used to banish demons and spirits alike back into in the Fade.

Jacquelyn recognised it since the Avvars of her Hold had displayed similar magic rituals when the situation required. However there were other unfamiliar symbols and formulas in the scroll, this one appeared to be an altered version of the original artifact.

Knowledge unknown to her made it even more unsettling.

Julian stepped forward reaching out his hand, “Jacquelyn...” he spoke, in the attempt to soothe the distressed adolescent, but she was in no mood, nor had patience for this.

The young woman slapped away the reaching hand, snarling at the man, “Don’t touch me!” she snapped at him.

She breathed heavily, clutching the scroll tight with anger, tears tumbling at the corner of her eyes, threatening to fall. She tried holding her breath, in order to hold herself from further emotional outbursts.

The senior Mage stepped towards in a prideful manner “I see you have noticed, young one. This version is much thorough, not only seeks to exorcise but also can “mark” and eliminate the target completely.”

Julian knelt down to be on eye level with the girl, with a reassuring voice he spoke again, “Child, it is for your own good.”

That was the last straw.

Without warning the girl’s hands ignited, as rushes of rage engulfed her mind, incinerating the scroll in the process.

The sudden burst of flames startled and knocked down everyone in the room, especially Julian, with his loose sleeves catching on fire.

Her eyes flared with arcane energy, tears all but evaporated. The fire in her palms burnt, changing its colour from orange to green to violet and then lastly to ghostly blue.

“Why would you do this?! They are my friend!”

“It is a demon!”

“You are the ones that turn them to Demon!”  the flaming maiden roared with fury, voice echoing through the hallways.

A fist of fireball landed on one of the vases and spread to the nearby, rather unfortunate furniture. The guardsmen, alerted by the noise caused by the earlier blast, arrived at the room, quickly standing between their Lords and Jacquelyn, holding their shields and swords up in ready stance.

“Lavena, please!” Vanessa pleaded.

“Please? You would let a man push you and your daughter around because he is the Lord of this fucking mansion? Where is the stubborn pride you always carried with you, Mother?” Jacquelyn spoke through gritted teeth, as she neared the woman.

“Enough! You will not address your father this way!” “This imbecile lowlander son of a bitch is not my father just because you are married to him!”

The next instant Jacquelyn felt a stung across her face and the fire in the girl’s hands dissipated as shock overtook her. Silence.

Jacquelyn slowly turned her head back to her mother, staring at her; her expression still showing how betrayed she felt as ran off to the hallways.

Vanessa looked at her hand shaking as she sobbed into them,  heart swelling with regret. Julian placed his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to reassure her.

The guardsmen and servants were ready to give chase but the Lord made the gesture to do otherwise. “Let her go, she needs some space”  

Not long after, the sound of a door slamming unnecessarily loud, could be heard, quickly followed by broken glass, splinters of wood and angry screams.

---

Three days had passed and not a single sign came from Jacquelyn’s room, despite the frequent check-ups from Vanessa and her maids.

The food delivered at the doorstep was left to turn cold, untouched, until servants went to retrieve it. Gossips could be heard in the halls, nothing that could be helped, but no matter what they only kept spreading and growing.

Several Templars arrived at dusk, and a servant leads one of them to Jacquelyn’s room.

“My Lady Jacquelyn, I am here to inform you that the Templars have arrived,” said the servant after she gingerly knocked on the door.

“I….understand that it may be difficult for my lady to say farewell, but please do pack the necessities soon… it has been decided that my lady will be leaving with them on the morrow.”

Not moments later, the door slowly creaked open. Jacquelyn stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, already dressed, a travelling bag on her back. “No need, we can leave now,” the girl said in an almost monotone voice. “Oh...um, as my lady wishes then, I will go make preparations immediately” the servant seemed slightly taken aback, but quickly bowed and took her leave.

“Hello, you may call me Liam” The templar stepped forward and reached out his hand in a greeting gesture “My companions and I will be escorting you to the Cumberland Circle, a pleasure to meet you.” Jacquelyn eyed him up and down for a moment, and without a word, proceeded to walk away and towards the main entrance.

“Well, that went well” the templar awkwardly scratched his cheek with the hand that had been ignored and followed the dark-haired girl.  

When Jacquelyn reached the staircase, Julian and Vanessa were already waiting at the bottom, along with the other Templars. Vanessa attempted to reach out for her daughter, Jacquelyn simply walking pass her without looking at her once, refusing to acknowledge her presence.

Lord and Lady Trevelyan, along their servants watched in silence as Jacquelyn entered the prepared carriage and departed.

When the carriage could no longer be seen upon the horizon, Vanessa finally broke into tears. Julian held his Lady close to comfort her, whispering prayers to the Maker as he did.

________________________________________________________

Basically, the explanation of how Serenity disappeared and what caused the huge relationship rift between Jacquelyn and her (step/)parents

. This backstory has been sitting in my files for months before I actually remembered about it and finally finished it. Writing still needs much improvement tho bleh lol.

Many thanks to my friend @abyss-wolf for proofreading and edit for me. :D

[gwiiyeoweo]

A kingdom in ruins, his people and loved ones dead, Gladiolus turns to those he had once spurned: the gods.

For better or for worse, Retribution hears and answers.

Pairing: Gladiolus Amicitia/Noctis Lucis Caelum Rating: G

“So the prodigal son finally bends the knee.”

Gladiolus grits his teeth, keeps his eyes trained on the cracked stone on which he kneels upon. He hears featherlight footsteps circle around him, the soft patter of bare feet kicking up broken pebbles. A particularly sharp stone rolls into his view, and he stares at that instead. The barely lit torches cast dancing shadows around them, and he catches the echo of this other being’s form. He can’t tell if it’s humanoid or not.

“Why now? You blasphemed our names, tore down our shrines and effigies. And here you are, groveling on the floor so unlike the proud and regal prince you once were.” Gladio can hear the mocking smile in its voice, and it takes all of his will to push down on the pride that thrashed among the broken pillars of his castle. “So let me ask a better question. Why should I help you, a non-believer who spurned my very existence, when I could just leave you to meet out your due end?”

Because he shouldn't, because Gladio has no right to come to the gods after all that he's denied them. He knows this, and so does the god who prowls around him like a vicious predator circling its hapless prey. But he knows how negotiations and deals work; he's had his hand in many of his father's council sessions, learned from the finest tutors and diplomats in the art of politics. The fact that this god had decided to humor him with its presence means there's an interest, that there is something Gladio could offer. But because the gods are finicky and whimsical and never cut right to the chase, he needs to figure out what exactly the god sees in him — and quickly, before it loses interest and Gladio's last hope is smothered alongside the rubble of his nation.

After biding his time and taking the blows of the god's sharp words in silence — the not so subtle insults adding salt to his open wounds of seeing the last of his kingdom burn under black flames — he swallows thickly as he chooses his next words carefully. He knows not who he's summoned or if this deity is malevolent or benign. It could be a demon in disguise or a powerful spirit posing as some higher power, keeping up with the ruse so it could lure him into its trap and devour his soul and flesh and bones.

And Gladio only knows two things. One, this god clings to a masculine form, judging by the voice. Not by sight, because he had not dared to lift his eyes from the dark stone floor of this deserted and broken temple. And more importantly, two, that this is the only one to answer his plea and he could absolutely not fuck this up. His kingdom and his people were dead and gone, all buried underneath the thundering march of his enemies’ boots, and he had literally nothing left to lose. Even his life was forfeited the moment his father shoved him into the one-way passage that led to the forest edge, before he saw the blood spring forth from the sword impaled into the king’s chest.

Only, now that he’s at his lowest, he has everything to gain. And what he wants are revenge and justice, to see Iedolas' head perched upon a spike and decorating his front yard. For retribution alone, he would offer anything.

“I’d offer you my kingdom and my crown, but I don't have either — not anymore,” Gladio says slowly, trying not to grieve over his loss. Not yet, not now.

“So a king of nothing kneels here. But gold and silk never interested me.” It sounds unimpressed but not uninterested.

Gladio figured as much, so he's left with what should have been burned out with the rest of his people. “I don't know what a mortal's life is worth, but it's all I have to give. I can give you worship, praises, sacrifices, whatever it is you gods like. If you help me, I'll rebuild the shrines my family tore down. I'll turn Iedolas’ bones into an effigy in your name, even.”

“Ah, the Mad King.”

Gladio flinches at the title, anger boiling at just the mere mention of Iedolas’ moniker. The agonizing seconds that tick by is enough to cool it though, and he thinks it's done. It's all over. He didn't think his single life was worth much to a god anyway, but it was worth the shot. So he wonders what his next move should be, if there's anyone left to resist Iedolas’ blight —

“So be it. Your fleeting life is mine.”

Gladio feels cool fingers slide along his bare neck, and he can't help the shudder the foreign touch invokes. He almost can't believe the words he so clearly heard, except the fire that licks at the places he's been touched is more than enough to ground him.

“My will, your law.”

He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as fingers trace a pattern down his back, across his shoulders, and he feels a burn follow the shadows of his touches, a bone-deep sensation that reaches into Gladio’s very soul and coils magics around his fragments. He knows it's a contract, proof etched into his skin, proof he's signed his life away. Surprisingly, he isn't bitter about it.

“My word, your bible.”

This time, the voice ghosts the shell of his ear, its hand palming the front of his chest right over his heart. It burns the greatest here, and he's unable to hold back the sudden gasp, the magic piercing and needling under his skin. Gladio opens his eyes to see pale feet before him, not a speck of dirt or dust on porcelain skin, despite pacing around this decrepit place. He still doesn't look up, out of fear. If he dares raise his eyes now, he threatens to break what promise is being burned into him, to lose this miraculous favor he's been given when no one else would offer. And maybe, he fears the unknown. Of what little stories he's heard of gods, he knows some to depict them as beautiful creatures, others as fearsome beings surrounded by flames and blinding light.

“My name, your god.”

The burn spreads across his shoulder blades and down both his arms, but the pain is a dull ache and no longer searing. Or perhaps, it never dulled in the first place, but all his nerves turn their attention to the fleeting touch trailing down his jaw and under his chin. Two fingers command him to lift his head, and he does as ordered. In the past, he would have never put his knee to the cold dirty stone, never allowed someone to touch him so boldly. But that had been the time in which Gladio was royalty; now he's only a man whose will is chained and tethered to a being who lords over him.

He stiffens, however, when he meets two ice-steel eyes, a gaze so sharp and deep that he feels his soul lay itself utterly bare for dissection. He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding, only to have the air sucked clean out of him right after. The god finalizes their pact, and takes a piece of Gladio's soul as down payment and collateral, stealing his fragments right from his pliant lips. He feels something inside him shift, to make room for some heavy chain that wraps its burning coils around his soul, replacing what was taken from him.

Gladiolus sees black, and tastes blood in his mouth and a foreign name on his tongue.

“And what is this god's name?” it asks, almost sarcastically, one note away from mocking. And Gladio knows, the way it burns his mouth as it demands to be freed.

“Noctis.”

He whispers it with a reverence he never thought possible, especially not from such a heretic as he. It feels too smooth on his tongue and slips so easily from his lips. Because of the contract, he wants to believe. But he can't help but feel every word fall to dust and ruin before the god's name. As if he learned speech only to utter that single word, like his voice was given just for this one moment.

He thinks it possible. So much so when he sees that sharp curve of a smile — those lips that had just sealed Gladio’s fate, turn loving and frightening and vicious all at the same time. Thunder rumbles the stone walls, and the foundation of his entire world crumbles and remakes itself within Noctis’ torturous hands.

“Who are you?” He thinks it’s a rude question, an insult, but their contract is done; if what he’s heard of the gods is true, then Noctis won’t break his promise, won’t call their deal off and eat him alive. He should know this, really. But all he had was a name and this unfamiliar tether weighing in his chest.

Noctis’ smile turns crooked, and Gladio can’t tell if he looks amused or slighted.  

The god — no, his god — turns his eyes and follows the trail of his fingertips that graze over the feathered pattern of Gladio’s chest, the testament to their vows. What follows is an entirely different burn, not painful but hauntingly pleasant. In the dim firelight of the crude torches, he sees a blue flame swirl beneath the frozen steel of his eyes. There is power here. Power that could include him into the dust of the earth, yet it's reigned in under featherlight touches and a strangely gentle caress, as Noctis’ hand turns to cup Gladio's dirt and blood-stained cheek.

He looks at him almost lovingly, except his too sharp teeth and slitted eyes invoke fear and awe. Gladio thinks the myths and legends to be true: Noctis is both terrifying and magnificent. He's a marble statue come to live, but he exudes raw energy and arcane magic, and it bleeds into the air around him. Gladio had smelled the charged ozone the moment Noctis had came to him, atoms and physics bending to his will or cracking under his sovereignty.

His lips part in a cold but not cruel laugh, and Gladio believes it to be a beautiful sound. Because it sounds like vengeance, justice, a promise of redemption.

“You should at least know the names of the gods you so hated, or just what they hold dominion over.” Noctis’ eyes crinkle in amusement, and his smile is genuine. He strokes his thumb at the dark bag underneath Gladio's eye before removing his hand to grasp gently at the back of his neck.

Noctis draws their foreheads together, and once again Gladio feels breathless as he loses himself in those chasms of frozen darkness, enough to ignore the way the god's fingernails dig dangerously close to an artery.

Noctis’ whispers sound like the awe-inspiring notes of a grand organ, reverberating against the broken remains of the temple ruins like it would a church's marble and gold walls; and never did Gladio think he would find himself a worshipper basking in the sonorous hymns of Noctis’ voice.

“I am the moonless night in which the scorned seek out their wrongdoers and receive their due in blood, the edge of the guillotine that takes the life of murderers and rapists only to give it back to the bereaved.”

Gladio feels his pulse quicken underneath those fingertips.

“I am the steel of swords, the screams of soldiers and peasants, as they seek to right what has been wronged. I am the hammer that turns evil into justice, the cold silence that precedes and follows the promise of vengeance.”

And he can see it. He sees the visions Noctis paints for him, sees the future of what is promised to him.

“I am their Retribution. I am your Avenger.”

Gladio had never put much stock in the gods. But in this moment, he can do nothing but believe. He's been baptized in the fire of his god, made a covenant of his own flesh, and borne witness to the revelations. He shudders under the god's touch, feels himself vulnerable under that suffocating gaze, but he can't help but want and seek out more.

When Noctis removes himself, Gladio barely holds back the disappointment, and he misses the heat on his skin. His gaze trails after the other, who walks to the runes etched into the cracked walls. Noctis traces something, running his fingers over the faint echoes, and the once lost magic is breathed back to life, power pulsing through the stone.

“I promise you your justice. But for now, you rest. You won't be able to fight a war in the state you're in.”

Gladio realizes they're protection spells, and he's trying to decipher them when Noctis suddenly pulls at him from behind. He was just there, in front of him off to the walls. Gladio flails his arms as he falls backwards, hands grasping at air, until he finds his head cradled within the god's lap. The jagged and hard stone beneath him should be jutting into his spine but all he feels is a comfortable firmness, a reminder of his royal chambers. It doesn't make sense, but he doesn't want to ruin the moment, not when his eyelids feel so heavy right now and his limbs weighted with lead. He hadn't been so tired before.

“Rest,” Noctis repeats, “Everything can wait until morning.”

Gladio does as he's commanded, but he doesn't think he'd be able to disobey even if he wanted. He catches a glimpse of something odd and foreign in Noctis’ careful gaze, and he wonders if it's supposed to be sympathy or tenderness or perhaps something else entirely. He doesn't have much energy to dwell on it, however, and everything blurs at its edges until he's lost in black when he feels a hand cover his eyes. Instead of the nightmares that had plagued him, the visions of blood and his father's falling body, he dreams of a warm darkness and its stars.

When he wakes, it is with no pain or ache. He somehow knows his wounds are healed, and the knowledge is what prompts him into opening his eyes. Gladio sits up and pats down his chest and arms, searching for the evidence — or lack thereof — that he had been wounded in the first place, until he gets a good look at his arms and sees the brand that feathers out and splays across his skin. It's a stark reminder that last night had been real and not a figment of his delirious and grief-stricken imagination. It comes as a relief.

“I can't heal, if that's what you're wondering. I asked Luna to.”

Gladio swivels his head around, sees Noctis looking ridiculously graceful as he sits cross-legged on the floor. He furrows his eyebrows.

“Luna. Lunafreya.” Noctis gestures helplessly in the air.

Gladio isn't understanding what he's saying, or who Lunafreya is. Noctis catches notice and sighs, shaking his head lightly as his soft dark tresses brush his cheeks.

“I had forgotten you know nothing about us. Lunafreya is a god, sister to Ravus, to Allegiance. She is the soft moonlight that brings comfort to the broken, the light that brightens the path walked in darkness. She aids the sick and broken, grants miracles with her touch, and breathes life with her kiss,” Noctis explains. There's a certain fondness in his eyes as he speaks about her. “She is Hope when all is lost.”

“Oh, then my thanks to Lunafreya.” It's… awkward, thanking a god he was raised to deny. But Gladio is sincerely grateful, regardless.

He turns fully around to face Noctis, mimicking his posture and crossing his legs, when he sees two figures cross the rubble of the temple entrance. It’s daylight now; he must have slept through the entire night. He tenses, and all his muscles tighten and poise to attack, when Noctis stares him down and merely lifts a hand. Somehow, Gladio knows it's a sign to stand down. And he does so, albeit begrudgingly. He doesn't like how Noctis holds the reins, how a simple gesture is enough to cow him. He's used to giving orders, not receiving them.

Noctis turns his wrist to have his palm face up, and one of the men places a small basket in his hand. He takes it and places it on the floor, sliding it across the stone to Gladio.

Gladio sees the contents, recognizes the fruits that are set to one side and the cooked rabbit that lies separate by some sort of thin parchment.

“Breakfast?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He wasn't expecting, well, this. But to be honest, he had no idea what he had been getting himself into in the first place. He picks off a slightly charred piece of meat and pops it into his mouth regardless. It's slightly bitter from the burnt skin and in desperate want of seasoning, but his stomach doesn't complain, not when he's gone days without eating.

“I want to clarify some things with you,” Noctis says, resting his elbows on his legs. He entwines his fingers together, and he leans forward with his chin propped on top of his knuckles. The two men flank both of his sides, the shorter blonde on his right and the brunette on his left.

“Fair enough,” Gladio says, after swallowing down his food. He eyes them suspiciously. Introductions would come later, apparently.

“You know how we work, at the very least?”

Of course he knows that much. The gods never do the work directly. They operate in the shadows, act as puppeteers pulling on strings from above in their heavenly thrones or from some spiritual plane. Oracles and prophets speak for them, grant blessings in their stead, channeling divine power through some sort of link.

And it's precisely because of this shady process his family had scorned the gods for generations. They were heretics and  nonbelievers, but they ruled well, took care of their kingdom and their people. His father and rest of the royal did what they could, aid the sick and poor, distribute reasonable justice and the likes. But the Amicitias looked upon the gods with scorn. Too many times did religion birth bloody crusades and false gods, killing and persecuting needlessly to bring glory to some deity who didn't deserve even a single utterance. Their priests and supposed Oracles were swindlers and tradesmen at heart, tricking the poor and broken to wring out whatever coin they had left. These “great” gods kept to their cozy palaces and watched from above, toyed with humans as expendable playthings and threw souls into twisted fates for their own enjoyment.

They didn't deserve worship.

“I do. Never do anything yourselves, I got that. I don't expect you to fight my battles for me.” His words come out more scalding than he means to, but it's no simple undertaking to shrug off what had been instilled into him his entire life. Gladio grimaced only slightly. In any other situation with facing a god before him, he would have been more careful; but he bears a covenant with Noctis, which includes a promise that his god will not kill him until their vows are fulfilled. And hopefully, he’ll make a decent enough impression for Noctis to let him go in the end.

The god seems to take no offense to the heated tone, however. “Good. Because I will not stride into the war fields and turn your enemies to dust myself.” He lifts his hands, one gesturing to each of the men at his sides. “They will.”

Gladio nearly chokes on a grape, and he coughs it up, the round fruit rolling across the floor to land at the blonde's shoe. “What?” he rasps through the tears at his eyes, thumping his chest with his fist.

Noctis breathes out a silent laugh. “My Wardens, my most trusted overseers.”

“Ignis Scientia,” says the one on the left as he adjusts his glasses, “The holy fire that bathes the corrupted and nefarious, the flames that burn away the rot of the wound so it may heal, the eternal pyre of rightful judgment and Retribution.”

“Prompto Argentum,” chirps the other, “I'm the swift silver of the executioner's blade, the flash of metal that glints off a mother's knife as she slits the throat of her child's murderer, the final shot of rightful judgment and Retribution.” A bright smile splits across face. “And lover of all things Chocobos.”

Ignis rolls his eyes and groans, sharing a look with Noctis, who only returns the gaze with a shrug.

“But you gods don't do things yourselves?” Gladio questions, though it's more of an uncertain statement. He stops picking at his food, attention entirely focused on the three before him.

“We are not gods. We are his Wardens. I am the holy —”

“Yeah, I think he heard us fine the first time, Iggy,” Prompto quips, before the other could run through his introduction again. He looks to Gladio and shrugs. “We were like you. Humans once, believe it or not.”

Gladio narrows his eyes in skepticism. He's heard stories and myths of legendary heroes ascending to godhood or the likes, but they were only that. Stories.

“No longer humans but not quite gods,” Noctis adds, closing his eyes and nodding sagely. “They act for me when I can't.”

“When you can't? Aren't you gods, y'know, omnipotent?”

With a long suffering sigh, Ignis steps forward. “To some degree, yes. But what would happen if such all-powerful beings clashed with wild abandon? Humankind and the entirety of Eos would be left in ruins and chaos. So the gods made a pact. Should they ever disagree or desire to meddle in human affairs, they would never do so directly and instead use mediums — Oracles, prophets, Wardens, ‘Chosen’ kings and queens or heroes. Even a heretic as you should know that much.”

“Ignis.”

“Apologies,” he says to Noctis. “Ex-heretic. A devout worshipper and blessed champion now, I do believe.” The look he offers Gladio is almost condescending, with that subtle smirk and lift of his brow.

Gladio does his best to ignore that and clears his throat. “Alright, so let me get this straight. I'll have these two pseudo gods fighting with me? That's actually a lot more than I was expecting.”

Noctis smiles wryly. “With a caveat.”

It's Prompto who speaks up now. “We won't be going around and making everyone drop like lead flies. There's some weird and specific rules about how we Wardens get to work but yeah, that's the idea. Except two ‘pseudo gods’ and a prince won't be enough to stop a crazy army and a crazier king.”

“So we make our own.”

They all turn to Noctis, Gladio half-expecting him to summon up a marching brigade at this point.

“You aren't the only one who holds a grudge against Iedolas. More than a handful of kingdoms and nations have fallen because of him, which you could say, works in your favor. There's only say, several thousands who wish for Retribution, wish to see their slain comrades and families avenged.”

It's certainly true. Tenebrae was the first to fall; the midnight attack drowned her forests in a sea of flames, and she was conquered in less than a week. Altissia was confident they would not be invaded; sea-locked as they were, Niflheim would certainly have troubles reaching her island fortresses. But no one expected the flying machines that carried its soldiers across the great oceans. Without a proper military or defense, the lovely island nation was turned into ruins in a matter of days. Niflheim was spreading its claws like a cancer, systematically destroying everything as it greedily swallowed up whatever it came across.

“We'll start with the Galahdians,” Noctis continues, “Nyx Ulric, the one they call ‘Hero,’ and his little ragtag group. Then onto Leide and Duscae and Cleigne, where the Hunters are scattered across. Altissia and Tenebrae have long since fallen, but there are plenty of those who long for freedom and revenge.”

Gladio's head goes spinning. It'll be a lot of travel, a lot of time spent recruiting and staying under Iedolas’ radar. The idea is so daunting he wonders if it would all be possible. But of course it is. He is an Amicitia, wrought from iron and stone, and even if the gods would declare him their enemy, nothing would stand in his way.

But the gods aren't against him — not when he has one vying for his victory. And the fact that Noctis is already putting his plans into motion, actively giving his aid instead of watching at the sidelines is… Almost scary.

Gladio looks from Prompto to Ignis and back to Noctis. “Not to put this the wrong way, but this is a lot more than I expected. It's almost��� Unfair?”

Noctis’ expression suddenly goes tight, all mirth replaced by sober eyes and a low voice. “It long stopped being fair when Ardyn started all this.”

Whoever this Ardyn is, it's not good, judging the way his two Wardens stiffen up. Ignis’ jaw perceptively tenses, and even Prompto's sunny aura clouds over.

“Ardyn? This is his doing?” Ignis asks, voice gone rigid.

Noctis sighs and nods, his shoulders sagging as he presses the heel of his palm onto his eye. “He twisted some rules, and of course leave it up to him to find loopholes in our pact. But he's wormed his way into Iedolas, and none of us know what he's really planning or what the reason is.”

“Yeah, well, since when did Ardyn need a reason for anything?” Prompto says, his face scrunching up in distaste. He sounds bitter, almost venomous, a stark contrast to his upbeat personality only moments before. “He didn't need one when he went screwin’ around with my life when I was still human.”

“Ardyn?” Gladio asks, a bit too sharply. He's more than curious about this Ardyn fellow, a god by the sound of it, and the perpetrator for all the disaster and chaos that plunged his kingdom into rubble.

“A god. For the past centuries he's been mostly silent and he fell into obscurity for a time. Until now. Iedolas’ mad conquering spree is from Ardyn's influence,” Noctis answers.

“Why is he doing this?”

“For the only reason he does anything else. Because he's bored and wants to play.” Prompto speaks with that same bitterness. With the way he spits out the words, Gladio knows the guy does not have a good history with Ardyn. He almost feels sorry, but at least they both have a common ground to stand on.

Noctis rises from the stone and dusts off his pants, as if any dirt had gotten on him in the first place. “Bahamut has his hands tied right now, so I'm only levelling the playing field. Iedolas has Ardyn, but now you have me.”

He smiles, a grin so confident and promising that Gladio believes his every word and vow.

“It’ll take time and effort, sweat and blood, but you Amicitias know all about that.” Noctis extends a hand and beckons the other to stand. Gladio obeys, and his god curls his fingers around the lapels of his tattered jacket, dragging the man’s face down to his own. “So just you wait, Prince. For all the denial and heresy you’ve spoken against me, I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”

Noctis’ warm whispers ghost against his own lips, and Gladio wonders if this is another vow in the making. Despite himself, Gladio feels a surge of arrogance and wants to test the waters of his new god’s patience. He quirks a haughty grin and stares into the deep blue pools of Noctis’ eyes. “Is that a promise?” he asks, almost challenging.

Noctis, however, sees through the ruse and lowers his lashes, and he laughs against Gladio’s lips. His fingers uncurl themselves from the leather lapels and move up to lightly grasp the prince’s dark locks, matted with blood and dirt. He slides his hands through them easily enough, and he gently digs his fingernails into Gladio’s skull and tugs him closer.

“A promise.” He passes his lips across Gladio’s, sees the expectant and hungry gaze in this haughty mortal, and stops just a hair’s width before pushing him away. “For another time, dear Champion.”

Gladio swallows down the disappointment, quells the heat rising in his skin. He can work with that; they had all this time, after all, and Gladio could be insufferably patient when he wants to be.

“But for now, my prince, we’ve a war to win.”

Noctis extends a hand. Behind him, where the sunlight peeks through the temple entrance and bathes his dark form with golden light, Gladio imagines a shining halo encompassing his very edges. Like a valkyrie come to take this warrior spirit to the next realm, where his father and his old friends wait. But not yet, not when he's promised a war to fight, and he can't die until he sees Iedolas’ corpse for himself. So instead as a spirit come to whisk him away, Gladio sets him as a goal, a challenge, and a pledge all in one.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, swallowing the anticipation and awe in his voice. He takes Noctis’ outstretched hand, and he's helped up with little to no effort. “Yeah, we do.”

Prompto jumps up and slaps a friendly hand on his back, chirping on about how they'll all get along just fine. Ignis already starts fleshing out Noctis’ plans, throwing ideas and possible avenues this way and that. Between both the Wardens’ words jumbling into each other, Gladio can barely process what either of them say.

The only thing he understands is Noctis’ wicked grin and the glint in his eye, and the oath seared onto his lips and skin. His low laughter sounds like war drums, and Gladio's pulse quickens to match the cadence.

“Ready?” Noctis asks, leading them out of the temple and into the sunlight.

Gladio squints against the harsh rays, but he welcomes them nonetheless. He'll welcome more than a little light, in fact. Rather, bring him fire and steel and gunpowder.

“Ready.”

[a-writing-bear]

[PruCan WEEK 2018] Day 3 - Spellbinding Souls & Ageless Allure

Ao3 Link:

Link to this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166468

Link to previous fic (Day 2):  https://archiveofourown.org/works/16154843

Link to PruCan Week 2018 Collection: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1145768

Tumblr Link:

Link to Day 2 fic ( Previous) 

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

You can read this Fic on Tumblr under ‘Keep Reading’

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Main Pairing: Gilbert Beilschmidt & Matthew Williams (Prussia & Canada)

Prompt: Mystery / Curiosity for @prucanweek

Summary:  Magic AU! Gilbert is an Old Spirit of Mischief and arcane magic - he reminisces the first time he fell in love with the demigod of the forest.

Word Count: 1,711

Age Rating/Mature: All Audiences :)

Author Note:  I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been itching to write another magic fic... I had a blast on this one! :D 

Wisps of the forest seemed to be in a jovial mood as the soft breeze of frigid wind wound and whipped around the tall timber of the ever-stretching woods; The beauty of the forest still felt captivating, even after traversing through it’s miles of  old earth for many years. Oaken towers of bare bark wept and whistled, contrasting their full-dressed pine brethren who relished in the oncoming cold with prickles still unplucked, ready to bare the hushed chill. winter was arriving and autumn had embraced it’s end with such bountiful harvests; Gilbert smirked. If only the locals knew of Matthew’s hard work to conjure the glorious growth that befell them this term. There was some melancholic beauty in the shivering ground and although the ancient mage preferred the view in its vibrant green state or its amber tones, he withheld the urge to intervene in its natural order. No wallowing flora would deceive him, nor the crawling fauna which was crying out for a healing warmth would trick him into touching it- His beloved would berate him for messing with the work of Mother Nature and of the other olden Gods.

It was peculiar for him. To now have the discipline to not interfere with the natural order or to pester the environment, and for what? The icy pale magi was an ancient master of his craft if he wanted he could be the harbinger of fear, instil curses upon a prideful soul or charm the village beauty with a simple evocative spell… he could have ransacked the valley for himself and live in the silent retreat he once yearned for. And yet, he chooses to wander in the elegance of his lover’s eloquent craft. Matthew’s attention to detail when working on his land was impeccable, and while it’s autumn glory felt ephemeral, he found it timely that the season change now; of course Matthew made the transition as gradual and untroubled as possible. His sore feet had brought him to the small familiar cottage. A warm fire must have been blazing as he saw the ashy smoke climb up and out of the chimney with a slow but steady drag. Matthew had to be working on a new spell- the door had been left open and footsteps suggested the man had recently gone out to pick at the rosemary bush in the dirt nearby. With a grin he walked in, making sure to shake off any residing dirt and too warm up his cheeks that were marked in pink by the seasonal weather. Hunched over a book and telekinetically balancing multiple tools (namely a spoon and a mixture of woodland ingredients) within the air, His beloved had been enthusiastically humming as if to harmonise with the crackling fire just ahead of them.

“A new breakthrough perhaps or have the ancient Lords given you a new project?” Gilbert mused, breaking the focus that the strawberry blonde had on his work, thus making the once floating objects clatter violently on the ground.

“Gil! You must see what Kiku had teleported to us! Wild ‘ Flammulina velutipes’ - Winter fungus!” Matthew had brought forth a handful of shrooms, ranging in shades of brown but all holding a distinct earthy smell. The pure amazement on the younger mage bewildered Gilbert; For the centuries Gilbert had moved along this existence, he had encountered this plant in the far east end of the world- what was so spectacular of this bunch that had excited his love? Obviously seeing this puzzlement, Matthew explained with great engagement over his research:

“It’s a rare brand of its own kind which can withstand winter! And I’ve grown these before but when cultivated it loses its colour for a milky white palette. It’s so difficult to find the wild versions but Kiku had many growing in his territory among the roots of his persimmon trees so he teleported a stock over to me!” Matthew’s grin growing ever so adoring and thankful, the gratitude evident in his soft eyes.

“I guess we’ll have to send him a gift then? Maybe another protectant charm for his people’s new harbours?” Gilbert supplied as he watched Matthew fiddle with putting away the sacred gift as well as picking up the dropped items and rummaging around to put them away. The pale man had picked up a few out of place belongings and stacked them neatly in order to assist in the cleaning.

“I thought so too, he’d been having trouble with the water spirits again. I just finished preparing one but I felt an owl would not be appropriate for a border-crossing journey and summoning Kuma to deliver it would be disrespectful to his spirit’s resting hour.”

“How about I send it over? I’m low on mana but I’m sure I’ve got enough stored for a simple token transport…” He trailed his busy bee lover as they made their way to the living room- Matthew helping Gilbert strip off his heavy cloak and grasp his hand to pull him closer.

“There is much mana to go around Gil, I’ve already finished my duty to the forest spirits, I won't be doing much anymore- just the simple casting. Go ahead to use my supply later. Rest first.” The two bundled up on a small raggedy couch, cuddling nearer in the glow of the fireplace and enjoying each other’s voices and strong grip.

He had fallen for Matthew centuries ago. Back when Matthew had been a mere mortal, born with the blessing of a forest deity. Gil had heard of his arrival and progression even from the far distance of his homeland, the story of an extraordinary soul being carried along by murmurs and rumours of wandering spirits. The waves of silky hair that had been sunkissed, and the eyes of a lavender in bloom, all finished with a face holding youth and a kindness that radiated tranquillity. Matthew was born to learn of the forest and to take care of its livelihood. Gilbert had been passing by, a simple detour in his travel to find a place to chaotically mess with- but as a young man whose face looked to naive to go against a power like him holding a staff pointing straight at him in defiance, the arcane magi knew this was no ordinary soul, tales of his prowess were faithful. The youth had approached him on a warm spring evening just as Gilbert had arrived to steal a thriving crop of flowers in a nearby field for some easy energy. Gilbert stopped his impulsive actions for a split second when he first gazed upon the enchanting soul. He had met many blessed magical folks, but like all blooming gifts, they would wither away within their short lifetimes. He had seen them come and go and he’d never expect to meet such a recent exception. Whereas many of the ancient gods were hesitant in keeping a chosen one alive for more than an average human lifetime, it became clear Matthew was much more devout and golden-hearted in his following and teachings - so much so Lady Terra had given him the prize of eternal youth and immortal breath. This did not corrupt him, and so a simple conjurer rose from the ranks of plain magic-bearing folk to becoming a preacher of the divine; Destined to also be the stealer of Gilbert’s affections and the banisher of his past cruelties.

He admired Matthew. Originally his lingering on this continent was excused by his curiosity over this new demigod, but that morphed into an infatuation over his brilliance and the bold felicity he displayed. His soul had an ineffable grace to it, tinged in an introverted humble magnificence which Gilbert was absolutely lured towards. To Matthew, Gilbert was a complete mystery; there was a distinct blurring of his past when he was questioned and in the beginning he only he knew Gilbert to be a product of much older times, times even before the great age they were currently in. Times when darkness was rampant and gods did not seek to comfort their people. At first, it was off-putting to have such a powerful being watch and follow him, but he supposed Gilbert was bored or that, like him, had discovered a while back how lonely immortality could be. They thrived off each other, like how their magic thrived off their surroundings, trust and beliefs.

It was very odd at first- when they had decided to work together. Arcane magic like Gilbert’s required intense amounts of energy, and most of the time finicky ceremonial practices must be conducted in order to tame said raw energy. Theurgy was a picky gimmick he supposed, the discipline was obnoxious and time-consuming. The complete opposite was to be said of Matthew’s….low magic (Which apparently was insulting to say)... as it focused on already present sources of energy instead of pulling it from other realms; It was practical magic that was practised on simpler spells and much simpler rituals. Tasks and objectives were clear with folk magic. The skills that bled into it were easy day-to-day kinesis and at the most complicated level, spells would involve spirit summoning like Matthew’s animal companion Kuma. Arcane magic was unpredictable in comparison to the intricately crafted logic-filled spellwork of the newer beings. Matthew’s spells fed off the rawer energy that Gilbert’s presence had provided and the other man’s feral sorcery was neutralised around the demigod’s aura. They were balanced and synced and it made them more than happy to use it as an excuse to bask in each other’s existence. It also helped of how fond they were of each other’s smiles and sweet serenities.

His fingers had been mindlessly twirling strands of his lover’s hair, catching and twisting in the movement as they bother lazed around. Pushed up against his chest, the blonde had somehow conjured a woven blanket and snuggled up pleasantly into Gilbert’s personal space. It had been centuries since he met Matthew and there was still no sense of foreboding desire to run away or to break loose, and he sincerely hoped he never has such awful thoughts. They cherished the company and with his lips pressing into his soulmate’s own, even in such cold weather did his heart grow cosy with love.

[asktheadeptus]

Dark Eldar - History and Events

"We are the lords of despair, masters of terror. Dread and agony are our meat and wine, and they are plentiful indeed!"— Attributed to Asdrubael Vect

The Dark Eldar, referred to as the Eldarith Ynneas, or, in more recent days, as the Drukhari in the Eldar Lexicon, are the forsaken and corrupt kindred of the Eldar, an ancient and highly advanced alien race of fey humanoids. Their armies, like their Eldar counterparts, usually have the advantages of mobility and advanced technology, though they are often lacking in resilience and numbers. The Dark Eldar revel in piracy, enslavement and torture, and are sadistic in the extreme. Dark Eldar armies make use of various anti-gravity skimmers such as Raiders and Ravagers to launch high speed attacks. They strike with little or no warning, using an inter-dimensional labyrinth known as the Webway to traverse the galaxy safely and far more quickly than most advanced races are able to with their Warp jumps. The Dark Eldar are unique amongst the intelligent races of the Milky Way Galaxy because they do not live on a settled world or worlds, but rather the bulk of their population is concentrated in one foul city-state -- the Dark City of Commorragh -- that lies within the "ordered" Immaterium of the Eldar Webway. The Dark Eldar are mainly pirates and slavers who prey on targets across the galaxy to feed their unholy appetites for other sentient beings' souls, a terrible desire called the Thirst, though they are sometimes used as mercenaries by other species.

The Dark Eldar are the living embodiment of all that is wanton and cruel in the Eldar character. Highly intelligent and devious to the point of obsession, these piratical people revel in the physical and emotional pain of others, for feeding upon the psychic residue of suffering is the only way they can stave off the slow consumption by the Chaos God Slaanesh of their own souls. The Dark Eldar, particularly their warrior castes, are tall, lithe, white-skinned humanoids. Their alabaster skin is death-like in its pallor, for there is no true life-giving sun within their dark realm to provide colour. Their athletic bodies are defined by whipcord muscle, shaped and enhanced until they are physically stronger on average than their Craftworld Eldar counterparts, as the Dark Eldar prize physical and martial prowess highly. Yet for all their physical beauty, the Dark Eldar are still repugnant monsters. When viewed with the witch-sight of a psyker, the Dark Eldar's black souls are revealed, for they eternally thirst only for the anguish and torment of other thinking beings in order to fill their own infinite emptiness. Unlike their Craftworld Eldar cousins, the Dark Eldar do not integrate their still powerful latent psychic abilities into their culture, and indeed have a great disdain for psykers of any kind. This is because for the Dark Eldar, the use of psychic abilities would only further draw the attention of She Who Thirsts (Slaanesh) upon them, and their souls are already at risk enough of being devoured by the Prince of Chaos.

History

The Dark Eldar are black-hearted reavers to whom the galaxy and all of its peoples are but cattle to be enslaved at will. These alien pirates strike hard and fast from the shadows of the Webway, vanishing again before the foe can fight back. The Dark Eldar are a twisted reflection of their Craftworld kin. They dwell in the strange realm known as the Webway, inhabiting Commorragh -- a cyclopean inter-dimensional metropolis rightly feared as the Dark City. The Dark Eldar feed on negative emotion, dedicating themselves to a non-stop war with realspace in which they strive to inflict as much pain and misery as they possibly can. Forced through a dark quirk of fate to abandon their once potent psychic abilities, the Dark Eldar instead epitomize physical excellence. Their athleticism and speed are unmatched, except perhaps by their towering arrogance. Add to this their lethal, arcane science, and the Dark Eldar are amongst the greatest of threats in an already deadly galaxy.

Dark Origins

Ten thousand Terran years ago, amid the apocalyptic screams of a newborn god, the mighty Eldar Empire fell to ruin. Yet the architects of this catastrophe were spared the worst of its wrath, hidden deep within the bounds of the Webway. They lurk there still, a race of unrepentant monsters damned to suffer an eternal thirst for the pain of others. The Dark Eldar have fallen from true grace in the most profound of ways. Their roots as a culture lie at the very height of ancient Eldar society, when theirs was perhaps the most highly advanced species in the Milky Way Galaxy. The Eldar once boasted mastery over an interstellar civilization that was the greatest seen in the galaxy since that of the Old Ones. The various cultures of the Eldar that exist today in the 41st Millennium are only shadows of the glory of that ancient Eldar empire. The true origins of those who now call themselves the Dark Eldar can be found in hidden enclaves amidst the atrocity and mayhem of the terrible time of the Fall of the Eldar, the great cataclysm that nearly destroyed the entire Eldar race. It was an event so terrible that not only did it kill trillions of Eldar, but it breached the dimensional barrier between realspace and the Warp, and gave birth to the Chaos God Slaanesh.

The ancient Eldar had perfected their science and technology to such an extent that they could remake planets and quench the light of the very stars at a whim. The need for labor or hard work in Eldar society became nothing but a dim memory of a difficult past. The Eldar, arrogant in the belief that they were now the true masters of their destiny, spent more and more of their time in esoteric pursuits and entertainments intended to escape the ennui that set in over the course of their centuries-long lives of ease and comfort. The Eldar mind and psyche is a thing of duality: it can experience zeniths of bliss and nadirs of suffering far more keenly than that of the other intelligent starfaring races of the galaxy, including Mankind. The Eldar were capable of becoming just as irredeemably corrupt as they were of transcending their flaws and touching the divine. With so much power at their hands, the core worlds of the Eldar Empire -- once the height of civilization in the known universe -- became centered solely on the pursuit of individual fulfillment and self-gratification.

To understand the reasons for the Fall, it is necessary to know something of the Eldar mind and soul. An Eldar's mind is incredibly complex. Their senses are extremely sharp, able to perceive incredible levels of detail. Their emotions can be so strong that a human’s are merely pale shadows by comparison. They are extremely intelligent; their thought processes are much faster than a human’s. All of this means that an Eldar experiences the universe and all its sensations to a greatly heightened degree compared to a human. Similarly, an Eldar's soul is much brighter in the Warp than those of "lesser" sentients like humans who do not possess such potent psychic abilities. Eldar are able to affect the nether-realm of the Warp much more than most other intelligent races. Every Eldar is a latent psychic and has the ability to become a very powerful psyker with training. It is the psychic strength of the Eldar's souls that was one of the primary causes of their downfall.

Before the Fall, during humanity's Dark Age of Technology, the Eldar had an immense galaxy-spanning empire comprising millions of worlds, larger and more powerful than even the Imperium of Man at the height of its power. The Eldar lived in relative peace -- barbarian races such as the Orks were kept at easily manageable numbers and never had the strength to threaten the might of the Eldar Empire. The humans were not yet virulently xenophobic and did not have a large interstellar domain, and the Tyranid Hive Fleets remained unknown. The C'tan and Necrons, the ancient foes of the Eldar, had been defeated long before and still remained dormant, in the midst of their Great Sleep.

Life on the Eldar worlds was idyllic, with fantastically sophisticated machines that took care of all the labor and manufacturing required to keep an advanced society functioning, leaving the Eldar free to indulge in other, more aesthetic pursuits. With all menial work taken care of for them, the Eldar became indolent and decadent. They began to explore more deeply the arts of pleasure, delving ever deeper into hedonism. This descent into decadence spanned millennia. Tradition and order disintegrated as the Eldar pursued the limits of the pursuit of pleasure. Sects called Pleasure Cults were formed, dedicated to achieving the highest levels of hedonistic sensation, and their ceremonies and practices became ever more wild, eventually devolving into violence against one another and even the ritual sacrifice of their own kind. Some Eldar hated what their race had become and left the Eldar homeworlds for the unexplored and virgin Maiden Worlds, or left on the newly-constructed Craftworlds, leaving the Pleasure Cults to their madness.

Among the pleasure-seekers and the interminably curious of the Eldar were those whose pursuit of excess became ever more extreme. These included a great proportion of the aristocracy of ancient Eldar society, who possessed the wealth and time to truly explore the meanings of decadence. One by one, the leaders of the Pleasure Cults that were becoming the centerpiece of Eldar society became obsessed with their own power. They relocated their headquarters to the Labyrinthine Dimension known as the Eldar Webway, for so great was their political influence that they could command the construction of entire extra-dimensional sub-realms just for themselves. Unseen, these Pleasure Cult lords continued to grow in power and influence, initiating more and more of the ancient Eldar population into their strange and shadowy creeds of decadence.

The Eldar are the most psychically gifted of all sentient beings in the galaxy and as the corruption gradually seduced them, the echoes of their ecstasy and agony began to ripple through time and space. In the parallel dimension of the Immaterium, the Warp, the reflections of these intense experiences began to coalesce, as the shifting tides of the chaotic Empyrean can take form around the raw emotions emitted by the sentient beings of the material universe and attract even more of such similar psychic energies to themselves. The constant stream of individual selfishness and indulgence pouring into the Warp from the Eldar empire nourished and empowered that which lay within -- a nascent God of pleasure and pain, content to wait and to grow.

As the Eldar Empire sank into corruption and decadence, brother turned against brother in pursuit of ever more extreme and darker pleasures. Some of the wiser Eldar, however, foresaw the disaster that was approaching their society and fled from the Eldar core worlds to safety. The first of these were the Exodites, who chose to establish a network of Eldar planetary colonies known as the Maiden Worlds far from the blighted heart of the empire. Many of these Exodite colonies still exist in the galaxy, their cultures living in a symbiotic relationship with the world-spirits of the planets they call home and protect. Among the last Eldar to escape from the empire's core before the Fall were the ancestors of the present day's Craftworld Eldar. As their society collapsed into civilisation-wide insanity, these Eldar recoiled in horror from what they were becoming. Realising that they stood upon the brink of destruction, they bent their considerable resources to the construction of the massive Craftworlds, the graceful spaceborne cities that were the size of small moons. The Eldar of the Craftworlds retreated into asceticism and spiritual introspection, preserving what they could of their ancient ways and culture before the time of the Pleasure Cults. They left the core worlds of the Eldar Empire behind for the dubious safety of deep space, to the laughter and contempt of those who remained behind. Some even managed to flee far enough to escape the terrible destruction of the Fall.

The Eldar are exceptionally psychically gifted as a race, and as they wallowed ever deeper into corruption, echoes of both agony and ecstasy began to ripple through time and space. In the parallel dimension of the Warp, the reflections of these intense experiences began to coalesce, for the shifting tides of the Empyrean can take form around raw emotions, feeding on them and growing strong, even sentient. The constant stream of indulgence and depravity pouring from the Eldar empire was as unstoppable as a tide. It nourished and empowered that which crystallized at its center -- a nascent god of excess, content at first simply to wait, and to grow. The long millennia of Eldar hedonism had made a massive impact in the psychic realm of Chaos. Within the Warp the decadent Eldar civilisation was giving shape to a new Power of Chaos, which grew and grew over thousands of Terran years, getting stronger and more defined until suddenly it sparked into a malevolent intelligence -- a shatteringly huge and malign being with an immense and bottomless thirst for Eldar souls. This was the birth of the Chaos God Slaanesh, the Dark Prince of Pleasure, better known as "She Who Thirsts" to the Eldar, Slaanesh as inherently female.

The Fall of the Eldar

This process lasted for thousands of years, corresponding to the historical era that was Mankind's Dark Age of Technology, although when Slaanesh finally came into being the results within the material universe were apocalyptic and sudden. As depravity riddled every aspect of Eldar society, the Pleasure Cults sought ever more violent thrills. Before long the streets of Eldar cities ran with their blood. The elegant architecture of their palaces became battlegrounds as the Eldar preyed upon each other, reveling in the cruelest of crimes. Their insanity and tainted passions poured into the Warp until it finally achieved critical mass. With an apocalyptic bellow that tore the heart out of the Eldar empire, a new Chaos God was born, Slaanesh the Dark Prince of Excess. An almighty psychic shockwave scythed across the galaxy, destroying countless billions of Eldar souls as Slaanesh's birth cries echoed through the material realm. The souls of almost every Eldar were stripped from them in an instant and devoured by the new-born Chaos God in a cataclysm of pain and terror. There were few survivors. Most were driven mad, their minds trapped half in the real world and half in the swirling insanity of the Warp. A great Warp rift was created in the material universe at the site of what had once been the epicenter of the Eldar civilization, encompassing almost the entire Eldar empire and creating the Eye of Terror, thus marking the dawn of the era known to humanity as the Age of Strife. World after Eldar world had fallen into the Warp, to later be known as the Crone Worlds. Slaanesh gorged itself upon the Eldar's horror and despair. Unstoppable in its ascendancy, the new God consumed the ancient deities of the Eldar empire and scattered their psychic remains to the far corners of the Empyrean.

The Eldar civilisation was gone. All that was left of the Eldar race were the Exodites of the farthest-flung Maiden Worlds, the Craftworld Eldar who had traveled far enough to escape the aftershock of destruction caused by Slaanesh's birth and the formation of the Eye of Terror, and those adherents of the Pleasure Cults who were hidden in the sub-realms of the Webway. Much of the Webway was shattered into ruin by the Fall of the Eldar, but unlike the Craftword Eldar who fled the catastrophe in realspace, those Eldar who had built their own jealously-guarded empires in the Webway remained physically unaffected by Slaanesh's birth. The echoes of the new God's apotheosis still resounded within them, but unlike their kin in realspace they had escaped destruction. In their arrogance, they did not end their quest for excess and decadent pleasure, not even for a momentary respite following the death of their empire. Repentance and atonement were meaningless concepts for a people that no longer acknowledge any limits on their actions, regardless of the consequences.

The change that was wrought upon those Eldar sealed within the Webway was far more subtle. Rather than having their psychic essences, their souls, consumed in one great draught by Slaanesh, their souls slowly drained away into the Warp, taken over time by She Who Thirsts. The Eldar hate and fear Slaanesh above all other things, for she was given life by their actions and yet she waits hungrily to claim each and every one of them, now or later. Where the Eldar of the Craftworlds learned to deny Slaanesh's hold upon them by using the mystical Spirit Stones, the Infinity Circuits and the philosophies of the Eldar Paths to safeguard their souls from consumption by She Who Thirsts, the Eldar of the Webway became exceptionally good at ensuring that other beings suffered in their place. As long as they steeped themselves in the most evil and savagely decadent acts, the Eldar of the Webway found that the curse of Slaanesh upon their race could be avoided. The agony of others nourished their diminished souls and kept them vital and strong, filling their spare frames with unnaturally robust energies. Assuming that they could feed regularly enough upon the miseries of other intelligent beings, the Eldar of the Webway became psychically immune to the passage of time. So it was that the Dark Eldar were born, a race of sadistic murderers and torturers who feed upon the suffering of others in order to prevent the slow death of their own immortal souls. Ten thousand standard years later, in the 41st Millennium of Mankind, Slaanesh's Thirst consumes them still. There truly is no escape, for the Dark Eldar have only exchanged a horrible but quick death for an eternity of infernal hunger and the infinite emptiness wrought by self-absorption.

The Dark City

Commorragh was originally the greatest of the Webway port-cities, impossibly vast and able to transport a fleet to any of the most vital planets of the Eldar Empire by virtue of its many portals. Because of the access it granted to the far-flung corners of realspace, this mighty metropolis was reckoned to be the most important location in the entire Webway. It was too valuable to the Eldar as a whole to belong to any single aspect of their empire, so it existed outside the jurisdiction of the great Eldar councils of that time. Precisely because of its autonomy, the Webway city-port quickly became a magnet for those that wished their deeds to remain hidden from prying eyes. The realm of Commorragh expanded unstoppably as wealth flowed across its borders. It spread outward into the void, consuming other Webway port-cities, private estates and subrealms with each new expansion. Commorragh grew ever larger and more impressive as it fed on their plundered resources. Unseen, the dilettante lords who ruled Commorragh's spires and dens of vice grew in status alongside their adoptive city, initiating more and more of the Eldar into their shadowy creeds.

Deep in the Webway after the Fall, the groups of Pleasure Cult survivors came together and laid the foundations of the vast new sub-realm that they named Commorragh, the Dark City, which was built on the foundation of the ancient Eldar port-city within the Webway of the same name that had lain outside the jurisdiction of all the Eldar authorities of their lost empire. As more and more Eldar survivors from other sub-realms in the Webway began to arrive, they soon added their own regions to the new realm, slowly making it even larger and more heavily populated, until it became what it is today -- a vast domain, an infernal city of suffering and death. To this day, the Dark Eldar raid and pillage the galaxy at large from their hidden sub-realms in the Webway, sowing as much misery and destruction as possible and stealing away millions of captive slaves to their lairs within the Dark City to be exploited for their own horrible ends. They are experts in the techniques of torture as well as mental and physical degradation, as the longer a Dark Eldar can drag out the torture of a slave the more psychic nourishment he can take from him or her. A Dark Eldar who has recently fed upon the suffering of others shines with a cold and startling aura of power, his physical form restored to beautiful, youthful perfection even as his soul rots within its pristine shell. A Dark Eldar who is not allowed to partake of such energies for long enough will become a physical shadow of his former beauty, desperately hunting for a taste of misery to stave off the gnawing thirst in the depths of his own withered soul.

The Satellite Realms

If a traveler were somehow to breach Commorragh's runic wards, they would first bear witness to the Dark City's tributary realms shimmering and distorting around it. One minute these vassal domains glimmer in the distance, the next they loom so close that their palaces and minarets can be seen by the naked eye. To venture unheralded past these satellite realms is to invite destruction -- many large and territorial Kabals of Dark Eldar reside within their twisted geometries, deadly pirate bands of pitiless warriors who live only to inflict pain on others, and will suffer no intrusion on their realms. Worse things lurk in their crooked shadows, or swoop swiftly and silently through the air above in their never-ending hunt for prey. These are the hidden domains in which the Dark Eldar enact their vile rites and devilish schemes. Their origins lie in the tumultuous times that preceded the Fall; as the cults of excess began to thrive, their private realms in the Webway flourished unseen until the largest of their number grew powerful enough to threaten Commorragh itself. However, over the course of its millennia-long history, Commorragh has subsumed all of the vassal domains it has not destroyed. Within the gilded corridors and flesh-pits of the myriad sub-realms frolic those Eldar who engineered the fall of their own race, laughing still at the warnings of their sombre Craftworld cousins.

The Rise of Asdrubael Vect

Over the millennia, Commorragh grew from its shrouded beginnings into a galactic nightmare, its expansion driven largely by the machinations of one being, Asdrubael Vect of the Kabal of the Black Heart, who rose from slavery to become the true Overlord of the Dark City. Four thousand standard years after the Fall of the Eldar, in the time that Mankind calls the 35th Millennium, Commorragh underwent its greatest ordeal since its founding. The Dark City was to be subjected to a full-scale invasion by some of the Imperium's most elite warriors. This catastrophic battle saw the rule of the ancient Eldar noble houses of the city brought crashing down. They would be replaced by a city of Kabals under the rule of Overlord Asdrubael Vect, the architect of this time of strife. Vect began his days as a slave. Yet through pure guile and murderous ambition he eventually rose to become the leader of a militant organisation that he named the Kabal of the Black Heart. By the time Vect had established this powerbase, he had been recognised by the Dark Eldar's Trueborn aristocracy as a genuine threat.

The Kabal of the Black Heart was opposed at all turns by the most influential of High Commorragh's noble houses -- Xelian, Kraillach and Yllithian. So it was that Vect -- ever the master of turning foe against foe to his own advantage -- concocted a plan to bring the fury of the Imperium of Mankind to bear against his many enemies. So audacious was this scheme that, to the eyes of most, it would have seemed like a horrific gamble. This could not have been further from the truth. Every angle had been carefully considered, every necessary loyalty bought beyond any danger of doubt. Asdrubael Vect's plan to achieve ascendancy demonstrated that his mind was like some intricate and unstoppable clockwork machine -- by the time the plan had run its course, millions had been ground between its merciless gears. Vect, meanwhile, elevated himself to a position of total supremacy, borne to unimaginable heights upon an ever-growing mountain of cooling corpses.

The seeds of the Imperial invasion were sown in the region of the galaxy called the Desaderian Gulf. This area of wilderness space was well-known among the human starfarers of the Segmentum Tempestus for the number of spacecraft that had disappeared within its confines. General Imperial practice was to avoid it at all costs. Unknown to the Imperium, there existed a vast portal into a main arterial of the Webway within Desaderian space, shielded by holofields that made it appear to be nothing more than a shimmer in the starlight, perhaps a result of gravitational lensing. Behind this portal lurked the pirate fleets of Commorragh, waiting for unwary prey.

The Dark Eldar's noble houses preyed upon Imperial shipping lanes only rarely in order to escape retribution; hence the missing ships were always considered acceptable losses or written off as bureaucratic errors of the Administratum. Vect's first move was to increase the frequency of these piratical raids tenfold. He made it his Kabal's priority to capture every Imperial Navy warship and invade every human world within reach of the Desaderian portal. He tore apart the Imperial Guard Regiments garrisoning the planets of the Desaderian System, devastated their fortifications and disappeared with his living bounty into the depths of the Dark City, leaving nothing but utter ruin in his wake. This campaign saw the Kabal of the Black Heart grow rich in plunder and souls, though Vect's detractors thought him a fool for antagonizing the massive Imperial war machine.

With its usual ponderous, bureaucratic slowness the Imperium eventually reacted to the disappearances in the Desaderian Gulf. A Strike Cruiser belonging to the Salamanders Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes was close enough to investigate. It was patrolling the edges of the Gulf in search of the sacred artefacts and relics of their Primarch Vulkan. Captain Phoecus of the Salamanders ordered his ship deeper into the Desaderian Gulf. After a short but violent exchange with Vect's Kabalite fleet, Phoecus' Strike Cruiser Forgehammer was crippled by Haywire Bombs and transported through the Desaderian portal into the heart of the Dark City. The furor that resulted from this audacious capture set the spires of High Commorragh aflame with new intrigue. A Space Marine Captain was a great prize indeed, for such an individual could withstand extreme and prolonged mental and physical torture before divulging his vital secrets about Imperial defense. Before long, Vect found his Kabal's fleet in the Desaderian Gulf dwarfed by the armada of the Archon Lord Xelian. The Forgehammer, still rendered impotent by Vect's Haywire field, was confiscated by Xelian, taken to High Commorragh and analysed by a long dissection process.

In his arrogance, Lord Xelian had not reckoned with the resourcefulness of the Space Marines trapped within the stricken Strike Cruiser. The ship's vox communications network had been shorted out by the Haywire field, but unknown to Xelian there remained a more pervasive method of communication available to the Astartes. Captain Phoecus' close friend, the gifted Librarian Hestion, had sent a psychic request for aid as soon as the starship's systems had been disabled. Hestion acted as a living beacon to the rest of the Salamanders Chapter, a beacon now trapped within the spires of Xelian's realm in the Dark City. When Lord Xelian sent the elite of his warrior court to bring the Space Marines to his torture chambers, they were met with far sterner resistance than anticipated. The Dark Eldar found it easy to carve through the hull of the strike cruiser and gain entrance to its dark corridors, but overpowering the Space Marines proved impossible. Lit only by the flashes of Boltgun fire, a desperate battle took place within the hull of the Forgehammer until Astartes and Dark Eldar blood had mingled upon its hull plates. Xelian was quick to realize that he had underestimated his victims. He returned the salvage rights for the Astartes starship to the Kabal of the Black Heart, appearing generous but actually intending to seize the Space Marines once the Black Heart had suffered the losses in taking them captive. Vect readily agreed, forming small strike forces of all those warriors in his Kabal whom he suspected of disloyalty and sent them to face the Strike Cruiser's defenders piecemeal. Vect's Kabalite Warriors, triumphant on dozens of worlds, marched into the Forgehammer without fear, but the battle lasted for days.

Xelian was happy to let Vect drive his so-called Kabal to destruction, believing the Kabal's Dracon to be a fool for not attacking with all the force at his disposal in a single, massive assault. Vect played a waiting game, feeding the disloyal elements of his Kabal to the guns of the Space Marines to buy time and even employing Commorrite mercenaries with well-known ties to Xelian's court, all of whom were soon swallowed by the violence within the human Strike Cruiser. On the sixteenth day of the siege, the skies above High Commorragh suddenly broke open. The Salamanders Chapter had received the coordinates that had led them to their beleaguered Battle-Brothers from the Librarian Hestion's psychic broadcasts. The Desaderian portal had mysteriously been left fully operational, its guards slain and its controls locked so that it could not be closed.

The full fury of the Imperium of Man thundered from the crackling jade-coloured Webway portal directly above Archon Xelian's personal spire. Through it came starships bearing the heraldry of not only the Salamanders but also the badges of the Howling Griffons and the Silver Skulls Chapters of Space Marines. Two dozen Strike Cruisers, each appearing like a chunk of Gothic architecture reshaped for war, hammered though the wide-open portal into the shadowy skies of the Dark City. At their heart was the great Battle Barge Vulkan's Wrath, an immense spacecraft with broadside batteries that could flatten whole cities. Its prow was a vast jutting ram that ploughed straight into the spire where Xelian stood, crushing it like a hammer driven into a priceless sculpture.

The Dark Eldar overcame their surprise quickly. From nearby Port Shard came hundreds of exotic craft, each a needle-like splinter next to the slab-like Imperial vessels, but no less deadly for that. Voidraven Bombers and Razorwing Jetfighters careened out of their towering hangars like bats from a cave, descending in swarms to attack each Astartes Strike Cruiser. Though many were destroyed by the Imperial cruisers' broadsides, others systematically targeted the larger ships' guns with focused Void Lance fire and sustained hits from their Disintegrator Cannons. The Vulkan's Wrath was struck by thick blasts of electromagnetic force produced by Port Shard's salvage spars, rendering the majority of its weapons systems useless. One by one, the Imperial ships' guns were silenced. But these were Space Marines, and they were nothing if not resourceful. Ejecting from each Strike Cruiser came Drop Pods, fired with such force that they were projectile weapons in their own right. The Drop Pods hurtled down, smashing through Dark Eldar fighter craft and Commorrite starscrapers alike, each containing a squad of Space Marines who deployed upon impact with their weapons blazing. They left pure ruin in their wake as priceless Eldar statues shattered and the spires of the Dark City fell.

The Astartes' counterattack robbed the Dark Eldar of the initiative. Within only moments of the Drop Pod assault, the Space Marines had established a perimeter in the obsidian-paved streets of the Kraillach Quarter. Though they took constant fire from Kabalite Warriors and Scourges that flew through the dark skies above, Astartes Power Armour proved to be an effective barrier to the Dark Eldar's splinter weaponry. Yet it was not long before more of the Dark City's denizens joined the fight, drawn to violence and death like sharks to blood. Massed swarms of skyboard-mounted Hellions and Reaver Jetbikers swooped down to rake and tear at the Space Marines, who returned fire, literally, with their Promethium-fueled Flamers. The half-daemon Mandrakes and Raider transports loaded with Dark Eldar Warriors assaulted the Space Marines with claws, knives and Splinter Pistols. Battle was joined from one side of High Commorragh to the other and the streets seethed with violence. Entire sections of High Commorragh burned as the invading Space Marines cut down or incinerated each new breed of horror that assaulted them. Word spread quickly through the Dark City of the human invasion and high up in the arenas, the gladiators of the Wych Cults mobilized for war.

The Space Marines within the city were 500 strong, almost half the size of a full Chapter, and they maintained a defensive perimeter throughout the Kraillach Quarter. High Archon Kraillach himself led a massed charge against the Astartes, intending to crush the invaders that were destroying his personal fiefdom. Yet Kraillach's rampage was ultimately halted by a "stray" blast from a Dark Lance that vapourised him where he stood.

As the Forgehammer lay shackled by electromagnetic force high in the spires, the battle in the skies of the Dark City intensified. Xelian's last command had been to destroy the captive human ship no matter the cost, for if mere humans recovered his prize, the Archon's authority and that of his fellow noble-born peers would be shattered forever. Flights of winged Scourges armed with Haywire Blasters and Heat Lances began to systematically destroy the captive ship while a fleet of Ravager gunships forced the Space Marines who sought to rescue the vessel's Battle-Brothers back into cover. Then, in a storm of light generated by their teleportation technology, Terminators from the Salamanders' 1st Company teleported directly onto the hull of the Forgehammer and returned fire. The Scourges were driven back and Captain Phoecus seized his chance. His men emerged from cover as a single force, sending a Krak Missile soaring into each of the nine towering spars that held his craft captive with their beams of electromagnetic force. Miraculously, each missile triggered a chain reaction of explosions, and the burning spars crashed down into the streets below. The Librarian Hestion summoned a psychic storm of his own, a raging inferno in the shape of a flaming drake that tore the Ravager gunships out of the sky one by one. The Forgehammer had been ravaged by the Dark Eldar assaults, but it was free at last from the Dark City's clutches. With a roar, the Strike Cruiser began to ascend into the sky and freedom.

Far below, the Space Marines fighting in the Xelian Quarter were completely encircled as the full weight of Commorragh was pressed against them and warriors from dozens of noble houses joined the defence of the city. Yet the Space Marines' objective had been achieved, for the Forgehammer was free. A single curt comm-signal was sent and within mere moments, the main bulk of the Space Marines in the Dark City teleported away in a brief burst of light. Those that had been cut off from the main assault gave their lives to buy their brethren time or else were paralyzed by Dark Eldar hypertoxins and taken away to later fight and die as warrior-slaves. Confusion reigned as the Haywire fields that had shackled the Imperial spacecraft were disengaged one by one. The Battle Barge Vulkan's Wrath, now joined by the badly damaged Forgehammer, fired its retros and disengaged itself from the ruins of what had been Archon Xelion's pride. The vast starship's engine blast flattened spires and starscrapers alike before the Space Marines made their escape. The entire Astartes fleet then passed through the still-yawning Webway portal above High Commorragh and escaped triumphantly into realspace.

In the aftermath of the Imperial invasion, Commorragh changed forever. The power vacuum left by the vanquished noble houses of High Commorragh was quickly filled by Asdrubael Vect and his jubilant Kabal of the Black Heart, who had proven their superiority to their rivals in the crucible of war. In the years that followed, Vect played politics like a true Machiavellian master of intrigue, forever asserting the meritocracy of the Kabals over the ancient aristocracy of the Eldar noble houses. Into the yawning power vacuum stepped Asdrubael Vect and his Kabal of the Black Heart. Eschewing all pretense at innocence, Vect ensured that word of his machinations became public. All would know that to stand in the way of Asdrubael Vect meant certain death, and in the centuries that followed his grasp on power would inexorably tighten. So it was that the Kabal of the Black Heart rose to ascendancy over the Dark City in place of the old nobility and Archon Vect's new position as the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh and the Dark Eldar race was sealed.

Dark Eldar in the Calixis Sector and the Koronus Expanse

The Calixis Sector and Koronus Expanse are regions that have some significance to the Eldar, and while it has been many millennia since they have had any major presence there, the worlds of that great frontier are still laced with many thousands of Webway passages and tunnels connecting worlds and star systems. Today, these tunnels are twisted, stretched, and torn by the psychic pressure of the Warp storms dividing the Calixis Sector and Koronus Expanse. While the mysterious rites of the Harlequins long ago sealed many of these passages, others still remain open to the tides of the Warp, infested with vile and ephemeral creatures.

This region of damaged tunnels is centered across the Warp Storm known as the Screaming Vortex. The Vortex is home to teeming hordes of daemon-worshipers and mutants, living and dying at the whims of warlords and sorcerers intent on murder and subjugation in the name of their dark gods. While this is a ready source of slaves and victims for the raids of the region's Kabals, it is a realm largely inhospitable to the Dark Eldar, so strong is the presence of She Who Thirsts within the storm. However, suspended at some point between the Screaming Vortex, the Koronus Expanse, and the Webway is an island of relative stability where numerous groups of Dark Eldar have formed a twisted haven. Here floats the Nexus of Shadows, a Dark Eldar outpost built upon an ancient and massive technological relic.

Three major Kabals dwell in the tunnels and passageways that cross the Calixis Sector, the Koronus Expanse, and into the Screaming Vortex. The foremost of these, at the heart of the Nexus, is the Kabal of the Splintered Talon. The others, the Kabal of the Shadowed Thorns and the Kabal of the Crimson Woe, are of a more mercenary inclination due to their lesser status, often selling their murderous skills to other races in exchange for resources or opportunities to grasp at power. The Kabal of the Crimson Woe operates in the Calixis Sector more than in the Koronus Expanse, in part to avoid directly competing with the Kabal of the Shadowed Thorns and thus drawing their ire. Numerous other groups exist alongside these, from the Cult of the Withered Blade, which controls the Bloodspine Pits on the Nexus of Shadows, and The Sutured Helix, a coven of Haemonculi that operates from the Nexus of Shadows, to numerous smaller factions that raid and scavenge for scraps of their betters' might and prestige.

The Dark Eldar operating near the Nexus of Shadows are frequently on the move, either carried within fleets of voidships or travelling in smaller groups on light skimmers through the winding and impossible labyrinth of the Webway, returning to the Nexus of Shadows only periodically to trade their cargo of tormented victims for supplies and to replace slain warriors. These itinerant raiders often cross paths with pirates and reavers of other species, particularly the Chaos-aligned flotillas that hail from the Screaming Vortex and isolated bases like Iniquity. A select few of these have been shown the location of the Nexus, so that they may trade in slaves, dark lore, and abhorrent technologies, but these are relatively rare.

The Dark Eldar are a plague upon the Koronus Expanse. Raiders, slavers, pirates, and even Rogue Traders suffer at their barbed lashes and blades. Any who cross the Maw and sail the void of the Koronus Expanse learn to fear the wicked silhouettes of their voidships and their seemingly endless cruelty towards all life, including their own. Only vigilance and firepower keep the worst depredations of these terrible raiders at bay, though from the dens of Footfall to the commerce halls of Port Wander there are countless tales of crew lost and ships savaged in their sudden attacks. Within the Calixis Sector, the Imperial Navy keeps the Warp routes and sector worlds protected against the worst of these raids, and while some outposts and lone vessels still disappear at the hands of the foul xenos, most Imperial citizens sleep soundly, never even knowing that such a depraved species haunts the stars above their heads.

In the Koronus Expanse it is different, as that lawless place has neither a fleet capable of guarding the uncharted wastes nor a tightly controlled network of worlds that can call upon one another in times of need. The Expanse is a playground for the Dark Eldar, where along with the myriad of other alien menaces they can raid worlds and take voidships with relative impunity, slipping away into the night from whence they came. The power of the Dark Eldar is compounded by the fact that no one knows precisely where they come from or where they go, nor can they explain the aliens' uncanny ability to appear from nowhere and then vanish with their stolen cargos of goods and slaves just as quickly. Some Rogue Traders believe there must be a Dark Eldar world somewhere in the Expanse from which they launch their raids, though where exactly it is and how it could have evaded detection for so long remain a mystery that has yet to be unraveled.

Salaine Morn - Archon of the Kabal of the Shadowed Thorns

The Gaelan Sphere, upon which the Nexus of Shadows was built, is an ancient relic of a long-forgotten age of technology. The size of a small moon, covered with towers and antennae, the sphere was crafted around a solid core, the remnants of some mineral rich asteroid that its automated systems are slowly eroding away as it adds more and more levels to the sphere. Neither the Gaelan Sphere's alien inhabitants nor those few explorers from the Imperium who have had a chance to study it know its true purpose. How the sphere came to enter the Webway is also a mystery. Abandoned for untold ages, the sphere could have drifted through a Web-gate or even been drawn towards one by the ancient programs and protocols of its Cogitators seeking to study a breach in the Webway that it perceived as a celestial phenomenon. Alternatively, it is possible that some unknown force moved it into the Webway for some inscrutable purpose. Once it entered the Webway, the sphere spent aeons drifting from one region to another before becoming trapped in a confluence of ancient forces and alien powerfields. Now, it floats in a relatively stable position, more debris of a forgotten age of enlightenment.

It was Salaine Morn and her Kabal of the Shadowed Thorns that first rediscovered the Gaelan Sphere and decided to put it to use. After being exiled from Commorragh, the Archon spent many Terran years wandering the Webway with her fleet, raiding worlds and looking for a place to claim as her own. The sphere, with its well-hidden location and ancient technology, presented the perfect place for a new home. Unfortunately for Salaine, the sphere's defenses and legions of Servitor guardians were too numerous and powerful for her Kabal alone to overcome. Thus, Salaine forged an alliance with Zaergarn Kul and his Kabal of the Splintered Talon, and together they purged the city of its ancient human defenses, destroying that which they could not control and sealing away the areas that they could not inhabit.

Even though their forces had secured a landing zone and deactivated the aging orbital defenses, it was to take years for the Dark Eldar to carve out the areas where they would build their city. As more Dark Eldar came to the Nexus, new sections would be cleared of their ancient automated defenses. Often the Dark Eldar would drive thousands of slaves into an area to identify these dangers, or simply to exhaust a turret's ammunition so it could be destroyed. Other xenos races were also allowed to settle in the Nexus as part of trading missions, though these aliens had to clear their own areas for in-habitation. The lasting result of this wanton conquest by the Dark Eldar and their allies is that many areas of the Nexus still show signs of battle, and the stripped remains of the combat machinery of the sphere is a common sight along its shadowed streets. Occasionally, the Nexus' old defenders rear their heads once again, but the Dark Eldar usually put them down swiftly.

Almost immediately after the arrival of the Dark Eldar and its establishment as a port, the Nexus began to operate as a hub for trade and a base for raiding. Close to the Koronus Expanse and the Calixis Sector, it opened up fresh opportunities for slavers and worlds that before had been out of reach or too dangerous to raid using the fractured remains of the Webway. The Nexus of Shadows quickly grew in size and wealth on the backs of its slaves, despite the fact that most Dark Eldar of Commorragh at least openly shun the cursed place and the outcasts who live there. The xenos of the Koronus Expanse and the Renegades of the Screaming Vortex have no such compunctions, however, and have found the Nexus to be a useful place to trade and congregate, a place far from the reach of the Imperium and utterly hostile to its agents. Salaine welcomed such factions into her city on account of the wealth and influence they offered, as well as the added protection it afforded her against those who would try and take the city from her. Unfortunately for Salaine, it was not an outside force or an alien that was to oust her from power. In the end one of her own, Zaergarn Kul, usurped her, and exiled her once more into the Webway before she could do the same to him. For many of the inhabitants of the Nexus this change in power meant little, especially for the slaves, to whom one Dark Eldar Archon is much the same as another.

Salaine Morn intentionally projects a presence that is both evasive and unmistakable; her dread majesty is as hard to put into words as it is to ignore. Appearing at once menacing and tempting, the Archon catches many of her foes off-guard, uncertain of the obfuscated nature of this ancient being. Morn is several thousand Terran years old, though only she knows for certain how long she has been alive, and has seen and done much that would long haunt the nightmares of lesser beings. Like all Dark Eldar Archons, she is possessed of a deadly martial prowess, but her true weapon is a mind finely-honed by the lethal intrigues of Commorragh's high society. She finds it utterly distasteful, then, that she and all those she commands are exiles from the Dark City and now even the Nexus of Shadows. At her grudging command, the warriors of her Kabal have turned to mercenary work, selling their efforts to lesser beings as part of a plan to regain the power she once possessed. On the rarest of occasions, she deigns to speak to these prey-creatures herself.

Recent Events

The history of the Dark Eldar is one of unrelenting horror. Much of it is hidden in shadow, recorded only in allegory and fable by those intelligent races whose worlds they have ravaged. Records are kept, however -- tomes scribed in still-living flesh using bladed quills of bone. These histories divide the tale of Commorragh into three ages -- ill-defined and overlapping though they are -- each more redolent with cruelty and evil than the last.

The Age of Dark Genesis

The Port Commorragh (c.M18) - Commorragh establishes itself as the primary nodal port of the Eldar Webway, growing larger with every passing decade. Built entirely within the Labyrinthine Dimension and hence outside the jurisdiction of the Eldar councils, Commorragh acts as a magnet for those who wish to avoid attention.

The Twilight Cults (c.M18-M20) - Those leading the new Eldar paradigm of total self-indulgence rise in status and power until they can secede entirely from the physical plane. They take up permanent residence in the Webway, from which they can plumb the depths of decadence undisturbed by puritans and weaklings. Over time, their sovereign estates grow into entire sub-realms, many of which are powered by the energy of stolen suns. The solar systems and their inhabitants plunged into darkness by the Eldar's star-theft wither and die in the freezing cold of the void, but the Eldar care not.

The Ailing Pantheon (c.M19-M24) - The worship of the traditional Eldar gods beings to wane as new sects and societies rise to power. The Dark Muses, many of whom are synonymous with sensual vice and sin, become the unofficial figureheads of the new order.

Darkness Rising (c.M25-M30) - The depravity of the Eldar race plumbs terrible new depths. Cults of pleasure and pain flourish in the hidden reaches of the Webway, and even the core worlds of Eldar society become obsessed with ever-greater acts of excess. As the lines blur between sensation-seeking and outright evil, a new force stirs in the Warp.

Exodus (c.M30-M31) - Sensing the end, portions of the Eldar race combine and modify their voidships Craftworlds, gigantic living vessels able to accommodate an entire planet’s population. One by one they begin to escape the corruption that plagues their empire. Hundred of Craftworlds sail into the sea of stars in search of the relative safety of the untrammeled void.

The Fall of the Eldar (c.M30-M31) - A new Chaos God is born, collapsing the entire Eldar Empire -- Slaanesh, the Dark Prince, whose birth-screams tear out the heart of the empire and leave pure Chaos in its place. The shockwave of the new god's apotheosis plunges a vast section of realspace into the Warp, creating the Eye of Terror. Most of the Eldar Craftworlds are destroyed in the psychic backlash. Only the Exodites, the Eldar of the farthest-flung Craftworlds, and those hidden in the sub-realms of the Webway survive. The Eldar race is shattered forever in a single apocalyptic instant.

Commorragh Ascendant (c.M31-M32) - In the wake of the Fall, the unrepentant Eldar hidden within the Webway consolidate their power. The next millennium sees the port-cities and sovereign realms of the labyrinth dimension grow steadily in size and influence, and Commorragh becomes a sprawling realm unto itself. The Dark City thrives under the oppressive rule of the noble houses that lurk at its heart.

The Rise of Vect

A Legacy Begins (c.M32) - A halfborn Eldar slave -- known only as Vect -- vows that he shall rule the Dark City, even if it takes an eternity to do so. Vect founds the Cult of the Black Heart, the first organisation to openly refer to themselves as Eladrith Ynneas or "Dark Eldar." The Thirteen Foundations of Vengeance are laid down at this time, an intricate code of dishonour destined to spread through the society of the Dark City in the centuries to come. The impact of Vect's rise to power will resonate through Commorragh's history for millennia to come.

The War of the Sun and the Moon (c.M33) - The solar cults that control the Dark City’s stolen suns rise in power and influence, ultimately declaring war upon the Eldar noble houses that would see Commorragh plunged into permanent night. An aerial war rages for centuries, but ultimately the noble houses emerge victorious. Vect's Cult of the Black Heart transforms to become the first true Dark Eldar Kabal during this troubled time, and is instrumental in the final defeat of the solar cults during the Battle of the Seven Shrouds.

Vect Ascendant (c.M35) - Asdrubael Vect launches a series of punishing raids against the Imperium's shipping lanes in the Desaderian Gulf. True to his plans, this triggers a punishing counterattack from three Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes. Vect manipulates the invasion to cripple the powerbases of the patrician Archons and, in the aftermath, takes their place as ruler of High Commorragh. Shortly after, the Desaderian portal is forcibly collapsed, triggering a massive implosion and annihilating Imperial naval elements mustering for a second attack.

The Kabals Ascendant (c.M35-M36) - The aristocracy of Commorragh is in disgrace. It is soon replaced by the Kabalite system, as pioneered by Vect and his Kabal of the Black Heart. Privilege and status are supplanted by sheer ambition and murderous capability. Many elder noble houses reinvent themselves as Kabals, though they never forgive Vect for usurping their power.

The Breaching (c.M37) - Vect causes the hidden portals that link each satellite realm and port-city of the Webway to be revealed, forcing them open and building the Great Gates: huge edifices that are permanently guarded by Vect’s elite Incubi and Kabalite Warrior garrisons. Over several millennia of civil war and violent strife, Commorragh expands into these once autonomous regions until they become integral to the Dark City. Only the realm of Shaa-dom remains autonomous.

The Age of Pain

The Ghost Planet (156.M35) - The far-flung Hive World Auxilion stubbornly maintains radio silence after its unsanctioned decision to hire Eldar mercenaries, though after one diplomatic gaffe too many the alliance turns sour. Led by the Haemonculus Kresthekia, a Carnival of Pain descends upon the planet. Five years later a large-scale Imperial delegation is sent to investigate the lack of forthcoming tithes. When they make planetfall they find no trace of human life signs whatsoever. The entire planet, every hive, hab-block and spire, is completely deserted.

The Battle for the Thaxar Rift (745.M35) - The Severed begin to plunder the region of space known as the Thaxar Rift. They find their efforts hindered by Chaos-worshipping Renegades, who have a substantial presence in the region. Rather than face the Renegades directly, Archon Ariensis ensures that his foes come to the attention of the Imperial Navy and Adeptus Astartes, and a grinding war ensues. The Severed haunt the edges of this conflict, tales of murderous ghosts and xenos pirates spreading like wildfire in their wake while they test and study the Imperium's way of war. Eventually the Imperium's forces are reduced to a shadow of their former might. They are forced to resort to selective Exterminatus to annihilate what remains of their Traitor foes. While the doomed worlds still smoulder, the Severed descend in full force. They annihilate the surviving Imperial Navy warships left behind to watch over Thaxari space, before proceeding to plunder and pillage at will.

Vect's Gift (677.M36) - Asdrubael Vect tricks his would-be rival Archon Kelithresh into opening a casket that has ostensibly been presented as a tithe. Held precariously in the collapsing field of the casket is the unstable essence of a black hole. Kelithresh's entire realm is plunged into a howling, yawning vortex.

The Black Conquest of Yaelindra (724.M36) - Yaelindra of the Blackened Tear uses her preeminent grasp of the arts of Shaimesh to poison an entire Imperial Hive World. Even as the populace of Tybor III are withering into desiccated husks, Yaelindra is granted a boon by Asdrubael Vect. She chooses to take a spire of her own in High Commorragh, founding the Wych Cult of Lhamaea and training an army of deadly courtesan warriors to further her deadly works.

The Plague of Glass (926.M36) - The noted Commorrite artisan Jalaxlar is feted for his incredibly lifelike black-glass statues of Dark Eldar. His rivals soon discover that he is using an isolated viral helix to create his masterpieces from living victims. In the fight to control this deadly virus it is accidentally released, running rampant through several districts of the Dark City. This Plague of Glass is eventually contained and weaponized by the Hex, whose Haemonculi are intrigued by its artistic possibilities.

The Slow Death of Graegus (345.M37) - The Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue comes into conflict with a fleet of Ork Freebooterz stationed out of Graegus. Lady Aurelia Malys is incensed that mere barbarian pirates should deny her will. Personally capturing a musclebound Ork Nob, Malys instructs her Lhamaean poisoners to prepare a surprise for the greenskins upon Graegus. Lady Malys' Kabal makes planetfall weeks later, fighting their way into the centre of the Ork capital city and impaling their barely-living captive upon a half-built Gargant before melting away into the night. The corpse begins to shed millions of spores into the air, each of which bears a cargo of terrible wasting toxins. As the infected spores corrupt the Orkoid reproduction cycle, the population of Graegus grows weaker and weaker. When Malys returns it is a simple matter to slaughter the survivors.

War in the Webway (579.M37) - A coven of Chaos Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons conduct a great ritual in the Webway, hoping to gain access to Commorragh. At the ritual's climax, hundreds of Dark Eldar pour from an invisible portal into their ranks, led by vaulting troupes of Harlequins. Battle is joined as the Tzeentchian Sorcerers counterattack; the fabric of the Webway is breached in the process and its arterial walls buckle and burst. The backlash strands the combatants in a shattered pocket reality with no way out. It is rumored in Commorragh that they fight there still, locked in an endless cycle of war and rebirth for the rest of time.

The Tower of Flesh (796.M37) - The Haemonculi stronghold known as the Tower of Flesh is created -- a living, breathing fortress, made of the bodies of those who defied the Haemonculi Coven of the Thirteen Scars. The Renegade Space Marine Fabius Bile is tutored in the dark arts within its blood-slicked halls. Bile is accompanied to the Dark City by Lucius the Eternal, who is declared by his "hosts" -- the Wych Cult of the Wrath Unbound -- to be endlessly entertaining both on and off the arena floor.

The Blade of Vect (984.M37) - The sub-realm of Shaa-dom grows steadily in influence and power until Archon El'uriaq, the self-proclaimed Emperor of Shaa-dom, declares himself more worthy of rule than Asdrubael Vect. Vect publicly vows that all of Shaa-dom will feel the edge of his blade, much to the amusement of El'uriaq's famously well-funded and elite forces. Three solar days later, a Warp rift opens suddenly above the satellite realms and a burning Imperial Navy Battleship thunders downward, plunging deep into the hidden city's heart before its Warp-Drive detonates. The palace-fortress of El'uriaq is torn apart. The Warp rift allows Daemons to invade the city, and in a matter of a single solar week the devil-haunted realm of Shaa-dom is reduced to cinders. Vect is reported to have allowed himself a rare smile at the moment of its fall.

The Last Act of Lord Korscht (182.M38) - Inquisitor Lord Korscht of the Ordo Xenos second-guesses the Dark Eldar raid upon the Imperial industrial world of Demoisne. The moment the Kabal of Immortality Denied blink into existence above Demoisne's capital, they are all but annihilated in a thunderous firestorm. Korscht's absence is keenly felt at the post-action debrief, however, and the Inquisitor Lord's underground fortress complex is investigated. His remains are found, spread thinly upon every page of every occult tome in his library.

WAAAGH! Zoggit (227.M38) - The Ork Warlord Zoggit, famous for killing anyone foolish enough to imply he might be a bit of a Weirdboy, declares a WAAAGH! straight into the vermillion spacerift encroaching upon the world of Zogg-Dis. He and his Boyz emerge in the Commorrite port-spar of Blackblood, much to the surprise of its resident Kabal. The resultant storm of violence carries hundreds of thousands of Orks into the twisting byways of Commorragh. War is joined in earnest when the Dark City turns its attention to the Orkoid invasion, systematically isolating each Ork army in order to destroy it piece by piece. However, each Kabal is preoccupied by trying to turn the unexpected invasion to its advantage that the Orks cause far more damage than any of the Kabals thought possible. Several districts of Commorragh are toppled or burnt to cinders by wave upon wave of howling Orks. Eventually the Orks are coralled and over 10,000 greenskins are captured by the Wych districts packed to capacity for almost an entire fortnight.

Beauty Relinquished (717.M38) - A new fashion sweeps the spires of Commorragh, and soon every member of the noble houses has paid to have himself horribly disfigured. The suddenly fashionable Haemonculi consider it to be a very good year, but the trend is predictably short-lived. The Time of Reparations proves even better for business, and suspicions abound.

Pandaimon Betrayed (799.M38) - The trans-dimensional satellite realm of Pandaimon declares independence from Commorragh, instantly triggering a great war between Archon Qu, Lord of the Iron Thorns, and the Kabal of the Black Heart. Qu is ready for Vect's attack, but not for the treason of his own daughter, who reveals herself as one of Vect's many courtesans. Civil war rages for solar weeks but ultimately the realm of Pandaimon is delivered into Vect's hands.

A Gruesome Lesson (933.M38) - During the prolonged campaign for Massgrve, the 121st Cadian Elite, famed across the Ultima Segmentum as the "Eldar Killers," disappear completely without so much as a comm-signal. Weeks later thousands of headless and armless human bodies with Imperial Eagle tattoos are found roaming aimlessly along the arched streets of Commorragh's Vault District, moaning, staggering and bumping into each other before being put out of their misery by Hellion hunter-gangs.

Desperation's End (272.M39) - The Imperial frontier planet of Desperation unwittingly sows the seeds of its own demise when it sends an astropathic message detailing an invasion of hellspawn. In fact, Desperation has been chosen as the theatre for the latest unveilings of the Children of Bone, a clique of Haemonculi who specialise in unusually large Grotesques. After the desolation of the planet's cities, the Haemonculi disappear with holocaptures of their vile creations at work. Years later, the rescue voidships that enter Desperation’s orbit determine the natives of the planet to be heretical beyond recovery, for they now worship the Children of Bone instead of the Emperor. The natives fight with frenzied tenacity, for they fear the Haemonculi far more than the Imperium's troops, but nonetheless the world is completely purged within the space of a solar week.

The Thieves of the Ice Mists (616.M39) - Upon the ice-locked planet of Fenris, aspiring Space Wolves recruits begin to disappear during their Trial of Morkai. Each aspirant has been implanted with the gene-seed of Leman Russ, and only the strongest have iron will enough to prevent it from ravaging their bodies and effect permanent devolvement into beasthood. The Wolf Priests notice that an unprecedented number of these aspirants are going missing and, after fruitlessly patrolling the wilderness of Asaheim, focus their scrutiny on nearspace. Sure enough, a Dark Eldar fleet is stationed above the ice caps of the neighboring planet of Mydgarden. The Space Wolves mount a lightning invasion upon the Mydgarden ice caps, their Thunderhawks descending on tongues of flame to bring the last remaining xenos there to battle. The Space Wolves fight with the fury of the storm, but soon enough the Haemonculi covens garrisoned there fade away into the mists, their mocking and distant laughter receding into nothing. The Space Wolves find a series of white-capped chambers leading deep down into the planet's crust. Each is empty of life -- empty, that is, save for witless brutes of bulging muscle and fur incarcerated in tubular pods, some of whom resemble the Primarch Russ himself. The Space Wolves do not speak of this day.

The Dark Within the Light (117.M40) - The veiled cryptoscientist Vorsch perfects a technique he calls photonic transubstantiation, transforming himself into a living beam of light and travelling distances purely in order to proclaim his genius. He is eventually captured in a prism-trap by the Kabal of the Black Sun, who use Vorsch's technologies to stage large-scale terror attacks upon the peace-loving Naiad Republic.

The Hunters Hunted (835.M40) - Duke Sliscus is hunted by the Groevian Fiends, an elite reptilian bounty-hunter cadre who have a reputation completely annihilating their targets. Sliscus instructs his agents upon the Groevian flagship Last Chance to place a device of the Duke's own invention in the metal belly of the craft. Just as Sliscus is about to pass through an ancient webway portal, it seems that game is up -- the Last Chance emerges from a gas cloud in hot pursuit, guns blazing, and follows it into the webway. The Duke's ship emerges above the home world of the Groevians, primes and ready for planetfall. The flagship Last Chance, its navigational coordinates corrupted by the device placed amidships, emerges in the blazing heart of Groevia's sun.

A Guantlet Thrown (226.M41) - Lelith Hesperax issues a challenge to the Dark City. Should anyone produce an inhabitant of realspace that can pose her a genuine challenge in the arena, that individual will be honoured beyond their wildest dreams by Hesperax herself. The competition sparked by this challenge is immediate, violent and widespread. Archons lead raiding parties to strike at the length and breadth of the material realm, returning with ever mightier champions and deadlier monsters trammeled in their holds. Yet Hesperax defeats every victim brought before her, carving down hissing Tyranid Hive Tyrants, Choppa-wielding Ork Warbosses and righteously indignant Space Marine heroes with equal ease. Archon Khargiel of the Bleaksoul Brethren finally presents Hesperax with a foe that can answer her challenge. In an especially daring and costly raid, Khargiel has kidnapped Brother-Captain Cadulon of the Iron KnightsSpace Marine Chapter. Known as the "Saint of Blades," Cadulon is an exceptionally talented swordsman who has twice been declared victor at the ritual Feast of Blades. As Hesperax meets his eye across the arena floor she knows she faces a worthy foe. With a predatory grin, the belladonna of the Dark City goes to work, her blades ringing against Cadulon's sword in a blizzard of sparks to the maddened roar of the crowd. The duel lasts for over six solar hours before Cadulon finally falls, leaving Hesperax victorious with but a single, bloody cut across her midriff. Amid the sudden hush, Archon Khargiel descends to the arena floor to accept his reward. Yet his look of triumph curdles as Lelith kicks the fallen Space Marine's blade across the floor to land at the Archon's feet, explaining that the greatest honour she can bestow is the deadly kiss of her knives. To the amusement of the crowd, Khargiel is lucky to last six solar minutes.

The Coup-Deamons (248.M41) - The vainglorious Archon Ysclyth of the Kabal of the Talon Cyriix, the last descendant of a pure-blooded lineage that had lasted for thousands of standard years, bridles against the tyrannical dictates of Asdrubael Vect and his forbiddance of Old Empire knowledge. Deciphering the archaic rites inscribed upon the crypts below his palace, he learns how to contact Daemons of the Warp and bind them to his will. Though his plan takes almost a century to come to fruition, Ysclyth stages his coup against Vect with shocking and unstoppable force. Under the soaring skycraft of his Kabal comes a ravening daemonic host that drives all life before it. Before the horde can wreak too much damage Vect activates an ancient failsafe and completely seals off the spur of Talon Cyriix from the rest of Commorragh. It is not long before Archon Ysclyth finds out that his control over his daemonic allies is not as complete as he imagines. Trapped with only the Daemon legions for company, Ysclyth and his Kabal are slowly torn apart.

The Reaving of Garmos (312.M41) - The Garmos System is plunged into a war between the Imperium and the Orks of WAAAGH! Deffsmasha. Throughout the conflict, the Coven of the Dark Creed and the Kabal of the Bladed Lotus lead raiding parties to prey on both sides. They subtly tip the balance of power back and forth, extending the war far past its natural duration and reaping the harvest of fear and misery that results.

The Dancing Dead (327.M41) - The insane Archon Thyndrak of the Last Hatred launches a raid on the Imperial Hive World of Tamantra's Folly. During fierce fighting between her Kabalite forces and the Tallarn 8th Infantry, Archon Thyndrak abducts the planet’s tyrannical governor and his entire sadistic household. Within the cycle, the luckless abductees have been fitted with neural restraints, dressed in improbable and torturous finery, and installed in life support tubes built into the ceiling of Archon Thyndrak's grand ballroom. Trapped in an agonizing half-life, the Imperial nobles can be lowered down to the Archon’s dance floor at will on wheezing brass armatures, their mere presence leaving the hall awash with an aura of pain and misery that the Commorrites find most refreshing. Needless to say, Thyndrak’s new toys are something of a coup, her guests delighting in dancing and frolicking with the whimpering humans amid the mocking laughter of their peers.

The Raven's Prey (394.M41) - The Kabal of the Obsidian Rose suffer an unacceptable defeat when they are overwhelmed by the armoured might of the Cadian 346th Regiment, the "Ironheads," on the mining planet of Greystar. Determined to save face, Archon Khromys orders diversionary attacks against key points all across the planet. While battle rages, a single squadron of Voidraven bombers -- crafted by Khromys herself for just such an occasion -- swoops undetected into the primary spoil-shaft of the northern polar mines. Hurtling through narrowing tunnels and jinking between slabsided industrial machinery, the Voidravens' superior systems see them reach the deepest extent of the mine workings. Here, dangerously close to Greystar’s molten heart, they deploy a trio of masterwork Void Mines that trigger an apocalyptic chain-reaction. Even as the Voidravens hurtle to safety, the Obsidian Rose retreat to the Webway laden with slaves and plunder. In their wake, Greystar tears itself to pieces, billions dying along with their planet in order to satisfy Khromys' need for revenge.

The Plague of Becoming (399.M41) - A narcissist without equal, Archon Vhane Kyharc of the Black Myriad releases the Doppelganger Virus on the planet of Phlogiston VI. This transmorphic plague rewrites the biology of every living creature on the planet, forcing their features to reform in the likeness of their alien conqueror.

Steel Fang (421.M41) - A nameless messenger butchers the Inner Council of Craftworld Lugganath, smashing apart a statue of Khaine and using the shards as deadly weapons. Fleeing into the Webway with a holocapture of her murderous deed, the young warrior calling herself Steel Fang is welcomed by the Wych Cults of the Dark City. She soon founds her own Cult, and her teachings in the art of improvised weaponry spread throughout the arenas of Commorragh.

Fear the Shadows (462.M41) - The Kabal of the Black Heart strike at the Hive World of Lapradus, but are hurled back in disarray by the intervention of Titans from the Legio Castigatum. Mere solar days later, Princeps Gendath -- the author of Castigatum's victory -- is murdered on his own bridge. He is hacked to shreds within his amniotic tank by hissing horrors that slither into being amid the thrashing soup. The murky shapes disappear as suddenly as they struck, leaving only a half-frozen mulch of blood and shattered armaglass in their wake.

Just Beyond the Door (346.497.M41) - It is on this date that word reaches Asdrubael Vect of a disturbance at Khaine's Gate. Something has begun to pound slowly -- rhythmically -- impossibly -- on the other side. Vect stations five hundred Incubi to watch over the Gate chamber as a delaying measure. He pays exorbitant sums to ensure their discretion, while simultaneously ensuring all those Incubi hired hail from brotherhoods who have defied or hindered his machinations in the past. As further insurance, Vect deploys several of his more esoteric arcane weapons within the chamber itself, ingenious failsafes that include temporal flux-mines, the Seventh Shard, and a tri-prismic dimensional mirror keyed to hurl anything reflected in its surface into the heart of a sun.

The Veiled War (518.M41) - The Wych Cult of the Red Grief engages the warriors of Craftworld Saim-Hann in battle over a broken alliance. The war is fought at breakneck speeds through the cloud-archipelagos of the planet Stratos, where visibility is almost zero and the smallest misstep threatens a deadly plunge into the void-ocean far below. The warring Eldar factions are eventually forced to disengage by the onset of a vast superstorm, leaving scores unsettled and bad blood festering between them.

The Harvest of Chogros (543.M41) - The Kabal of the Broken Sigil begins a series of raids on the planet Chogros, capturing the Ogryn natives for the arenas. When Astra Militarum regiments arrive to intervene, the conflict escalates into a planet-wide engagement. Though they fight hard, the men of the Imperium are eventually defeated. The Crucibael is thronged for many nights to come as the captured Imperial Guardsmen are forced to fight the very Ogryns that they were sent to save.

The Enemy Beyond (601.M41) - The Incubi standing guard over Khaine's Gate report new and disturbing developments to Asdrubael Vect. In accompaniment to the slow, relentless pounding, the Gate has begun to vibrate at the microscopic level. Worse, those who stand too close to the portal report hearing whispered voices. Though he shows no outward signs of concern, Vect continues to lay new plans.

The Shadow-Hunt (626.M41) - The Kabal of the Baleful Gaze and Wych Cult of the Wrath Unbound cripple the infrastructure of the Imperial industrial world of Durondas II using sustained haywire bombing. The Cult then lands great packs of hunting beasts, Khymerae and Clawed Fiends, the beasts loping through the darkened streets and tearing the planet's defenders to shreds. Buried in darkness, weapons fried and transportation crippled by the Haywire Bombs, the terrified Astra Militarum and their civilian charges are forced to fall back time and again. The hunted survivors are finally herded together in the Grand Templum District of Durondas' capital city. Here the Dark Eldar Beastmasters loose their feral pets en masse, beginning a horrifying massacre that takes several long and bloody solar days to conclude, and from which no human emerges alive.

The Panacea Wars (824.M41) - Vect sets his Archons a seemingly impossible task: "poison the Imperium of Man, and bring proof of the deed." Lady Malys proves equal to the task. Through the Harlequins she has learned that the Tech-priests of Verdigris IX have recovered an STC codenamed the Panacea, a miracle cure that could save billions of human lives. Using hit and run raids, Malys' Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue lure the might of an Ork WAAAGH! down upon the heavily-defended Forge World. The Ork fleet literally ploughs headlong into Verdigris IX, one massive voidship after another slamming into the world’s surface to cause untold destruction. As wave upon wave of Orks disembark from their wrecked spacecraft, the planet's surviving defenders find themselves embroiled in a desperate war for survival. Malys and her Kabal swoop into the midst of the resultant havoc, cutting down anyone who stands between them and their prize. After prying the Panacea template from the gnarled fingers of the Ork Big Mek who had stolen it before her, Malys returns to the Dark City, leaving Verdigris IX to burn in her wake. Asdrubael Vect is reportedly impressed with this audacious raid -- even as Malys is setting the Imperium's miracle cure atop a pedestal in her personal trophy hall, she receives an invitation from Vect to dine with him by way of congratulations.

The Nobility Resurgent (842.M41) - Descendants of the Eldar noble houses deposed during Vect’s ascension, Archons Xelian, Kraillach and Yllithian attempt a coup. They successfully resurrect the ancient Archon El'Uriach, once Emperor of Shaa-dom and the last individual to present a genuine challenge to Vect's supremacy. However, their schemes go horribly awry, leading the Dark City into a period of strife unlike any it has seen for thousands of Terran years. As a result of their actions, a mighty daemonicDysjunction shakes Commorragh to its very foundations and forces Asdrubael Vect himself to take drastic action lest his city slip into oblivion altogether.

The Vandred Atrocity (864.M41) - Archon Thysk leads his Kabal of the Bloody Storm against Vandred, a Feudal World from which the Angels Sanguine Space Marine Chapter recruits new Aspirants. Sure enough, a strikeforce of Angels Sanguine makes planetfall within solar days, yet they are playing into the Archon's hands. Thysk releases a blood-plague acquired at great cost from the Haemonculi Coven of the Altered, a virus that taps directly into the tragic gene curse of Sanguinius' sons. Aware of their madness but unable to stop themselves, the Angels Sanguine butcher and devour those they came to save before falling upon each other, while the Dark Eldar drink in the agony, terror and despair.

The Long Midnight (891.M41) - The Last Hatred ravages the Imperial Hive World Persya in a six-cycle long siege, using arcane technologies to bring pitch darkness to its principal hives and sending Mandrakes and Ur-Ghuls into its confines. Many hive workers go mad with terror, but are taken back to Commorragh nonetheless. It is claimed that during this siege, Kheradruakh the Decapitator selects an unprecedented seven worthy skulls for his macabre lair.

The War of Dark Revelations (990.M41) - Tau forces defending Vigos against the onrushing might of Hive Fleet Kraken make the fatal decision to ally themselves with Urien Rakarth. Despite initial victories alongside their twisted allies, the Tau soon become alarmed by Rakarth's demands that they engage in ever more costly "cultural exchanges." They finally resolve to strike back when he transforms Tau warriors into monstrous Grotesques, and begins demanding a tribute of their sacred Ethereals. The Tau muster their reserves from the world of Rubikon, yet when their blow falls they find Rakarth's fleet already gone, leaving only holograms and sensor-ghosts in its wake. Panicked distress calls begin to issue from the defenseless Rubikon mere solar hours later. These garbled reports tell of twisted, pale-fleshed invaders calling themselves the Prophets of Flesh. Yet it is far too late for the woefully outmaneuvered Tau forces to respond, and they can only listen in anguish to the death-cries of their world.

The Age of Plenty

As the 41st Millennium draws to a close, the galaxy is riven with war as never before. Madness and mayhem consumes whole star systems, affording the denizens of the Dark City ample chance to raid at will. Yet there are those who whisper that even Commorragh is not proof against the horrors that draw near:

Vect's Declaration (994.M41) - Asdrubael Vect looks upon the war-wracked galaxy and declares this to be an age of plenty. The races of realspace are beset by woes, their civilizations battling a never-ending tide of enemies, each more monstrous than the last. Vect orders his lieutenants to take advantage of the galaxy's worsening plight, to strike wherever the lesser races are spread too thin and pillage unopposed. Slaves and riches flow into Commorragh in a tide, and the Dark Eldar revel in their own unmatched might. However, all of this is but a distraction, albeit on an unimaginably vast and complex scale. While Vect's subjects glut themselves upon the hapless peoples of the material dimension, their eyes are turned outward, away from the dark deeds of their ruler.

An Unexpected Ally (995.M41) - The Craftworld of Iyanden, struggling to survive after its horribly narrow victory over Hive Fleet Kraken, is forced to engage WAAAGH! Rekkfist in order to prevent Iyanden being invaded again. Early engagements cause rippling damage on the greenskin empire, but the Orks counter-attack in force. Iyanden is left with no choice but to disturb more and more of their revered ancestors from their deathly slumbers and place their Spirit Stones into mighty Ghost Warriors in order to contain the counter-invasion. Just as all seems lost, the Wraithkind Kabal and the Cult of the Flayed Hand burst through the webway portal at the Craftworld's rear. Fighting alongside Iyanden's Aspect Warriors and their Ghost Warrior allies, the Dark Eldar drive off the Orks. When asked by Iyanden's Council of Seers as to why they intervened, the Dark Eldar reply that they find Iyanden's angst-ridden forays into the world of necromancy extremely entertaining.

Danger Unseen (996.M41) - In the Undercore, the phenomena that beset Khaine's Gate become ever more pronounced. Many of the strange portal’s guards have been driven mad by the whispering voices that now pervade the Gate chamber. Those who have not hacked each other apart or taken their own lives have begun carving "Let us in" into the walls of the chamber, some scratching this unsettling mantra directly into their flesh. The air of the chamber shimmers with half-glimpsed shapes, while Mandrakes and Shaderavens gather in increasing numbers in the tunnels around and about. Overlord Vect continues to suppress knowledge of these phenomena with cruel efficiency, while quietly relocating ever more of his own powerbase to hidden sub-realms behind multiple, well-guarded portals. A number of Archons who had believed their Kabals out of favour are delighted when Vect presents them with reconciliatory gifts of prime territory, ceded from the ownership of the Kabal of the Black Heart and located directly above the Undercore.

Rakarth's Larder (998.M41) - Urien Rakarth recognizes similarities between his kin’s frenzied reaving of realspace and the blood-mad days that led up to the Fall. Ancient beyond mortal comprehension, Rakarth still dimly recalls that apocalyptic event. His memories are enough to prompt him to precautionary action -- though Rakarth has no interest in the survival of either realspace nor his own race, without the living resources that both provide, his personal quest for depravity would come to a crashing end. Thus the Haemonculus begins stockpiling what he views as raw materials, leading raids to seize vast quantities of slaves and dragging them back to the oubliettes in chains. As the scale of his raiding operations increases, Rakarth enlists the aid of several powerful Covens, including the Black Descent, the Coven of Twelve and the Prophets of Flesh. These monstrous cliques claim new sub-realms within the Webway and begin to fill them with countless ranks of stasis-pods that fade away for miles into the gloom. Each contains a living being, stolen from realspace in order to stock the vile larders of the Haemonculi against hard times to come.

Warpsurge (924.999.M41) - A mighty storm front rolls through Warpspace, plucking at the edges of the Labyrinthine Dimension. Arterial passageways shudder uncontrollably while smaller, more damaged offshoots tear or collapse altogether. Khaine’s Gate glows white hot for several moments, and one of the mighty chains that bind it snaps with a sound like a thunderclap. At the exact same moment, every single portal within the Dark City flickers out and then comes back to life, plunging hundreds of thousands into limbo or tearing them apart in transit. The Dark City is soon in uproar, and demands that Overlord Vect take action to prevent a full blown Dysjunction become ever louder. Vect suspects the hand of Lady Malys in this agitation, but his attempts to procure proof are foiled by troupes of Harlequins that appear from nowhere to slay Vect's agents or abduct his informants.

Stealing the Void (978.999.M41) - The Kabal of the Black Heart and the Wych Cult of Strife lead a massive raid against the Imperial Navy moorings at Bakka. The attack causes immense destruction and leaves a swathe of the Imperium open to further raids, yet this is merely a by-product of Vect's true purpose. While the bulk of the raiding forces are fully engaged with the Imperial Navy, a small Dark Eldar force breaks away under the cover of advanced Night Shields. Led by Vect himself, with Lelith Hesperax at his side, this force assails the Inquisitorial stronghold concealed behind Bakka's third moon. In the ensuing battle, the Black Heart successfully kidnaps a handful of very special Imperial personnel. Aberrant anti-psychic mutants, the very presence of these so-called Nulls deadens the tides of the Warp and is anathema to the Daemons of Chaos. The Nulls are smuggled into the depths of the Dark City, destined for grotesque machines arranged around the Undercore. Yet, though the luckless mutants are moved with the greatest care and secrecy, Vect's plan does not go entirely unnoticed, for the eyes of Lady Malys are everywhere.

The Great Eye Opens (995.999.M41) - The Thirteenth Black Crusade surges from the Eye of Terror, Imperial and allied armies flooding from across the Imperium to oppose it. Kabalite raids descend upon realspace in their thousands to take advantage of the mayhem, yet now battle is also joined in the Dark City. Through arcane channels, Lady Malys has learned of the developing situation around Khaine's Gate. Fearing that Vect plans to intentionally trigger its opening and drown his rivals in Daemons, the Archon of the Poisoned Tongue activates assets all across the Dark City. Waves of empyric energy roll from the Eye of Terror to batter Commorragh, collapsing sub-realms and breaching portals. Bands of Kabalites, Wyches and Harlequins loyal to Malys or Vect engage in increasingly bitter skirmishes around the Undercore, oblivious to the irony that both factions are fighting to achieve the same end. Meanwhile, in a chamber filled with swirling madness, hairline cracks spread across Khaine's Gate, and the caged Nulls begin to scream.

Source: http://warhammer40k.wikia.com

[endeavorsreward]

Meanwhile, in Eorzea...

[I’d never gotten around to doing this, so I’m going to do it now.]

I’d oft taken to flying through the broken islands of Azyz Lla to clear my head. Since the war ended, it’s very quiet in the skies; the dragons tend to their homes, make plans for peace, even as men marshall for a new war to the east. It would be my last time seeing it for at least a year, though, because I was being sent across the ocean instead.

It was the stuff of bad comedy; to go all the way to Othard to win a war at home. But it was rare that I found myself the arbiter of my own destiny anymore... since killing the Count, everything I’d done was at the whim of someone else.

Knew you that Lolorito Nanarito had a distant cousin? I could not tell you if the Monetarist viewed this relation as a threat or an embarrassment, only that he’d been packed up and shipped off to a small island a few days sail from Vylbrand. It was the island where I and my sister Dorothea had grown up.

Our home was generally a peaceful one; we lived off fishing and trade,and the most we ever had to fear - post Calamity - were pirates. Gods, we hated pirates. My sister was fearsome, athletic, ferociously-kind. I was none of these things. I’d buried my nose in books all my life, with disdain for the less learned. I’d even begun to learn the Arcanist’s art, when I found patronage in form of our community’s richest and arguably most powerful man, a lalafel who styled himself “Count Maximas.” Spelled correctly, there, mind.

Ah, I see you already connecting the threads, but do let me tell the tale at my own pace.

The Count quite eagerly encouraged my interest in the art. Wisely, he concentrated most on my own blind, hungry search for knowledge, but he also plied my ego with the thought of being able to protect my family from the rare but terrifying raids conducted by pirates who (as I’d later learn) were contending with a dying culture, as the Admiral began knitting the majority of them into something approaching an actual society.

What know you of the arcane? The act of using arithmeticks to inscribe geometric forms that trap pure aether; binding it to a gemstone to form a familiar that we often call “Carbuncle.” The Count was a practitioner himself, or at least his studies were focused in that direction, and it was many of his texts that I studied from in my attic on long summer days and nights. Some texts dating back so far as the Fifth Astral Era, dark tomes that should have stayed buried. I was a lad, full of unearned confidence and naivety about our own history, and so when he wished to engage in a ritual once used to trap voidsent, hoping to use a modified form to increase the aether yield, to make a more powerful familiar, I agreed.

I know not his reasoning, and I never shall. It is possible that he wanted to make a bid for power, to spite the cousin who sent him away and take control of his family’s assets. I suspect, but cannot prove, that it was actually Lord Lolorito who had wanted the experiment performed. All who have passed through Ul’dah know of the Bloody Banquet, and thus of Teledji Adeledji’s designs upon the power buried beneath Carteneau, a power since woken by the Scions to battle the Primal that appeared over Baelsar’s Wall. It is all too probable that when Lolorito first learned of Teledji’s designs upon the Allagan technology, he looked for something to combat this power, and “encouraged” his errant fool of a relation. How else would the Count have acquired such texts? A successful result, an aetheric familiar with the power of a voidsent, or even a Primal, would have given Lolorito a weapon.

But we shall never know. Because I was tricked; because Count Maximas used as the source of additional aether my own sister. The ritual was a success of a sort; a familiar of uncommon strength was formed, but at a cost that I could never predict - though he certainly did.

Dorothea’s soul is bound to the crystal of my Emerald Carbuncle, my constant companion. She is still in there; I can feel her warmth, sense her intelligence, in every interaction that I have with the creature. One half of my heart, fated to walk beside me in a form perverted.

You, hearing this tale: Yes, I murdered the Count in his own home, with my bare hands. There was to be no explanation to my family, my home; what could one say? What could one believe? And the Count’s wealth and status, his connections to the mainland, he had kept our town together in the post-Calamity world. I may well have doomed them all, as he doomed us. And so, arcanist’s tome in hand, I left that island on a boat for Limsa Lominsa, alive only to honor my vow: to do enough good to clean my hands of the town I’d destroyed in my hate, and to see my sister freed... or freed.

Limsa Lominsa, a town of pirates. And now I was little better. And soon, I learned, worse. The warmth and open arms I found at Summerford Farms caused a change in me, to see these honest men and women work for a better life. How I’d wasted mine! How I’d done naught by destroy those I loved!

I have served as a proud lieutenant of the Maelstrom for a year’s time or more now. And it is in service to the Admiral, and in service to the Eorzean Alliance, that I head to Othard, to Doma. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn head to liberate Doma, and while I am not amongst their number (though after an ale or two I’m liable to tell any women in earshot that some say I’ve an identical countenance to the Warrior of Light), the Admiral had a small complement placed on Carvallain’s ship to operate in secret. To aid where it was possible, gather information where it was possible, and reform the naval ties with Kugane, the land of outsiders.

I do not lead this unit; I operate best alone - or rather, in a pair: for Dorothea as always travels with me. But I serve at the Admiral’s behest Until Sea Swallows All. And I have my own reasons for aiding the endeavor. For Doma’s liberation is meant to draw forces from Ala Mhigo, and I’ve particular interest in seeing the place freed.

For Ala Mhigo is yet my only lead.

Two Starlights past, I was at my second lowest point. For you could find me then in Little Ala Mhigo, sitting by a fire, dressed as the Saint, with a heavy welt over my eye and up to my eyes in self-pity.

I don’t know if a trick was played upon me, or if it was truly a noble gesture ill-considered. I was aiding people in Ul’Dah, and chosen to distribute some gifts to the orphan refugees of Little Ala Mhigo, the first time I’d ever been. Some former members of the resistance, however, felt I was mocking their plight, their dire straits, having come in regalia and shouting blessings for the holiday. I was ignorant of Ala Mhigo’s struggles - as I said, I’d studied little of history, pursuing instead what I’d thought higher arts. In my humility, I attempted to make right by helping where I could, and found much of Summerford Farms in those honest men and women who dreamed of the home they’d lost. It became, after a long time, my second home, and though I was rarely welcomed, I was eventually accepted for a fashion.

Which was how I learned about the Corpse Brigade, and how their raid on a simple caravan of medical supplies came to curse me, for also in that wagon was a text I’d ordered, after much and many struggles and too much correspondence and a few fraught personal visits, from a previously-restricted collection in the vaults of the St. Endalim Scholasticate in Ishgard. And it was claimed, with everything else, by the Corpse Brigade leader Milleuda Folles. The Slitter herself.

I raided the Sepulchre, their cavern hideout, all but single-handedly. And many were made Corpses for true that day, but Milleuda escaped, and she had the text in hand. It was the closest thing to a lead I had, that book, on possible rituals that might restore Dorothea - or at the least, separate her from the gem. But she fled with it, and nobody knew to where she’d vanished.

Or rather, everyone knows - to a place that nobody could reach. The Kingsguard, the Kingslayer, had gone home. The Wall had been breached, and war declared, and Milleuda had returned to Ala Mhigo.

And so I must follow. I will find that book. And if it takes freeing two nations, if it takes traveling to the other side of the world, than I will sail where the sea takes me. For every Garlean that falls in Othard means another inch towards my reunion with The Slitter, and the chance at liberation not only for Ala Mhigo, but for Dorothea.

We set sail on the morrow.

[agameoftangledwebs-blog]

#20 Tone and Saturation

It was going to be a late lunch or early dinner when Brother Edward Fairgold arrived as a guest in their house. Elru had warned Saeros two days prior of the impending arrival of the clergyman she had bought the house from, as well as roughly what to expect of the man if Saeros deigned to be present. By now the first floor has been completely finished, done in soft tones of blue and violet, with occasional gold and silver filigree and a lightly colored stone tile floor which meshed well with the marble kitchen. Chairs and couches were cushioned and made to match the floor. Elru had been practicing her cooking and made decent use of the oven, once she decided there needed to be a small oven, and had a rotisserie chicken started for the occasion.

Elru certainly didn't make it easy for Saeros to fit in to their home's natural surroundings, his dark coloring and hair made pastel a certain mistake, but he'd dredged up a tunic, pants, and boots of lighter gray felt and gold accents that provided a tolerable contrast. He was reclinging back on the couch he'd had Elru shape during their first night here and watching her when she came into view through low-lidded eyes. Waiting was something he was familiar with even if it wasn't his preference. He was certainly waiting now.

Elru is certainly no master of interior design and every so often she'll glance about with some measure of dissatisfaction, especially with how much it sometimes clashed with Saeros. Little matter as colors were easily changed, and a bit late now. For his faults, the corpulent human had impeccable timing. Not one minute after the chicken had finished resting Saeros could almost hear let alone sense the shuffling of a human coming upon their doorstep. Elru would catch it after he does as she tilts her head up. "Time to entertain the human." She looks to Saeros almost in apology. "You need not stay long at all, of course."

"I need to size him up if he's to be more than a one time aquaintence. Can't let anyone get any ideas." His words were just as lazy as his posture.

"Of course." Elru brings the chicken over onto the table, which is already set with plates, utensils and napkins. She rests the chicken atop its bed of seasoned rice and vegetables, then brings out the wine. Actual wine this time, one that is adequate for the purpose of entertaining mundane guests. The door knocks and Elru is already there. Elru has a preemptive smile pasted on when she opens the door to the house to greet the clergyman. "You arrived just in time. Welcome, Brother Fairgold. I trust you arrived with no incident?" It was an onerous and odd question to ask given he'd supposedly come from within the same district but even if he had come from the far end he still had a light sheen on his brow. Smiling at the greeting he helps himself past the threshold as his eyes pan around in wonderment. "Oh no, no incident at all, of course not. Smells wonderful, and my lady, I love what you have done with the place! I barely recognize it, but that is not a bad thing, no certainly not. And all the paperwork is of course in order." He notices Saeros just then with a light start, then smiles wide as he shuffles over closer. "And you must be the Lord Kir-Moldir to the fair Lady Kir-Moldir, I presume?"

Saeros had magically come to his feet (likely not literally, he did have quick reflexes) so by the time the Brother got an eye on him he was straight up and down infront of the couch with his hands behind his back. He gives a slight bow at the waist for the acknowledgement. "That I am. I hope she hasn't been telling tales about me?" There was humor there.

"Oh no, nothing of the sort, my good sir!" He gives a deeper bow of his own before standing straight again. Elru's description of the man matched pretty well, given that he was once again wearing robes that seemed too small for him. He dabbed away at his face with a hankerchief as he spoke. "We did not get to speak often after she had purchased this property, but she did tell me of her marriage to a distinguished. Well statured as well I see!" He laughs and waves at the table, "But please, no need to stand up on my account, come, come, let us sit, relax and eat. What is this I see?" As Elru closed the door she managed an exhale before smiling over at Saeros and giving a light beckon to his seat before she started cutting into the chicken, going into what the meal was and how it came to be. Elru seems to have become very proficient at separating a chicken into its parts with a serrated blade, with little to no mess, juices running into the bed of rice and vegetables.

Saeros takes a seat and waits for Elru to serve them all while he split his attention between watching her with the knife and the man beside them. "How are things at the Cathedral in these quiet times? Hopefully more managable with Draenor under control."

"It is as you say, good sir, quiet indeed. Oh we get the occasional rouser or naysayer coming in to speak out about some corruption or imagined plight, but with the campaign in Draenor managed Cathedral matters are resettling back into how things should be. Why thank you, my lady." Both Saeros and Brother Fairgold have their plates of chicken, rice and vegetables along with glasses of wine just poured by Elru. Immediately taking a sip his expression lights up and he grins at Elru. "Why my dear, hard as it may be to believe I think this wine is even better than the first you served!" Elru simply smiles back and bows her head briefly as she gets her own plate and wine in order as she says, "I could serve no less for one as generous as you." "Oh you flatter me, my dear." He begins cutting into his chicken and looks back at Saeros, "But yes, matters in the Cathedral are business as usual I would say. It is interesting you bring up the Draenor campaign, were you a part of that?"

"Not me, thankfully, but a sizable number of aquaintences interested in what magical knowledge they could glean." With knife and fork in hand Saeros strips the meat from his own portion of bones and further into manageably small bites. "In all honesty, I'm just happy to start my retirement."

"Ahhh, and what a well deserved retirement it must be! And with such a beautiful wife to tend to your home and needs no less!" The human's cut bites are not as small, and he dribbles every so often, resulting in him dabbing himself with his napkin a lot. Elru for her part gives a light chuckle as she slowly politely eats. "Lord Kir-Moldir certainly deserves it," to which Fairgold gives another chuckle and bright smile at Elru. "I will take your word for it. Now are either of you in the business of magical knowledge? Not that I presume anything, and not that I seek such knowledge myself, but your home just seems to have that quality to it, like with those mages over at the next district, but with much finer taste."

He was cutting a steady swath through his meal with a pace that Elru's attentive eye could practically pace with a rhythm. After his next bite he replies, "We're both Highborne, actually. Arcane comes to us as naturally as breathing."

His brow goes up a bit. "Highborne you say? Well that is a mild surprise, but in hindsight it should not be, given how adept at magic Lady Kir-Moldir here seems to be." He takes another thorough bite and chewing. "My brothers and peers hear many an awful thing about Highborne, but clearly that was all simply heresay, as you two are clearly very wonderful and accommodating people. Broad-minded as well, to be willing to settle here in our fine capital!"

"What minority doesn't face ridicule these days? We're a curious people seeking out our way in a world we used to know." Saeros tilts back in his chair with his glass of wine in hand.

Fairgold for his part has been steadily enjoying his wine alongside his meal, and Elru, like the accommodating hostess she is, is ready to refill his glass. "Thank you, my dear! So, Lord Kir-Moldir," He turns back to Saeros, "Now that you are beginning to enjoy your retirement as you say, what is it you do for leisure in this city?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had much time to look into what could occupy my time between my wife and consolidating my finances." He absently sips on his wine at a far more sedate pace than their company.

"Well, absolutely humble as they may be in this city, there are a number of gardens and public estates one may tour and enjoy in this wonderful city of ours, paid and cared for in good part by those in this very district, yes!" he says with no small measure of pride, pausing to savor a particularly tender bit of his chicken. "Also paid in part by many a donation and esteemed patron. Which, come to think of it, would now come to include both the Lord and Lady Kir-Moldir!" He raises his glass briefly to the two of them.

"I've heard a fair bit about Dalaran's own services though Stormwind certainly has its own charm. Are there any sponsored events held at these places? I'd like to meet the other Patrons to the Cathedral."

Fairgold straightens up at that and dabs away at his lower face before speaking. "Actually, we are in the midst of organizing such an event as we speak. A small affair, mind you, but just for patrons and select members of the Clergy, myself included. If you so desire, I would be more than happy to put in a word to have either or both of you present to such an event! Not that I would impose, but as you asked I could not help myself."

"If you think such a venture would be well-recieved I'll gladly take you up on that offer. Any reason to get my wife in her finery." Saeros tilts the rim of his glass towards Elru.

Elru tilts her head down in an act of modesty as she smiles. "Well, I do have few such occasions to dress well." His eyes twinkle at Saeros' words as he grins wide and clasps his hands together, passing his gaze back and forth between the two. "Wonderful, yes, this is wonderful! I could not be more happy and proud to introduce you both to all my colleagues and brothers." He chuckles and resumes his meal. He's much further into his than either Saeros or Elru.

Saeros also continues with his own meal until he cleans his plate or he's interrupted.

As Fairgold nears completion of his meal Elru speaks up then. "As I have taken to regular walks and sit-downs around the city I do hope to run into you again so that you may keep me regularly posted on said event. Such is not objectionable, yes?" Fairgold, in the midst of polishing off his wine, waves Elru off with a furrowed brow, setting his glass down. "Oh no no, certainly not! I quite look forward to seeing you again, Lady Kir-Moldir, and perhaps even you yourself Lord Kir-Moldir should you happen to wander the Cathedral district yourself." he says as he sets his cutlery down on his plate.

"I spend much of my time between the capitals still but with luck I can find the time."

"Of course, of course." Elru is already up to take away the guest's plate as she says, "One last glass of wine before you go?" Fairgold seems to consider it for a second then shakes his head in mild admonishment. "Oh no, no, I best not. Wonderful wine it may be, I should not relish it to the point of excess. Unbefitting a man of the cloth such as I. But my dear, thank you deeply for preparing this meal for one such as I, and thank you both," waving a stubby hand between the two, "for your excellent company. You do me much pleasure, truly."

"The pleasure is ours. It's been some time since we've been able to host the appropriate company. We appreciate the opportunity to share our way of life with you even over dinner."

"I look forward to such an occasion, Lord Kir-Moldir, truly. It would do me well to further my own understanding and knowledge of outside cultures, yes. Thank you, dear," he offhandedly remarks as Elru finishes clearing his side of the table, then looks to Saeros if he needs anything cleared.

He offers her his finished plate. "Was there anything further we could do for you, Brother Fairgold?"

"Well, there is one small matter. A formality, really. As the both of you are now official owners of this property here in the Cathedral district, I just need a simple rough list of general assets and furnishings. Nothing so intrusive as values and numbers, really, just a basic list of what you've done with the place. For records and census sake. However, that can be submitted at any time during the duration of your ownership and patronage." Elru goes about clearing the table as he speaks in a neat and tidy manner, finally taking the center dish with the remains of the chicken away. "Otherwise, I could not ask anything more from such esteemed elves as yourselves."

"I'll have one written up for you that Elru can deliver on the next time you two meet if that's agreeable."

"Of course, of course." In short order Fairgold is up and ready to be seen off. "I quite look forward to seeing you again, Lord and Lady Kir-Moldir. You do me such pleasure and honor having me over." Elru smiles and has the door ready for him. "The honor and pleasure is all ours, Brother Fairgold."

Saeros had gotten up behind him with a leisurely pace, leading him to the door when he choses to go that way. "Don't make yourself a stranger."

"Oh, certainly not, definitely not. Have a good rest of the day, both of you." Elru bows her head slightly with a warm smile. "But of course, Brother Fairgold." And he's off. Once he's a good number of paces away Elru closes the door.

Saeros watched as the door is opened and closed behind the Priest, pausing a moment or three for him to leave the immediate presence of the house before focusing his attention on Elru. Silence was his dominant state and now was no different until, "You thought this was worth some time?"

"I did not think this was worth some time. Or at least not as much time as was allotted." She turns to the table and goes about dismissing and putting away the fine table coverings and furnishings. "However, he expressed repeat desire to see the home and dine in with me, and I decided it was better done on my terms than his."

"Expressed in what fashion?" He makes his way back to their table as well, lifting up the platter with the remnants of their chicken and taking it back to the kitchen.

"More curious than I would expect given this property is ours now. Particularly excited to spend time in my company regardless of capacity. Asked about you, but only in the most general." Elru would go about doing dishes.

Leans over and around her every once in awhile to sneak a few more bits of chicken off the bones with bare fingers before she throws them away or gets rid of them in some other capacity. "Are his questions to you of a personal nature?"

Elru makes note of that behavior and makes sure to toss out chicken bits and bones last. She tilts her head and furrows her brow slightly as she recollects what she was asked of her in the past. "Perhaps? What sights of the city I have enjoyed. My preferences in food and drink. I tend to keep my answers short with him, but he does not seem to care either way, full of platitudes and flattery he is."

The most that information earns from him is a grunt and once the chicken is gone he gives her some space, sucking the grease from his fingers. "Dinner was good. Thank you."

Elru blinks at him then manages a genuine smile. "I shall practice to make sure dinner stays good and varied."

"Was there anything further you needed from me?"

"Other than your opinion of that man, if any. Otherwise, no. I was glad to have you present."

"It wouldn't do to allow you to be alone in our home with a man we hardly know. We've appearances to keep. He's a man and I've as little interest in him as he does exercise. Neutral on the matter."

"Understood. For the time being he does strike me as fairly harmless. Perhaps time will tell." She goes about finishing dishes and cleaning. Elru's gotten better at not doing every little thing by magic. Not that she did before, but having an actual home to care for seems to have brought out that bit of hands on caretaker in her.

After a few moments of pause and her silence--Saeros leaves her to it.

[isedonsdndgame]

Game Night 2019-03-16

The rest was uneventful save for the nightmares Driscoll had from the visions of ancient memories he had experienced, leaving him on edge for the morning. The party awakens refreshed and attuned to their recently acquired magical items, and decide to investigate the tower atop the roof of Argynvostholt. As they approach the rooftop door that leads into the tower, Driscoll thinks he saw some movement in the spire turrets adjacent to the beacon tower, but considering his disquiet mind from the nightmares, dismisses the movement as "just imagining things."  

Ignys, who had been chatting with Iskafar about the possibilities of the tower, did not notice anything amiss and moves forward to investigate the door. As he does so, two spectral arrows fly from the turrets above and pierce into his shoulder and side, encouraging him to retreat back to his friends. The party now sees two faint bluish specters peering out from archer slots, but not attacking as the party stands well away from the door. Driscoll braces for an attack and charges forwards to try and burst down the door. His newfound strength from the powerful ogre gauntlets break the door immediately, splintering the old wood and beam that was bracing the door inside.  Seeing an opening, Ignys and Iskafar duck inside the door and out of range of the spectral archers.

They find themselves inside an open tower with a staircase spiraling up and a view to a temple or sanctuary below. They cautiously ascend the stairs and find two doors leading to either side where the archers were overlooking the entryway. Driscoll opens one door and finds nothing inside despite looking very closely. He checks the other turret to be certain, but thanks to his resolve being shaken by the nightmares earlier, falls into a lingering memory echo of a defender trying to hold of invaders breaching the tower. He feels desperation and resolve to hold the beacon tower no matter the cost and rushes out to assault the two invaders just outside the door. He lands a solid blow against Iskafar before he is able to shake off the influence. Shocked by this sudden attack, Iskafar begins to slip under the influence of his axe, his eyes darkening, a low growl in his throat. Ignys, recognizing the signs of Iskafar beginning to lose control immediately puts a hand on his shoulder and gently calms him down, reminding him he is among friends.

The party, back under their own control, climb the remainder of the spiral staircase to the top of the beacon tower. The roof of the uppermost chamber is steeply peaked with ravens congregating in the rafters, the windows giving a magnificent view in all directions.To the north they can see the lake that Vallaki sits beside, to the east they can see windmill they had passed early in their journey, to the south-south-east they see a foggy river valley with the remains of an overgrown road, and to the west-north-west they can see an old abbey on a rocky hillside. After taking in the view, they head back down to continue investigating on the second floor of Argynvostholt. They search a few ruined rooms uneventfully and head down one of the corridors when a wall of stone cuts the trailing Ignys off from the rest of the group. Driscoll and Iskafar resist a passing memory and use the insight from the vision to understand that there were defenders in the rooms at either end of the hall laying in wait for invaders to spring the trap.

Acting quickly, they rush to one of the rooms and quickly dispatch an awaiting specter within. Ignys meanwhile, utilizing his well honed understanding of the arcane discerns that the wall is a temporary construct set to disappear in a few minutes, and that if he manipulates a few runes just so, he should be able to reset and remove the wall momentarily. As the other two head down the hall to intercept any assault from the other room, Ignys drops the wall of stone and joins them. Two more specters are defeated in the final room with some effort and they head back to the main hallway to rest briefly. Ignys, not wanting to stumble into another magical trap, takes out his book of ritual magic and completes his spell to detect magical auras. Walking back past all the rooms they had previously been to, Ignys does register a few minor auras.

One such aura revealed a small box containing 4 potions, apparently long forgotten under a fallen and ruined cabinet. He also picks up on a few auras above and below, some necromantic auras emanating from the revenants they had previously encountered. Another aura of illusion was revealed to be an apparently severed screaming head that looked just like Driscoll. Forewarned of an illusion, the ghastly sight had a much lessened impact than it might have. The final area of the second floor looked to be a chair fashioned for a higher station sitting on a balcony that overlooked the place of worship they observed from the tower opening above. Below, they hear soft murmuring from a revenant kneeling by an altar. Outside the norther window, Iskafar notes a stone mausoleum on the other side of a graveyard.

They head down stairs at either side of the balcony and stop at the bottom step as the revenant appears to react to their presence. It stands and turns to face the far door of the temple and begins talking about defending from blasphemous invaders and keeping the sanctuary safe. It signals for companions to fire, despite being alone, and steps menacingly towards the doors. Ignys and Driscoll attempt to communicate with it, but its answers are seemingly not connected to their questions or statements and they gather that this individual is likely stuck in its own memory and a quiet retreat is the preferred option. They head back up to the second floor and descend via the main stairs to the ground floor to complete their investigation of Argynvostholt.

They first locate a lit dining room and reveal the source of another of the magical auras Ignys detected, an enchanted candelabra with flickering flames still lighting the room. Another room appears to be a wine storage area and they hear signs of life within. There they discover a wounded and sleeping dusk elf. Driscoll tends to their wounds and they collectively rouse it to ask about its circumstance. He tells them that he was out searching for Arabelle and was attacked by some wolves in the area, and, desperate for shelter, limped into Argynvostholt to recover despite tales of a ghostly dragon haunting it. The party relay news that Arabelle is safe and that he should be free to return to the dusk elf encampment when he is rested. The party continues their search and come upon the kitchen and servant quarters, and finally to a sitting room where Ignys detects another aura of magic from the fireplace. 

As they all enter the room, a flame in the hearth roars to life and forms the shape of a dragon wyrmling. Cautiously they try addressing the flame in draconic, but after a moment it speaks and says  “My knights have fallen into darkness. Save them if you can. Show them the light they have lost!” With that, the fire burns out. Having apparently cleared all rooms of interest inside, the party heads out around back to examine the mausoleum that Iskafar had noticed earlier. They manage to climb over the wrought iron fence without difficulty and after a few false starts, the combined strength of Iskafar and Driscoll manage to prise open the heavy stone door. Inside, the mausoleum is dusty and bare, an inscription etched into the far wall in draconic script: Here lie the bones and treasures of 

Argynvost, lord of Argynvostholt and

founder of the Order of the Silver Dragon. The party then gather at the front of the mansion and agree that at some point they need to try to recover the skull and any other remains that they can find, probably somewhere in Castle Ravenloft, and return them to the mausoleum. In the meantime however, to try and connect with the possible ally in the abbey they saw from the beacon tower, they must first head to the Wizard of the Wines to see if they can obtain wine to gain entrance to Krezk, the fortified town that surrounds the abbey. Game ends as they prepare to head out to the road once more.