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 Night Hydra.

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Cavash
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PostSubject: Night Hydra.   Wed Oct 24 2012, 15:02

Night Hydra.
"You cannot kill a Hellion that does not want to be found."

Chapter I: The Raid.
Chapter II: The Dispute.
Chapter III: The Escape.
Chapter IV: The Hellions.
Chapter V: The Purging.
Chapter VI:The Dam.
Chapter VII: The Gathering.
Chapter VIII: The Kabals.
Chaper IX: The Haemonculous.
Chapter X: The General.
Chapter XI: The Assault.
Chapter XII: The Emptiness.
Chapter XIII: The Severed Handed.
Capter XIV: The Ally.
Chapter XV: The Crucible.
Chapter XVI: The Poisoned Tongue.
Chapter XVII: The Night Hydra.
Chapter XVII: The Lord of Hellions.

After speaking with a couple of TDC members a while back we concluded that a Guy Ritchie style Hellion tale was in order. This... well, it has Hellions and it has Cockneys...
Anyhow, just so that you are not completely alienated by the lack of an actual story here I will gift you a preview. Enjoy:
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been a very early awakening for Dracon Krass’ull Thryck’ytrhys’killion. He was aware of the plans and that he would need to be awake and mobile very early in the morning, but he couldn’t help but celebrate. His wife had finally birthed a son after a stream of females that would fail to continue his proud name.

Naturally the celebration consisted of intoxication, light murdering and much, much bathing in the pains of pleasure and the pleasures of pain. His hair had been dishevelled when he awoke from the filth of the Officer’s Hall surrounded by empty syringes and countless bodies in different degrees of nudity, some he could not tell whether they were recovering from minor trauma due to the reckless rejoicing or were lying with iced veins, souls slipped into the Thirster’s grasp. Large dark rings circled his sparkling black eyes, but as he attempted to stand he felt that his strength was wavering. His legs wobbled helplessly as he dragged himself up, pale body clinging desperately to the shattered antique table. His back was in agony, his muscles throbbed, and as he looked around he noticed that there were more officers unconscious than asleep. These were all telltale signs that he had been so ecstatic that he had initiated a widespread brawl to heighten his euphoria.

Carefully he stepped over a dead woman after claiming the knife in her spine. After a moment’s more searching he looted the sheath from the hip of a man and stole the hat from his head. The man’s eye’s opened and he looked as if he was going to start a fight. Luckily the Dracon’s bare foot choked the Sybarite to death before he could start shouting. The Dracon stumbled through the clutter while brushing his hair back away from his face. He had not noticed at first, but in the hat’s decorative band resided a stimm-inhaler, most likely Dezh-renn, a popular narcotic used amongst the men of the Kabal. It was half empty, but he wasn’t bothered about the risk of drug-sharing infections as long as it would relieve his headache.

The first breath brought about the usual choking that the vaporised adrenaline was famed for; it felt like inhaling a blizzard of micro-razors that were shredding apart his innards and lacerating his lungs. It was definitely coarse and had not been refined, but who could expect a Sybarite to be able to afford high grade stimulants? He continued to walk, every so often propping himself up, as the drugs took affect and his legs gained a new lease of life. The second breath he took deeper, finishing the dregs of the inhaler. Unfortunately for him, Krass’ull had not shaken the container sufficiently and received a lung full of bitter adrenaline. He flung the capsule across the room as the taste of blood grew stronger in his throat.

_________________



Last edited by Cavash on Thu Apr 25 2013, 00:01; edited 5 times in total
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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Wed Oct 24 2012, 18:34

Awesome! Can't wait (I like the extras you added to flesh out the preview, compare to the draft version). *starts eating popcorn* Smile

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Wed Oct 24 2012, 22:33

Get the story written and convert it into a screen play ASAP Very Happy

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Wed Oct 31 2012, 00:09

Dramatis Personae.


I will add more characters to this list as the tale progresses.

Kabalite personnel:

Prince Talludesh Ayr'kell Cavash: Son of Grand Archon Dernia Cavash and inheritor to the Cavash Dynasty.
Felna Grass'yll: (Male) Trueborn Sybarite of the Kabal of the Harrowed Soulscream.
Feltaan Varuscht: (Male) Tubeborn Kabalite Warrior.

Krass’ull Thryck’ytrhys’killion: (Male) Dracon of the Kabal of the Harrowed Soulscream.
Hyllna Tsallion: (Male) Longest serving Trueborn bodygyard of Dracon Krass’ull Thryck’ytrhys’killion.
Tseng Goreveh: (Female) Violent Trueborn bodyguard of Dracon Krass'ull.
Helspaan Baranda’ch: (Male) Trueborn bodyguard of Dracon Krass'ull.
Trell Kat’tar:(Female) Newest member of the Dracon's Trueborn bodyguard.
Fllythyx Gorrvex: (Male) Arrogant youthful Trueborn bodyguard of the Dracon.

Yuilla Gui’lashana: (Male) Dracon of the Poisoned Tongue.

Hellion Mercenaries:

Kegahn Trallavan: (Male) Helliarch of the Lightning Scorpions.
Vellana: (Male) Hellion.

Miscellaneous:
Y’rrinis Telvoor: (Male) Slavemaster.
Semyla Farrin: (Female) Wych associated with the Poisoned Tongue.

Notes.

1. The Kabal of the Severed Handed are not the Severed Hand Kabal mentioned in the Codex. I thought up this Kabal before the last Codex was released and the similarities are coincidental.
2. The Harrowed Soulscream is the name of the Kabal of the Pierced Heart before their reformation.

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Nov 04 2012, 17:50

Chapter I.
The Raid.


It had been a very early awakening for Dracon Krass’ull Thryck’ytrhys’killion. He was aware of the plans and that he would need to be awake and mobile very early in the morning, but he couldn’t help but celebrate. His wife had finally birthed a son after a stream of females that would fail to continue his proud name.

Naturally the celebration consisted of intoxication, light murdering and much, much bathing in the pains of pleasure and the pleasures of pain. His hair had been dishevelled when he awoke from the filth of the Officer’s Hall surrounded by empty syringes and countless bodies in different degrees of nudity, some he could not tell whether they were recovering from minor trauma due to the reckless rejoicing or were lying with iced veins, souls slipped into the Thirster’s grasp. Large dark rings circled his sparkling black eyes, but as he attempted to stand he felt that his strength was wavering. His legs wobbled helplessly as he dragged himself up, pale body clinging desperately to the shattered antique table. His back was in agony, his muscles throbbed, and as he looked around he noticed that there were more officers unconscious than asleep. These were all telltale signs that he had been so ecstatic that he had initiated a widespread brawl to heighten his euphoria.

Carefully he stepped over a dead woman after claiming the knife in her spine. After a moment’s more searching he looted the sheath from the hip of a man and stole the hat from his head. The man’s eye’s opened and he looked as if he was going to start a fight. Luckily the Dracon’s bare foot choked the Sybarite to death before he could start shouting. The Dracon stumbled through the clutter while brushing his hair back away from his face. He had not noticed at first, but in the hat’s decorative band resided a stimm-inhaler, most likely Dezh-renn, a popular narcotic used amongst the men of the Kabal. It was half empty, but he wasn’t bothered about the risk of drug-sharing infections as long as it would relieve his headache.

The first breath brought about the usual choking that the vaporised adrenaline was famed for; it felt like inhaling a blizzard of micro-razors that were shredding apart his innards and lacerating his lungs. It was definitely coarse and had not been refined, but who could expect a Sybarite to be able to afford high grade stimulants? He continued to walk, every so often propping himself up, as the drugs took affect and his legs gained a new lease of life. The second breath he took deeper, finishing the dregs of the inhaler. Unfortunately for him, Krass’ull had not shaken the container sufficiently and received a lung full of bitter adrenaline. He flung the capsule across the room as the taste of blood grew stronger in his throat.

Wandering aimlessly towards the door, he stopped for a moment and looked down at the antique table that had two cracked, sloping plates leading towards the sleeping body of Trueborn Sybarite Felna Grass’yll. The Trueborn was sprawled in the middle of the shattered panels, limbs sprawled all around, the cuts on his face the source of the red flakes that crumbled from his cheek as the Dracon grabbed him by his garb and firmly slapped him.

The Sybarite laughed, still half asleep before falling back into a lucid dream state.

“Sybarite!” He struck his servant again causing him to rub his eyes as light flooded in through blurred vision.

“Dr-Dracon?” He stuttered as one of his gloved hands soothed his cheek.

“Felna, why are you in the table?”

“Don’t you remember, sir?" He asked with a slight grin. "You started fighting. Not just one or two people, you started fighting everyone. You put me through the table.” The Dracon shook his servant before dropping him back onto the splinters.

“I cannot recall that, Sybarite. How intoxicated was I?”

“It got to the point,” Felna sat up, “where you started shouting ‘I’m Urien Rakarth’ and began cutting the officers. Luckily that was only brief, as you soon took to throwing your knives at the slaves nearby.”

“That would explain the stench of death in the air.” Krass’ull looked to the distant door as a man in Kabalite armour stepped in. His face was serious and his left hand was at his thigh, resting just above his Splinter Pistol. This could have been a preventative measure or a threat. It was likely that Krass’ull had entered in some dark dealings the previous night and owed a lot of powerful people a lot of wealth, but it was also likely that somebody had turned up to issue his disciplinary.

“Dracon, did you enjoy your celebrations?” The light voice asked. The voice did not cut through the air like many of the generals’, but it was well refined and obviously well educated.

“They were… sufficient.” He grinned slowly, as not to show the inner disrespect he held for the armoured man.

“You have a son now. I can only imagine how that feels…” the man halted his speech and moved his hand away from the Splinter pistol making the Dracon more at ease. “I am warming to you, Dracon. You are proving to be much more useful than I expected. I think that I will keep you alive this day.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The Dracon bowed, trying his hardest not to show the weakness of his ruined body.

“Do not thank me. I care not that you now have another child to care for. I care not that you are a capable martial artist or a skilled tactician. Usually I would have your head struck from your body for the mess you have made here. I spare you because you are of use to me at the moment.”

“Oh?” He inquired. “How so?” He gritted his teeth. His disdain for Prince Talludesh Ayr’kell Cavash was equal to that of any other Kabalite’s, but he could never do anything about it. He was the son of the Grand Archon Dernia Cavash meaning that he was protected through name.

“You are a tool, a very useful one. You understand the culture and language of those… sky rats. I need you to speak with them.”

“Hellions?” He sighed. “I hate those sky bound weasels.

“Are you refusing to speak with them?” For a moment they stood at separate ends of the hall, staring at each other. Talludesh thought that intimidating eye contact was being made whereas the Dracon was just struggling to see clearly.

“Of course not, my Prince.”

“Good.” Talludesh’s face remained stern surrounded by the blades of bone that framed his face like an unholy portrait. The Kabal of the Harrowed Soulscream was proud of its bone white armour as it had been gifted unto them by their master, Dernia Cavash. The Kabal run by the Cavash Dynasty had not always been known as the Kabal of the Pierced Heart as it would be in later years. It had been given that name at the end of the first Great War, after the death of their master due to his heart being penetrated by a black edged knife.
____________

He had little time to get fully kitted in his Ghostplate armour before he had to hurry to the deployment hangar. His hair had been too dishevelled and filth ridden to be made presentable in the short time he had, so, even though it pained him, he had removed the long strands of perfectly black hair. Usually he would have worn his helm, but when meeting with Hellions it was always sensible to show your face. They were deceitful types that would refuse to deal with the Kabal unless they knew exactly what was happening. The Dracon, on the other hand, knew that they would believe whatever he told them. He was the trustworthy Kabalite face that the Hellions decided to talk to whenever an issue had been raised. What they did not realise was that his smile was a mask intent on containing the contempt he held for the peasant gangers. He stepped out onto the bustling deployment hangar and looked around. Everywhere he looked slaves dragged equipment to Raiders and larger Invasion Craft while thousands of Warriors beat them mercilessly. The scent of suffering did make the Dracon feel better, but his mind was still clouded. He stretched slightly to get the sub-dermal hooks of his armour to caress his body into life, but it didn’t help. He adored the sharp pain, but it wasn’t enough.

Hiding a yawn the Dracon turned disdainfully to the stairs where he stopped and awaited word from his approaching subordinates. Each was a Trueborn. There were eight of them in total. They were the only Kabalites devious enough to serve with him; they were the only ones that he had found that could match his depravity. The first possessed a Splinter Cannon of exceedingly high quality. The outer case was encrusted with the carved sigils of an ancient poem of atrocity and bloodshed. It was most likely written by the weapon’s original owner, but the Cannon was of so much worth that it had swapped hands, through monetary exchange or backstabbing, dozens of times. It was even rumoured that this weapon had once been a gift from Traevelliath Sliscus to a young Kabalite who had woven a fine hat out of the rarest of corrupted Wraithbone threads. Whether this was true or just idle speculation, however, was still to be proven.
Two others carried similar Splinter Cannons, but neither of them were as exquisite.

“Tsallion, Goreveh, Baranda’ch.” He nodded to the three in the order of his favour. He chose Tsallion first because of his Cannon. His intelligence was helpful, but his Cannon was much nicer. Goreveh and Baranda’ch had served as the Dracon’s bodyguard for countless cycles. He knew that he could rely on them.

“Sir.” The three bowed before him, stepping forward from the rest of the squad who had gathered at a respectful distance.

“What news?” The Dracon demanded.

“The blood spilt is to be rich this day. The enemy have gathered in five fronts. The Mon-keigh of the ground hide in the eastern bastions, they fight in the southern trenches and they fight furiously for their central forge.”

“That is but three when you mentioned five.”

“Yes… the Poisoned Tongue is here.”

“Good.” He smiled to Tsallion as he reported the situation. “Then our spies were correct. Oh Malys, how you are slipping. Is she here?”

“We have not been able to confirm the identity of the enemy leader. They have taken to the skies where they rain down fury upon the cattle. On the ground, however, we know where a high priority target resides.”

“Hmm…” He considered. It was not like the Poisoned Tongue to ever be lead against mere humans by Lady Aurelia Malys. He could not exactly storm their ship in search for the Archon, either. He would be bound to his Raider. “We stay on the ground. Have my raider prepared.” He pointed towards his craft causing Goreveh to hurry off to find some slacking slaves.

“Sir, may I speak?” One of the Trueborn from further down the stairway spoke. He knew this Trueborn as Fllythyx Gorrvex, a Shardcarbine wielder who delighted in burglary and pick pocketing. He had a fondness for knives, but boasted greatly about his skill, a trait which the Dracon liked to exploit for his own amusement.

“Just speak, urchin.” He rubbed his forehead, hoping that the pain would stop.

“Apologies, sir-”

“Just speak!” His voice carried throughout the cavernous bay, causing hundreds to halt in their activities to turn and stare.

“Th-the guests Prince Talludesh wanted you to speak with are here. They have been escorted into one of the Pleasure Galleries by a Sybarite.”

“A Sybarite, Gorrvex? Was he a cowardly little man? Looked like he would rob from his family’s mausoleum if it meant he could get another fix? A man so wretched and detestable that Mon-keigh themselves look down on him?”

The Trueborn started to back away as the Dracon walked slowly forward, placing each foot with perfectly menacing precision while his eyes flashed with rage.

“I-I know of n-no such man, Sir.”

“Did he have a cheaply produced left hand?”

The Trueborn was forced to a halt as his squad mates barred him in. “No, Sir. I believe his name is Felna.”

“Felna Grass’yll? Ha!” He turned his back on the Trueborn in derision. “I must see to it that the Hellions do not gut him, the poor little man. Follow!” He snapped his fingers causing his men to fall in line behind him.
__________________

It had not taken long to run to the Pleasure Gallery. A walk would have been sufficient and much more preferable in the Dracon’s mentally ruined state, but he would not allow any signs of weakness to be shown in front of any Kabalite. Through the winding corridors of the Woe of Contemptuous Bloodshed they marched in regimented synchronicity, passing their saluting subordinates without a care about their feigned loyalties. Warriors stood aside and slaves averted their eyes, fearful of the brutality that they had come to expect. No blood was shed, however. Time was short. The raid would begin soon and if the Sybarite ruined relations with the Hellions the ensuing skirmish could be a disaster.

The Woe of Contemptuous Bloodshed was certainly not a battleship built for speed. Even though it could easily outrun any Imperial vessels it struggled to speed away from the Dark Kin’s other raiding cruisers. It was built for war and enslavement. Its decks could house up to two hundred million slaves, twenty million more ‘high priority’ targets and over four million beasts. It was miles long, brimmed with Phantom Void Lances, rigged with anti-invasion traps and encrusted in the most refined ablative shielding that the Kabal could afford. It couldn’t outrun or hunt down enemy fleets, but it certainly could defend itself and its precious cargo.
It was gifted its name by Prince Talludesh Ayr’kell Cavash upon being entrusted with its use by Grand Archon Dernia Cavash. An operatic piece had been written long ago for the entertainment of the Archon and he believed that his son had given the name to the vessel because of the majesty of the music, but Talludesh had his own reasons.

When he had been dragged along to see the piece be performed on the opening night over three hundred years before he had been young and adventurous. Like any Eldarith youth he could easily become distracted and bored. He wanted to go into the slums and run down the poor, he wanted to walk into Pleasure Houses and Drug Dens and ruin his body with as many cheap stimulants as possible. He wanted to ride out into realspace and enslave the cattle races while laughing maniacally at their misfortune. His father, however, had been insistent that the Cavash name had a reputation that needed to be maintained and that cheap nights would tarnish it compared to the wonder of true culture.

He named the ship after the orchestral music. Slow, boring and ‘majestic’.

“Felna! Stand down-” He yelled as he kicked through the doors into the dome roofed gallery, slowly stopping as he found Felna with his back against the wall, a Hellglaive to his throat. A bead of sweat was quite clearly rolling down his head, and by the look on the Hellion’s scarred face no offence had been taken. The fifteen Hellions were just doing what they did best: thievery.

“S-Sir? Some help would be appreciated.”

At once the Dracon stuck his hand out and tapped away the tip of the Gorrvex's Shardcarbine. The Trueborn was predictable. He would have opened fire from an imagined order and tarnished the Kabal’s relationship with the Hellion gangs.

“What do ya think you are doin’? This Sybarite’s my property.” The Dracon spoke in the thick dialect of the Hellions, making some of the Trueborn uneasy. They hated the low-tongue speech of the street gangs.

“I’m doin’ what I want. ‘Ave you got a problem with that?” The Hellion marked out as the leader due to his collection of trophies and exaggerated shoulder armour spoke as he stepped forth from the crowd. Four other Hellions walked up alongside him, their Hellglaives resting on their shoulders, but prepared enough to enter a brutal mêlée if needs be.

“I don’t ‘ave a problem with you. I ‘ave a problem with you breakin’ my stuff.” He looked carefully between the Hellions. “Now, release that Sybarite and we can start our negotiatin’. I’m sure you’d rather raid than be shredded in vain, wouldn’t ya?”

The Hellions stood for a moment, their faces tattooed portraits of malice and wanton cruelty. Almost as if instantaneous the Hellion leader flicked into a welcoming, charismatic smile that almost warmed up the air around him.

“Helliarch Trallavan, at your service.” He exaggerated a bow causing his followers to follow, not wanting to show any disrespect. “ ‘Ow may I ‘elp in the war efforts?”

“Ah, straight to business. I like you.” The Dracon smiled just before turning to be half facing his own men. “Isn’t the Helliarch an outstandin’ gentleman?”

They couldn’t understand what he had said but from the look on the face it looked like he wanted them to agree. Together they carefully nodded, their actions looking introverted and awkward compared to those of the well travelled nomadic gang.

“See? We like havin’ your kind round ‘ere. You know how to get things done. Now we’re all friendly, could you please tell your Hellion to let go of my Sybarite?”

“Oh, my apologies. Vellana! Let ‘im go!”

With a slight snarl the Hellion lowered his blade from the Sybarite’s throat and took a step forward to stare angrily into his eyes. The Sybarite, not intimidated since the removal of the possibility of death made one swift punch to his aggressor’s throat, causing him to fall down, wheezing and spluttering awfully. The Sybarite made one swift fleeing movement as a few of the other Hellions approached with lightning speed, their Hellglaives craving blood.

The air was filled with screams and a red mist. They even resorted to using their talons to tear meat from bone. When they had finished only the snapped bones of their former gang member remained.
The Sybarite, shocked at how they sank their teeth into one of their own, walked slowly over to the Trueborn where he was met by the welcoming smiles of the Helliarch and Dracon Krass’ull.

“C-cannibals?” The word slipped from his tongue making him feel sick. He was depraved, but the actions of the Hellions made him think of the fate of the Parched, deep down in the darkest corners of the Dark City.

“Sometimes we must resort to getting’ rid of the weak. If ‘e can’t even block one punch what good is ‘e in my gang?”

“‘E is of no use. Now, let’s get back to business.” Krass’ull’s patience was slipping.

“Wise man. What do ya want to know?”

“What numbers have you brought?”

“I ‘ave a gang of six ‘undred. You don’t know the bother I went through to get ‘em. The rewards should be bountiful, though.” He grinned revealing his golden needle-teeth. This Hellion was certainly far wealthier than the Dracon had expected. He had dealt with Hellions before, but never from the Lightning Scorpions gang. They were famed for being savages and for hoarding whatever they could. They were tight fisted when it came to wealth, even for Dark Eldar.

“Six ‘undred? That’s plenty.”

“Yeah, but what of my payment.”

“You’ll get your payment when the job’s done. Let’s talk tactics first.”

“If we must.”

“Seein’ as your gang is far better equipped for aerial warfare, I want you to be on interception duty. Harass any Poisoned Tongue aerial forces, tie up their Raiders and pick the crew from their Ravagers. I don’t want any reinforcements getting’ to meet up with their ground forces.”

“Fine, I can do that. What of my payment?”

“As I promised, you’ll get any lootable equipment from the annihilated enemy forces, you’ll get one percent of all taken slaves and you’ll get the patronage of the ‘arrowed Soulscream and all forces under the reign of Lord Cavash.”

“Then why are we still talkin’? To war!”
____________

He had walked with his Trueborn out of the room while the Hellions moved to the deployment bays of the deck. He felt filthy. He had never liked being around those sky vermin.

“Sybarite.” He whispered to Felna and stopped him in his stride, making sure that the other Trueborn walked off before he continued.

“What is it, Sir?”

“You are a good Sybarite. You have a family to protect and, if it weren’t for the clumsiness you exude with every motion I would have had you promoted into my bodyguard by now. Alas, it was not meant to be.”
“My apologies, Dracon.”

“What are you apologising for? The fact that I called you clumsy? The fact that you are clumsy? The fact tat no matter what you do you can never do anything without trying to sabotage me?” The Dracon was shouting in the Sybarite’s face, his left hand wrapped around his throat. “I hate Hellions, but I hate you more.”

“N-no, please, n-”

The Sybarite saw the Dracon’s hand draw a knife and started to struggle.

“Silence!” The Dracon slammed him against the wall, halting him for a moment. “Next time you attempt to ruin me make sure you succeed,” the blade thrust into the Sybarite’s chest “or next time it will be your throat.”

Casting him aside, the Dracon walked off to mount his Raider and descend into realspace.
____________

“Down there!” He pointed, voice raised above the chorus of carnage. “They flee! Hunt them! Run them down! Steal their faces!”

The Trueborn didn’t question the Dracon’s love of Hell Masks. He was a few centuries older than all of them and had grown up in a time when the fashion of Commorragh dictated that it was only wise to adorn your flesh with the skin of others and that exaggerated shoulder armour was used by every self-respecting Archon.

The Splinter Cannons and Shardcarbines turned towards the baked lithosphere that was now flowing with Mon-keigh blood.

Yes, the Harrowed Soulscream was suffering casualties, too, but who couldn’t resist hacking apart a human while looking for your next target?

The Harrowed Soulscream flotilla cut through the air with alarming speed. Up in the air the main fleet was warring with the Poisoned Tongue’s raiding vessels, tying them up in a hope to prevent any reinforcements from being sent to aid the slaughter below. In the atmosphere of the backward world the sky opened in large flaming gashes leeching the knife like Raiders guiding their parasitic cargo to the ground to snatch away all life. Above them the Hellions circled, slashing and screeching upon their cheap Skyboards to keep the Poisoned tongue forces separated.

The blazing fires of the Imperial forge off in the distance lit up the encroaching dawn sky. The eastern bastions used as the primary defence for the region had been levelled and turned into great works of art for the Inquisition to inevitably study. The southern trenches now housed a vile soup of decapitated limbs and polluted bloody waste. It was an ode to the stagnancy of Humanity.

One in every ten Raiders were to fly low across the surface covering the backs of those suicidal and thirsty enough to go first in the pursuit of the Poisoned Tongue. The rest were left to fly higher and rain down Lance fire with extreme prejudice in an attempt to make the foe panic. The high priority target would be among them somewhere, the Dracon just needed to figure out where.

If he slew whoever the target might be he could earn himself bountiful fame amongst the Kabal and, possibly, gain a position of power where he would not have to listen to the harping of Prince Talludesh. He wanted nothing more than to serve in Lord Cavash’s personal strike force.

“Watch them scatter. We have them routed! They have nowhere to hide; utter annihilation is the only way out for them now.”

Krass’ull listened half-heartedly to the musings of Goreveh as her Splinter Cannon coughed out a spray of death.

“Do not be so sure, Goreveh.” Baranda’ch answered with doubt in his voice. “The Poisoned Tongue is known for its lies. You can be sure to expect trickery or misdirection of some sort.”

“Do you think of me as a genius would think of an infant? I do not need your patronisation.”

“Yet you act as if you do. Just make sure to keep your eyes open.”

The silence between the two Trueborn was palpable. They both knew, though, that the time for arguing would be back in the safety of a duelling arena.

“Will you two cease your verbal combat? Anyone would think that you were quarrelling lovers! I care not for your distractions.” One of the youngest members, Fllythyx Gorrvex spat while aiming down the length of his carbine and carefully picking off enemy Kabalites.

“It’s a long way down, Gorrvex.” Baranda’ch grumbled, his voice conveying his advanced age. He had not fed for a few days and now his body was starting to suffer.

“Then why don’t you jump down and stop distracting me?” The young man’s humorous inflection made Goreveh giggle, her sudden femininity betraying her brutal armour. Her armour was fully functional, but she had taken to making it as fearsome looking as possible. Whenever a large wound would be made she would ensure that some scar was left behind on the surface. She repaired it herself with spare parts and adorned it with red war paint. Her helmet had one large dent and a gouge across the left eye lens, but it did not hinder her functionality.

“Cease your arguing, all of you. It hinders your efficiency and compromises our mission.” Tsallion ordered. He was certainly not in command but his word was respected amongst the others. He was a veteran and with his experience and solemnity he carried with himself an intimidating presence.

There were many circulating rumours about his life as a youth, but he had never confirmed and speculation or hushed whisper. It was best to let theories to be transmitted and continually warped as to hold onto whatever fear he could instil. The Dracon never asked Tsallion from where he had learnt his skill in warfare and he didn’t really care. As long as he continued to show an unusual loyalty the Dracon would be pleased enough to keep him alive.

“Why should I-”

Tsallion’s sudden movement towards Gorrvex silenced him before a blade had graced the air with its polished black edge. The smoothness of the Trueborn’s movements frightened the young warrior into submission; Gorrvex moved his hands away from his weapons to show his compliance.

Without so much of a nod Tsallion moved back up onto his perch beside the rudder, his emotionless mask hiding his contempt.

Distracting himself from the actions of his squad, Krass’ull activated his helm’s communication system after a red flash in his vision informed him of Prince Talludesh’s attempted communication.

With a sigh he listened in to what he had to say. He was not communicating with the Dracon personally, but on an open channel for the Kabalite authorities.

“They are pushing on the Mon-keigh forge and have taken to the ground. They are attempting to defend themselves and claim whatever it is that they seek. Undoubtedly they will attempt a quick withdrawal. Level the forge.”

“What?” Another disembodied voice asked, most likely a Sybarite with no thoughts of self preservation. He was idiotic enough to ask what they were all thinking.

“You dare question me? Level the forge with their commander inside. Have them destroyed, Sybarite. Now.”

The voices vanished after a short silence, to which the Dracon whispered to himself “No.”

“Sir? What has you perplexed?” Baranda’ch inquired as the Dracon walked over the customised deck of his Raider.

“Do you want to see the blood up-close, do you want to smell it and feel its bitter tang as your heart pulses; or would you rather watch your pray fall into a trap, with no glory to be obtained?”

“Drink the blood in a bountiful feast, Dracon.”

Like an unholy portrait, the Dracon’s thin lips unravelled into a mundane grin. “Then I hold you responsible for my actions.” He joked as he jumped onto the pilot’s mezzanine and pushed him aside.

“Brace yourselves.” He ordered his men as he made the craft cut quickly through the frozen air far quicker than the other craft.

Weaving in and out of the other Raiders and Ravagers in the flotilla the Dracon fixed his sights on a single craft off in the distance. It was a Poisoned Tongue raider, and by the condition of the armour it had sustained heavy damage. It was falling behind ready for a rather un-majestic death.

He didn’t need that craft specifically, but he needed an enemy that could easily be duelled with. “You, pilot! Hither!” He handed over the controls and stepped aside as he looked towards the front wave of the Harrowed Soulscream fleet.

“What do you demand of me?” He hissed.

“Lure that Raider back here, in line with that Raider there.” He pointed to an ornate vehicle adorned in banners and arcane glyphs.

“The Prince’s Raider? Are you insane?”

The Dracon stood beside him and answered in the way of a bodily twitch as his drug-injectors exuded artificial chemicals into his bloodstream.

Without another question the pilot sped the craft forth from the fleet, struggling to avoid defensive fire. Shots whipped past with startling speed, the steaming splinters of the enemy crew’s weapons sticking out of the hull like venomous decorations.

“Target the engines. Do not attempt to kill the enemy.”

With the Dracon’s order a hail of Splinter fire poured forth, shredding apart the rear of the Poisoned Tongue Raider. His laughter was quickly followed by the disabled spluttering of one of the craft’s engines. Smiling, he knew that his scheming had started to work. In hunting glory he had made the Prince jealous and lured him forward, away from the main fleet. He nodded to the Prince as his Raider flanked the other side of the enemy. As they came level they opened fire. The Poisoned Tongue lost a few men, but the Prince was safely protected by the black flashes of his Flickerfield. With the Poisoned Tongue’s attention taken by the greater of the two threats the Dracon shouted to his men. “Brace yourselves.” Then, after a contemplative pause, “Ram them!”

The Raider slammed into the side of the rival Kabal’s vessel, causing it to veer off horribly into the side of the Prince’s craft. It attempted to stay level, but without a warning the pilot could not hope to stabilise it. He tried to wrestle with the controls, but it descended like a damp bag of corpses.

Now, with only one target, the Poisoned Tongue turned their weapons upon the Dracon who was far too pleased with himself to notice what was happening.

His head hit the deck hard as Goreveh slammed into him, winding his comparatively lithe form. He had the urge to murder her but soon realised that she had just prevented him from being riddled with needles.
“Hold this.” He handed her a Haywire Grenade as he pushed her off of him. Brushing the non-existent dirt from his armour Krass’ull carefully raised his Blast Pistol, aligned his sight and let off a single shot of booming darklight. The pilot slumped forward and rolled onto the deck as he took the Grenade back from the Trueborn. With a laugh of pure arrogance the device shot through the air and clung to the hull, causing some of the surviving Kabalites to panic and stumble from the deck while others froze up in fear. With a single flash and a high pitched energy-pulsation the craft ceased to function and drove down, its only fate to become a fiery wreck.

“Very stylish, Sir.” Tsallion spoke in his usual monotone drone.

“I know. Stylish is what I aim for.” The Dracon answered, taking the dull humour as an actual compliment while he searched for the full access communication channel. “The Prince has been… incapacitated to some extent. Seeing as the man who would be second in command was also on his craft I am forced to take charge. Proceed to the Forge. Slay until your hearts are content. For every droplet of superior blood spilt let a them repay us with a river of their own filth ridden fluids. For Cavash! For T’llionoch!”

“For T’llionoch!”

The chorus of thousands marked the beginning of a bloodstained operatic.


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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Tue Nov 06 2012, 19:38

@Cavash wrote:

The Trueborn didn’t question the Dracon’s love of Hell Masks. He was a few centuries older than all of them and had grown up in a time when the fashion of Commorragh dictated that it was only wise to adorn your flesh with the skin of others and that exaggerated shoulder armour was used by every self-respecting Archon.

Fantastic! The old models were just a "different fashion ".

@Cavash wrote:

Yes, the Pierced Heart were suffering casualties, too, but who couldn’t resist hacking apart a human while looking for your next target?

Harrowed Soulscream?

Can't wait for the next chapter, great work as usual. Smile

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Tue Nov 06 2012, 21:07

Thank you very much, Mushkilla!

The old models were wonderous! I am campaigning to bring the Hell Mask back... it's not going too well. Razz

Oops, I meant Poisoned Tongue, I will get to editting that soon.

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Fri Jan 18 2013, 13:26

Chapter II.
The dispute.


Fllythyx Gorrvex sat sprawled across a high backed arm chair, legs draped over one arm while he admired his new trophy. The severed hand of an Imperial Commander would go nicely in his collection, other than for the lack of grace it possessed. The nails were chewed into a hideous mass of jagged edges and the hair on the back of the fingers was quite repulsive. The appearance didn’t matter so much, however, as the prestige brought from claiming it was enough to satisfy him.

“Your impertinence amuses me, child.” Tsallion spoke while walking over to the drugs cabinet to peruse the collection. “You collect items of slain foes to remember their death, yes?”

“No. It’s to show that I am better than they are.”

“Hmm, yet you only take a hand.” Tsallion set down his prized cannon on the counter and admired it in the soul-lit half-light.

“What do you mean?” Fllythyx inquired, curious to Tsallion’s derision.

“You took a hand, an easily replaceable item. Even Mon-keigh can have prosthetic replacements for their limbs, so taking one does not prove that you are superior. I have lost my left hand in combat before, to an Ork of all creatures. Does that make the beast better than me?” He paused and looked over to the youngling to gauge his reaction.

“… No?”

“No, it does not.” He looked back down to his cannon and smiled slightly. Realising that he had let a grin slip he flicked back to his usual grimace. “I marked the Ork that day. I cut him open, I removed his leg in vengeance, but alas he escaped. I took my wounds back with me and he took his. He carried his injuries with him in the form of scars, I had my hand grown back and replaced. A century passed but we once more encountered their Waaagh! They were perfect targets, dumb and numerous. That was a fun night.”

“So?”

“I cut him once more.” Tsallion hissed over his shoulder. “It seemed that the Nob was now a Boss. It commanded its subordinates with a great axe, but it still suffered the dishonour of its scars. This day I took my vengeance. I took his tongue, I took his eyes, I took the lives of his servants but I left him to live. Do you know why?”

“Because you are too weak to finish the job?”

Tsallion threw his knife with lightning speed, the blade revolving through the air before sticking into the chair beside the new Trueborn’s shoulder.

“No, I am not too weak.” He spoke now as he looked down on the youngling. “I wanted him to remember who took the world from him. I took trophies that could not be replaced and I left him with more scarring than you could ever cause physically. He knows that one day I will come back for him. I will take more. I will return every century until he is nothing but malice and bones. That is worth more than your petty hands.”
“Hmm,” the youth smirked before springing to his feet with the knife weaving around his fingers. “Well, it seems that you are.”

Tsallion caught the handle of his knife and slid it into its sheath. The new Trueborn posed no threat; he could kill him now but it would be more fun to see him die in the heart of battle, where all could see his cowering tears.

“Where is the Dracon?” Baranda’ch did not bow to any social conventions such as manners. They were a waste of time in his eyes, useless pleasantries that caused barriers in meaningful conversation.

Tsallion turned his head slowly to inspect the Trueborn. He had taken a wound. Thick, inky blood had been wiped away from his cheek after the bayonet of a Poisoned Tongue Kabalite had sliced his forehead open.
He had never been one to go to a Haemonculus. What could they do? Get rid of the pain and hide the blemish? It was stupid, really. If one could not deal with a little pain every so often then how could they be Ynneas Eldarith? If they could not show their scars to their foes how would they be known as a warrior?
He had sown it up himself, but some of the blood had dried in the corner of his freshly rejuvenated eye.
“Where have you been, Helspaan?” Tsallion demanded, amusement in his voice.

“I have been in my quarters, attending to my injuries.” He gestured to the fresh wounds on his face.

“Yes, you may well have been.” Tsallion prowled towards him, one eye on Baranda’ch, one eye on Gorrvex. “I did not see you obtain a blunt strike to your face in the skirmish.”

“What do you mean?” Helspaan looked into his mentor’s eyes with a raised eyebrow, not knowing what he could possibly be implying.

“Have you looked in a mirror recently? You seem… flustered.” He handed him a small hand mirror from the desk beside him to show the fresh bruising and redness on his neck.

“I fell in battle. A Grenade went off. It was quite a blunt explosion.”

“Hmm… interesting.” The aged Trueborn circled him, examining his face for any signs of a lie. “During this fall did you happen to loose control of your blood pressure? Your face is awfully flushed.”

“Not that I know of. I guess it’s nothing that beating a slave could not solve. Now, have you seen the Dracon?”
He walked past Tsallion towards Gorrvex who was stood examining the interaction. It was peculiar to him. He did not know whether these men were old comrades forced into friendship or old friends driven into service.

Gorrvex shook his head.

“Oh,” Tsallion spoke, running an armoured finger underneath Baranda’ch’s left ear to collect the freshly pooling blood. “And where would you say that you obtained this injury. It’s too blunt to be bladed, too ragged to be a collision. A scratch, maybe?” He mocked for the final time causing the other Trueborn to storm off in a rage, kicking over chairs and flipping tables as he moved towards the door.

“Ha, he’s more Hellion than man.”

“Do not diminish the reputation of those gangers. They may be street scum but they would cut you open without a second thought.”

They both watched Baranda’ch turn the corner with a flourished spin of his purple cloak. “What do you suppose that was about?” Gorrvex wondered, his naivety amusing the older Dark Eldar.

“Have you heard of inyon lama-quanon, youngling?” He did not expect him to. It was not something the younger Eldar of Commorragh felt. They were still too sensitive, too open to their roaring emotion to feel anything this meaningful.

“I have heard of it; the aspiration to claim another as your prized possession, but I fail to have seen it.”

“I believe that is what he’s feeling. His anger is heightened, he’s defensive and he is covered in blood. Do you know what this means?”

“He was just venting rage in the duelling-pits?”

“No. He had somebody in his chamber.”

Gorrvex smiled widely. “Then we must find out who this is!”

“No. We wait, we let him get over his emotion for now… then we ask questions.”
_____________

The whip cracked with a boom of thunder cutting a deep gash of claret in the slave’s back. He fell with a scream and a convulsion, dragging some of the others to the ground with him.

The barbed chains jangled and dug into their flesh. Some would die on the voyage home, it was expected. The rest were spared a relatively quick death. They would be playthings and foodstuffs. Their organs would be rendered down for drugs and their minds would be played upon for the sick amusement of their soon-to-be masters. The fact that this slave had looked the Slavemaster in the eyes was just insulting.

They were told to keep their eyes to the floor and others had been killed by lesser Kabalites, so why would one look straight at him?

“Move! Move!” He screamed, translator converting the glorious Dark Eldar tongue into the ineloquent Low Gothic.

The slaves were visibly trembling. Many had sustained light injuries aboard the ship but all were shivering. Stripped down to barest of rags they were allowed to keep the only thing that they had left: their dignity.
They could easily be robbed of this, but there was no point. It could demoralise them, yes, but how many people have escaped to tell the tale of the Dark City?

As he surged forward he elbowed one slave in the throat, a young woman that was hunched over the man crying. She had most likely been his wife but she was disposable, just like the rest of them.

“Scum, do not sully my glory with your foetid gaze!” He raised the lash and forced it down hard upon him, tearing a sheet of skin from his torso and causing him to wail in pain. The other slaves screamed, too, but their fear was not wanted or needed. It was just a nice bonus.

“Do you all know where you are?” His translator silenced their contemptuous quivering. “You are on the vessel of the damned!” He wore a skull upon his own head, the cranium of a larger creature from his days as a Beastmaster in the lower Cult Arenas. Six great eye sockets ran up the central ridge, two great fangs of the creature’s maw holding onto his cheeks all the way down to his jaw.

He could only see through the first eye socket, but the others held pheromone-dispersers and infra-red sensors to help detect his prey better. His knowledge in tracking beasts had helped him find slaves no matter where he went, and it was mostly down to the skull he wore.

It was fused into his own skull. His neck and shoulders were fortified by extensive Haemonculus work which had caused a number of semi-sentient barbed spines to sprout from hit central back.

He wore no armour, only trousers made from tanned Tau hide. He wanted all to see the self-desecrating scarification he had caused himself. He was a hunter with no pride in his life.

He would have taken his dull life if he didn’t have his slaves to beat.

“You are all damned! You shall exist in my city; you shall die in my city. You shall be consumed! You are replaceable scum in a stagnant lake. Do not think yourself chosen or special. You cannot look upon me!”
One of the harpoon tipped growths stabbed the man through the heart causing his life-fluids to spill upon the plated floor with steady pumps. Rising away from the body he ordered them to continue onward.

Those in front dragged the body with them, spreading his pain for the rest of the crew to see. Only his wife, who had now stopped choking, dared to speak back.

“Why would you do this?”

This question had never crossed his mind before. He thought the answer obvious, but it was something that he had never pondered upon.

Maybe he would later over a chem.-injector of Hypex.

He took a look back and examined her. “Why in the name of the Muses not?”
______________________

“So, what you are telling me is that you did not intentionally risk my life so that you could earn glory?” Spittle flew from the Prince’s mouth. He was not one for keeping calm.

“Of course I didn’t, Sire.” The Dracon bowed yet again, attempting to appease his lord. The Prince had not been injured, thankfully, but he certainly was not pleased… the barbed chains around his wrists indicated that.

“You caused my Raider to plummet to the surface of that rock!”

“Ah, in my defence that was not my plan. I wasn’t going to assassinate you, I didn’t even want in on this plan… I was… coerced.”

“Coerced? Who by? Name this traitor and your life shall be spared… for now.”

“Tseng Goreveh. She put me up to this.” He smiled his charismatic sociopath’s smile making his word trustworthy in the Prince’s ears, as if they were being scrubbed with a silk cloth.

“You!” Talludesh pointed at one of his Hierarchs, “who is this Tseng Goreveh?”

“She’s a Trueborn serving under the Dracon.” She laughed at the thought. A Trueborn manipulating a Dracon, how very quaint!

“Have her brought to me. Now!” He screamed at her making her scurry off apologetically.

“Your confession as saved you this day, Dracon. It has saved your life; I shall not take it off you. I am sure that there are others that would enjoy cutting you down, though. Round up the Dracon’s squad. Have them put in the slave cages. They shall be sold.”

The Prince smiled grimly.

Damn him.
______________________

“What is this?” Baranda’ch demanded as a number of Swords and Agony-Pikes were thrust towards him.
He shot two of the men down but found the tip of an Agony-Pike drive its way into the side of his thigh, rendering him limp.

Spitting with anger he struggled, wrestling one of them down and snapping their neck before grabbing another incoming Pike and flipping a man off of the balcony onto the bridge’s lower deck.

He broke into a run and jumped, kicking another man in the throat with his dead leg. Usually he would be incapacitated by the Pikes but he was enjoying this day much more than usual. With his immediate path clear Baranda’ch continued to run, willing sensation to return in the right side of his body. With his Splinter Pistol he executed another guard but one had come up behind him and trapped him with the handle of his Pike from behind as he went to step over the body.

The second came up in front of him, impaled his gut and watched him squirm before he was wrenched to the floor.

A foot was firmly placed on the back of his neck and all around, upon the surface of his bone armour, he could feel the scratching and scrapping of numerous weapons. Willingly he presented them with his wrists which they tightly bound in the constricting chains before they hauled him down in front of the throne.

“…Rendrick Vahren and Y’rrinis Telvoor.” He heard the end of what the Dracon was informing the Prince before he regained all of his inhibitions and started to comprehend what was happening.

“Sir, what is happening?” He demanded.
___________________

He scowled discerningly at the passing slaves, his cruel beatings and demoralising speeches keeping them in order.

The Kabalites guarding the slaves always enjoyed this job. The Slavemaster was a cruel, joyless man that would kill his own kind just as easily as he would a slave. They kept their distance from him after the first couple of ‘incidents’, but this was purely out of respect, not fear.

As the last of the line trailed into their cell he ordered his brutish servants to stand guard while the energy-gate fired. If one of the brutes got accidentally dismembered by the field then oh well, he was the Slavemaster. He could have new servants whenever he pleased.

More slaves would come shortly, thousands, possibly millions more. He needed to make sure that they weren’t all in an overly bad condition. Once returning to T’llionoch they would be graded and separated for different uses.

“Slavemaster?” Five shadows crept up behind him. He was aware of their presence but did not take offence to them attempting to sneak up on him.

They were armed.

“What?” He growled like a raging Sabre-Maw.

“You are a conspirator and have committed treason against the Cavash Dynasty. How do you plead?”

He looked at them, the Kabalites that had come to seize him, and thought them completely insane. He had never plotted against the Dynasty and he hadn’t planned to for some time, at least not until they were weaker due to some ‘economic failings’.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He spun, whip flailing at his side. At his sudden movement they raised their weapons, three Splinter Rifles and two Shredders, stopping him dead in his tracks.
“You must come with us.”

A slave in his own slave pens. How it pained him to be amongst the filth again.
_____________________

“Have these men taken to the slave pens, Sybarite.” The Prince ordered to one of the closed-helmed officers.
The Dracon and the Trueborn were dragged to the feet, Krass’ull being more compliant than his subordinate. Baranda’ch shrugged his arm forcefully, tearing himself from the grasp of one of the lesser Tubeborns. He scowled at him causing the Tubeborn to step forward as if accept the challenge of a physical confrontation.
“Baranda’ch, do you forget the situation?” The Dracon asked, making him stand down slightly, horns still locked with the other Kabalite.

“Ha! How amusing! He still wishes to fight! I may have this one sent to the Wych Cult; or I might just have him devoured by beasts at my leisure for all the men he’s killed.”

“Do it.” Baranda’ch willed. “I’ll kill your beast, climb upon your plinth, cut your scalp from your skull then cut down all that try to stop me.”

“Big words from a man with his hands bound.”

With a grunt of rage Baranda’ch flipped the helmet from the Kabalite’s head and dug the barbed chains into his throat, opening up a waterfall of claret. They cut his own wrists, too, but the pain excited him.

Dracon Krass’ull stepped aside casually, trying not to get dragged into the brawl that was now taking place. Lifting his hands he scratched an itch on his nose while blade pierced armour and Baranda’ch danced around them, using some as meat shields while manipulating others into shedding the blood of their kn.
“So… how’s life as an Incubus?”

The dead stare of the monolithic bodyguard answered the Dracon. Pretty dull, probably.

The next thought in the Dracon’s mind was ‘How did I end up on the floor?’, quickly followed by ‘Why did one of the command consoles just catch fire?’

“Enemy fleet, incoming!” A cowardly voice cried out from below.

“Identification?” Talludesh demanded.

“Poisoned Tongue, sir.”

“All men to battle stations! Prepare for boarding! Send them to the slave pens.”
______________________

Gorrvex strolled into the common room reserved for the Trueborn of the Kabal. Even though it was a vast room with a high vault held up by a single bladed column only Goreveh and the new girl used its facilities.
Goreveh was punching furiously at a training dummy to measure the strength, accuracy and fatality percentage of her hits. She commonly carried out such brutish training.

The new girl, Trell Kat’ar was sat by herself reading an ancient play written centuries ago by a man whose name had been long forgotten by the eroding grains of time.

He didn’t know whether to pursue the new member of the squad or to keep his distance. She didn’t seem like his type.

She was too intelligent, far too cultured.

Quickly turning his head away from her when she looked up at him, Gorrvex carried on towards Goreveh, his new trophy in his hand ready to show off.

“Leave, child. You’re not wanted… here.” She punctuated the last word with a particularly ferocious hit to the dummy’s sternum, cracking the piece of equipment.

Her arms were wrapped in a self-adhesive bandage and her torso was covered only by her breastplate, the bottom half detached. Her legs were armoured, as usual. She did not care for wearing armour all the time; it showed insecurity and weakness, traits that Gorrvex was very good at showing.

“What’s wrong with you?” He smirked in derision, not finding her strength threatening.

“You. Get out of my face, gethryin versmacht…” She started to mumble a long stream of insults and profanities until he left her alone.

“Fine.” He grumbled before making his way over to the new member of the squad. “What’re you reading?” He asked in his usual detestable manner, but it did not seem to irk her as it did the others.

She seemed quite cheery, really.

“It’s To Stay Your Blade, a tragedy from many cycles ago.”

“Oh yes, a wonderful book!” He sat down beside her before taking a sip of wine from his crystal goblet.

“You’ve read it?”

“No.”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“It sounds good, though.” He finished, causing her to laugh slightly.

“Well, I would recommend it but you don’t seem like the kind capable of reading.” Was she being serious? Her insult was harsh yet it was spoken softly.

“What’s your name?” He wanted to know who she was.

“Trell Kat’tar, of the Kat’tar bloodline. Nobles of the Harrowed Soulcream.”

“Ah, well then, allow me to formally welcome you to our squad!”

“I was formally welcomed. You were too intoxicated to attend the ceremony.”

“Oh, my dear lady, I do apologise.”

“It’s fine,” her smile disarmed him, “I was told that you were a complete idiot, but now I can see that it’s more like you lack education.”

What was it with this woman and insulting his limited academia? He could read and he was not an idiot! She was starting to annoy him.

“Why are you so happy?” His question was backed with a slight scorn which he could not repress.

“Today’s been a good day.” She replied simply. “I’ve shed blood and seen the commander of the Poisoned Tongue first hand.”

His shock caused him to lean towards her with a shocked voice. “You saw Lady Aurelia Malys?”

“Oh, of course not. Do not be so absurd, why would she personally lead the ground forces? I saw another commander duelling with the Dracon himself.”

“Oh?” He could not hide the sincerity of his curiosity.

“He was bald, stood a bit taller than the Dracon and swung his sword with the skill of a great swordsman. The Dracon tried to kill him, but alas, he escaped.”

“Ha, I don’t believe you.”

“Believe her.” Goreveh cut in. “I saw him myself.” The dummy went flying into a chest of drawers, shattering them completely. “His armour was blue and gold, onto his left cheek was burnt a sigil, the sigil of Malys herself. He has her favour. He’s most likely the second in command, or one of her countless aspiring lieutenants. He narrowly escaped.”

The ground shook. A siren wailed. The enemy were coming.


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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Fri Jan 18 2013, 14:36

Great stuff, love the character development and where this is heading. Very Happy

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Fri Jan 18 2013, 19:18

Some very intriguing characters here, I would agree Very Happy Who is Malys' commander? I especially like the intellectual girl and the way she interacts with others.

I did find a couple of typos: He cowled discerningly would I'm guessing be scowled, and is the Kabal Harrowed Soulscream? Smile Because although Soulcream sounds delicious ...

Also
Quote :
“Oh yes, a wonderful book!” He sat down beside her before taking a sip of wine from his crystal goblet.

“You’ve read it?”

“No.”

I think I've met this guy XD I also find myself with an urge to read To Stay Your Blade ...

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Fri Jan 18 2013, 22:29

Thank you both.

The Commander isn't commanding Lady Aurelia Malys, but is an acting Lieutenant under her. I think so far, out of the characters I have included, Baranda'ch or Tsallion are my favourites, but the new girl, Trell Kat'tar, is cool too.

I do also apologise for the spelling errors. I was quite excited to get it posted up after I wrote it today, which is an embarrassing error. I shall take a look through it again now.

Thanks for the kind words, both of you. The Next Chapter is entitled The Escape, and then the one after that is The Hellions, so we shall soon be getting to the Hellion material!

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sat Jan 19 2013, 01:45

Well, by Who is Malys' commander? I meant the commander belonging to Malys Very Happy But it could look the other way.

I shall look forward to reading more - even more sky rats Razz

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sat Jan 19 2013, 10:10

Ha, no worries then.

And yes! Sky Vermin! Sky Vermin everywhere!

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Jan 20 2013, 18:08

Chapter III.
The Escape.

“What concern is it to you?” Tsallion prowled through the shadows, throwing his voice through the open chamber. He had shot out the lights when the Kabalites had opened fire. Why did those born of tube think that they had superiority over those born of an Ynneas Eldarith woman? They were scum, all eight of them.
“We have been ordered to arrest her by the Prince himself.”

“Patala’k varreth, for what crime is she accused?” He swore in disbelief. He may not have liked most of his squad mates but in Commorragh it was wise to find a few strong-willed people and help them out ever so often.

Friends were impossible to make, only potential allies.

“Treason and an attempt at regicide. She is a conspirator and so are all that served in her squad.”

“Oh, how convenient.” He had his back against a pillar and waited until one of the men walked past. Using a single stand of a monofilament garrotte he dragged him to the floor without a struggle.

Lifting up his Splinter Cannon once more he moved over to another vantage point as silently as he could.
“How would this be convenient?” The Sybarite asked with a curious tone. He most likely wanted a confession of identification from the Trueborn, as for now he could only speculate that he served under the Dracon.

He was certainly a Trueborn, but in the search to imprison a dangerous conspirator and traitor a few Trueborn collaterals were acceptable.

“Reasons.” He muttered to himself, aligning the crosshair of his Splinter Cannon with the chest of a Warrior.
He watched the seven of them move with their weapons ready to kill. They were only Kabalite Warriors with a century of training at most.

They posed no threat to the veteran skills of Tsallion

“The Prince is too quick to call anybody a traitor these days. He’s becoming paranoid.”

“Do you know if he has reason to be?”

“I know nothing.” He crept up behind one of the Warriors and snapped his neck, the loud pop echoed through the room as his body fell, but Tsallion had already evaded them. He lay low beneath a bench, marking them with his Cannon.

“Then why hide and murder my men?”

“Why have them fire openly at a man that has committed no wrong?” His voice conveyed no fear or emotion, just his usual apathetic drone.

“We are searching for a hostile amongst our own. Anybody could be a traitor.”

The floor rumbled again as the enemy fleet attacked. In the middle of being pursued the Kabalites were happy enough to squabble amongst themselves. What did this say about the validity of orders from Prince Talludesh and the respect shown to him by his men?

“Indeed they could be.” He rolled a Plasma Grenade out into the open, melting two of the Kabalites where they stood and blinded two others that dared to look at the explosion.

While under the cover of the screaming soldiers he broke out into the open, cutting one of the men down with his bayonet before driving a thousand venom-laced crystalline needles into his gut.

His death was certainly not painless.

He quickly slid down into the shadows, looking out for anybody that may have seen him.

Above him the Sybarite stood, Splinter Pistol withdrawn, barrel motioned towards his forehead.

“Hello, Trueborn.”

“Lowblood.” He nodded at the Sybarite with an absence of contempt in his voice, confusing the Kabalite slightly.

“It seems that I shall be paid well for capturing you, too. Rise to your feet and leave your weapon on the ground.”

Following his orders, Tsallion placed his prized piece of art beside him and arose slowly, hands above his head… just where they could grab the Sybarite’s knife when doubled over.

Hearing a noise at the door he withdrew the blade, twisted the gun slinging hand away and ensured that his hostage was motionless with the knife at his throat.

As the door swung open he squeezed the trigger finger of the Sybarite and shot one of the Kablites that had accompanied him.

Beams of blinding light flooded into the room making the veteran wince. The light made him wince, but so did the spurt of blood.

Shots whipped through the air, the Kabalites fell and the head of the Sybarite was reduced to a thick pulp that splashed onto Tsallion’s face, forcing his eyes shut.

He dropped the body and recoiled into the dark to grab at his weapon.

“Who’s there?” A familiar voice demanded while three figures advanced through the room.

“Goreveh?” He asked, relieved slightly yet disappointed at the failed prospect of a good tactical skirmish.

“Hyllna Tsallion?”

“It is I?”

“Oh.” She lowered her Shardcarbine and gestured for the others to do the same. “I thought you were hostiles.”

“No.” He stepped from the darkness. “They have not boarded the ship yet. You are in danger, though. We all are. The Prince has ordered for your arrest specifically, and the arrest of those affiliated with you.”

“What of the Dracon?” Trell Kat’tar inquired, a leather pouch at her side filled with an assortment of literature that seemed to be inconveniently weighing her down slightly.

“He is most likely in the slave pens. No brig exists here. Prison is the same no matter what your race. I suspect Baranda’ch is with him, too; he was searching for him earlier.”

“Then we find them and free them.” Goreveh ordered assertively.

“And then what? We’re trapped here. They will find us.” Gorrvex retorted, knowing that there was no easy way off of the ship.

“And then,” Goreveh cracked her knuckles, blood soaked bandages still moist from her training, “we take as many of these Kabalites with us as we can.”

“And that Prince of theirs.” Tsallion’s last sentence made their eyes sparkle with malice aforethought.
_______________________________

The Mon-keigh had separated themselves from the Dark Eldar that had now been set free in their slave pens. They screamed and wailed at the sight of the unholy creatures, the abominations that sought to ruin everything the Emperor had built. To the Humans the Dark Eldar were mythical beasts and fairytales manifest. They came when the night was at its thickest and darkest. They blocked out the son and stopped the moon from lighting the night. They stole away hope and faith and replaced it with ruin and a lifetime of pain.

It was said that a race of pointy eared daemons would that could walk across snow and leave it unscathed would be the doom of their world, that they would visit the people in their sleep and gift them with maddening nightmares.

Could this be their nightmare? Their waking, agony filled nightmare?

Krass’ull stood after being thrown into the cell, not concerned anymore with how Baranda’ch still attempted to fight with the guards.

Given his due, Baranda’ch had taken the lives of a fair few Kabalites. His anger was probably the cause of this. His heightened emotional state had turned him into a focussed kind of berserk that the Dracon admired.
Even now, when nothing could be achieved, he lashed out at the energy field for a few minutes before finally sitting down upon his knees and attempting to meditate.

Another man was in the salve pen. He sat by himself in the dank of the corner, each slave making sure not to look him in the eyes.

He wore a beast’s skull upon his head and was covered in gang scars. His muscles looked real for their size, something not very common in the Dark City. Most men his size took some form of drug that inevitably melted the mind, but he had his sanity about him.

“Excuse me.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” The Slavemaster answered, pulling his knees tighter towards his chest.

“What is your name, Sir?”

“You damn Trueborn and your insufferable manners. Leave, I say!”

“I am Dracon Krass’ull Thryck’ytrhys’killion. Why are you being held here?” He grinned deceptively.

“I have no idea.” The Slavemaster threw a nearby rock at the slaves, causing many to flinch and some to scream out at the sudden movement. One was hit on the skull, its head leaking blood. “I was overseeing the transportation of these… roaches!” He shouted at them but his translator had been deactivated. “Some guards approached me, placed me under arrest for conspiracy and treason!”

“Against whom?”

“Against the Cavash Dynasty, that’s who!”

“It looks as if we are victims of one greater injustice.” The Dracon sat down, keeping his distance from the Slavemaster. He was an aggressive man; that was certain. “I, too, have been brought here for the same imaginary crimes. Who could think up such a lie and need to blame it on the two of us? What do a Dracon and a Slavemaster have in common?”

“I don’t know.” He leant towards Krass’ull. “But when I find out who did this I shall castrate him like a bull! He shall never feel anything again. Never!”

“Tell me your name.”

“Why?”

“We are both passionate fighters betrayed by the same piece of sewer-filth. If we get out it would be good to hunt him with somebody like you at my side.”

“Why bother even hoping? We shall die in the arenas.” His outlook flicked to bleak, all hope lost as quickly as it had bee built.

“Then humour me.”

“Y’rrinis Telvoor. Not that it matters.”

“I have a feeling that things will be turning around soon, Slavemaster. When we’re free we’ll hunt the person that did this to us. I promise you his blood.”
_____________________

Storming through the hallways of the Harrowed Soulscream, the remnants of the Trueborn squad realised how bleak their situation truly was.

Everywhere they turned more enemies faced them. Some they were able to sneak past as most of the Harrowed Soulscream knew not of the order for their arrest, but leaving anybody alive left the risk of being revealed later on.

Finding a place for the bodies had become difficult and some had been left out in the open. As if this didn’t make matters worse for them, the Poisoned Tongue had been relentless with their assault and now the Woe of Contemptuous Bloodshed’s shields were beginning to waver.

Many enemy frigates had been destroyed outright or immobilised and left to drift into the high, jutting spires of the Web Cities they traversed. It was safer no to head straight back to T’llionoch or the centre of Commorragh as of yet; it was strategically safer to try and shake them off.

Panels above their heads burst with another merciless barrage causing the four of them to duck to avoid a shower of sparks and shrapnel.

“Stop.” Tsallion held up a fist and moved so his back was against the wall. He had heard a noise ahead that the others had missed.

They all stopped and copied him, their weapons held across their chests with their bodies pressed as flat as they could make them.

A moment went past, a long and bloodless moment that made Gorrvex unnerved. He looked at the others, back and forth between them. It seemed to him that only Tsallion had heard this noise and that his aged ears had imagined it.

“Let’s go.” He said, trying to assume command while stepping out into the open.

The footsteps became more apparent now as a group of men came running around the corner.

The first shot entered Gorrvex’s thigh.

Tsallion released a burst from his Cannon, maiming one of the Kabalites while the others took cover around the corner. Kat’tar moved onto the other side of the hall to get her Cannon in place, too.

She did not own the Splinter Cannon but had borrowed it from Goreveh. What better time to practice with one when an entire ship’s worth of men is against you?

Goreveh fired two precision shots into the chest of one of the Warriors causing two bright fluids to leave his body. One was quite obviously his blood but the bright yellow fluid was caused by a severed drug-feed.

She slung the short weapon at her side and slapped the young Trueborn for screaming. Anybody else would grit their teeth and deal with the pain, but this Trueborn was a coward.

Grabbing him by the wrist Goreveh threw him over her shoulder and stepped back out of the middle of the path.

A cease fire had been reached temporarily. This was not out of a lack of trying, the Splinter Cannons had scared the Warriors into hiding and in return they could not fire back.

Grabbing one of the ridged spheres from her belt she rolled a grenade forward and awaited the detonation.
The very air around them and in their lungs combusted, searing their flesh from within and without. Their flesh evaporated and their armour was disintegrated.

“Move.” Tsallion ordered offering a threatening stare at the injured soldier. Thanks to him they would now be slowed down. He did consider putting him down for a moment, but he could always be useful to them at some point.
_______________________________

Water dripped from the ceiling into the freezing slave pen. The breaths of the slaves were visible and the chains were beginning to freeze to their flesh.

“This isn’t right.” The Slavemaster, Y’rrinis Telvoor, said with concern. “Each pen is climate controlled to ensure the stock does not get damaged.”

“So?” Krass’ull did not see the problem.

“The climate controls are run through the life support systems of the ship. If the life support systems have been damaged then the shields must be down. The enemy will be on board soon.”

“You know a lot about aerial warfare for a Slavemaster.”

“It’s my job to know these things.” The said with a grunt as he broke his hands free from his chains.
“How did you-” Y’rrinis threw a flesh-melding tool to the Dracon. Even though it was used to heal injuries quickly it could also be used to part metal when on the right setting.

“If enemies are on board then power will be re-routed to where it’s needed most, mainly defence systems. They’ll never take all of the energy away from the pens, however. They’ll be able to get life support back online soon, so that doesn’t leave us long.”

“How do you suggest that we escape?” The Dracon smiled, rising to his feet. He never thought of a Slavemaster as being so knowledgeable. Good at keeping numbers and track of stock, yes, but not on the inner workings of a star-vessel.

Krass’ull followed Y’rrinis’s vision over to Baranda’ch who was still crouching on the floor, lost in his own thoughts.

“That brute. What’s his name?”

“Helspaan Baranda’ch. He isn’t always so violent, I have no idea what has got into him.”

“Could we rely on him to cause a distraction?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We cut some of the slaves loose, a few dozen should suffice, and we aggravate him after cutting his hands loose. Him trying to get at me will grab the guards’ attention making them realise that slaves have been cut loose. Some of them will come through the energy field into the pen. There will be less out there than normal due to the ship being attacked. We put the guards down, release the field and let the slaves free to be a distraction allowing us to escape.”

“Your mind,” Krass’ull looked at the Slavemaster’s harpoon tipped spines with admiration “is truly a beautiful thing. Let it be so.”

With this they set to cutting loose the slaves. They wiled and whimpered at the proximity of their captors but their discomfort did not alert the guards.

Finally they walked over to the meditating Trueborn, released his hands from the barbed chains and then kicked him in the throat.
__________________

Void Javellains, spear shaped boarding vessels used to deliver Kabalites to combat during fleet warfare, rained down upon the Woe of Contemptuous Bloodshed in their hundreds. Each carried a number of black hearted sadists to be delivered into battle. It was the easiest way to get men onto an enemy’s ship.

The ship rumbled with every impact from the Void Javelins, the tips of the vesicles releasing a Haywire blast before unravelling to deploy its cargo.

“Come on, it’s not far.” Tsallion willed on Goreveh who was still carrying the Trueborn after many miles of running. She had kept up well, despite the extra weight.

“How about you carry him.”


“Or,” Kat’tar suggested “How about we throw him from an airlock? He’s only slowing us down. What does he do, anyway?"

That was a good question, a question that neither of the elder Kabalites could answer.

“Well, he argues a lot and starts bar fights.”

“Yeah, he’s very good at finishing them, too.” Goreveh added to Tsallion’s remark.

“Yes, but does he finish them through beating down the opposition or through having his face messed up?” Kat’tar was very intelligent. It pleased Tsallion slightly to have another person that might actually be able to keep up with his verbal games and riddles.

“He’s like a Grox youngling, Kat’tar. It’s fun to watch it take on the world and then get kicked in the ribs.”

“He is slowing us. Why not leave him?”

“I have moulded countless other Kabalites worse off than him in looks, strength and skill into fearsome soldiers. I have faith in him.” He didn’t. He had no idea why he wanted to keep this boy alive. He hated a lot of things in Commorragh and so he reserved the word loathe for things he really detested. He loathed Fllythyx Gorrvex. Something made him want to keep him alive, however, something that he did not quite understand.
Maybe he just wanted to sell him and make a bit of money, but he wasn’t too sure.

After a few more miles of running and sporadic fighting they knew that they were close to the turbo lift leading to the slave pens.

“There!” Goreveh alerted the others to the segmented doors of the lift before shots broke out behind them.
Splinter fire sped down the corridor towards them, missing at the long range.

Goreveh went to place the injured soldier down to take up her weapon but Tsallion stopped her.

“You two, take him into the slave pens and set the others free. I will keep things clear up here.”

“It’s dangerous up here.”

“It’s dangerous down there. I fail to see your point.” He returned fire to slow the enemy Kabal’s force down.
Looking back and noticing that they were still present he snapped, “Go!”

“Yes, sir.” Kat’tar called the lift and climbed in after Goreveh carrying Gorrvex who had been knocked unconscious by the venoms coursing through his system.

As the Poisoned Tongue got closer and the turbo lift’s doors closed he braced himself for combat.
_____________

“I’ll kill you!” Baranda’ch screamed, smacking one of the slaves down with a fatal punch to get to the Slavemaster. “I’ll wrench that skull from your head and spill your entrails!”

“Big words from such a small man.”

“Small?” One thing Baranda’ch prided himself in was his strength. It was the one part of vanity that was still present in him.

“Yeah, you make a Tau look strong.”

“Then why don’t you come here instead of hiding behind the Mon-keigh?” He kicked another down in rage and continued to storm purposefully towards the Slavemaster.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you, scum!”

“You forget your place! I am of a pure bloodline, unlike you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have no time for those spawned of tube.” Baranda’ch almost caught him but Y’rrinis strafed to the left and slapped him across the cheek with the back of his hand before fleeing further into the masses of slaves.
“You think that I’m a half-blood? Ha!”

“Of course you are! Look at you! You’re one with the Hellions!” Baranda’ch wrenched his fingers into one of the skull’s eye sockets but one of the free moving spines constricted his wrist and tore the hand’s grasp from the Slavemaster.

“Well, I guess mistakes are easily made. After all, I did think that you were normal Kabalite yourself. You have that… look of subordination in your eyes.”

The Dracon was amused highly by this exchange. The Slavemaster seemed to be fearless and foolhardy but he knew that if Baranda’ch got his hands on him there would be just a bloody pulp on the floor.

He waited, though, for the right moment.

The Slavemaster catapulted the Kabalite into the bound slaves, bringing a lot of them down to the floor, their blood shed by the chains that restricted them. The bustle had finally caught the attention of the guards.

A small portion of the vast energy gate, a space big enough for one man to walk through, dissipated and a Kabalite Warrior walked in, eyes set on the fight. He obviously wanted to brutalise them, but to his surprise he found his thoracic cavity cut open by the flesh melding tool. His hands went limp allowing the Dracon to catch the Splinter Rifle falling from his grasp so that he could bayonet the next Warrior in heart.

He died quickly with little struggle.

A couple more came running through the concentrated gap but found themselves foolishly running into the Splinter fire.

After they were sure that no more men would be coming he ran over to his fighting allies.

The Slavemaster had landed a few punches on Baranda’ch, bloodying up his nose and splitting his cheekbone, but Baranda’ch was slamming Telvoor’s head onto the metal panelling beneath them.

“Stop! Baranda’ch, stand down!” The Dracon tore him away, threatening him with the Splinter Rifle. He stood down, begrudgingly as the Dracon helped the Slavemaster to his feet.

“What is this?” Baranda’ch puffed for breath, demanding to know what was happening.

“You made a distraction.”

“And, in all fairness, you put up the best fight I’ve had in a while.” The Slavemaster added in.

In the momentary silence between them they heard the sounds of distant fighting at the top of the holding chamber.

“Come on. Let’s find the others.”
_________________

Tsallion had thinned out the number of Poisoned Tongue Kabalites greatly. His tactic of take cover and open fire seemed to be working splendidly. He had killed roughly four of the fifteen that attempted to attack him but he had hit at least another five with his shots. They would die or begin to suffer greatly soon. This left him with six more to deal with.

He had no grenades left and he was beginning to run low on ammunition. He did have his ornate black knife, however.

When the survivors mustered for a final charge he took his position upon an overturned storage crate and opened fire.

One of them convulsed and fell while others dived into rolls to continue moving. This was just as he wanted. They were close enough now.

He set his weapon down, got to his feet and took out his sword.

His blade clashed with the combat knife of the first, sparks lighting up the air above them. He parried a number of blows before finally thrusting the blade through the shoulder of his foe and striking the head from her shoulders.

The second and the third descended upon him at the same time so he rolled between them before rapidly ascending and severing the spinal cord of one. The other turned quickly, his knife scrapping from the Trueborn’s armour.

Tsallion growled and cut the hand from the Poisoned Tongue Kabalite before slamming him into the wall and pulling the helm from his head.

He looked at the Kabalite with curiosity and surprise. He was dressed in the blue and gold of the Poisoned tongue, but on his cheek was the tattooed the rune of the Kabal of the Severed Handed. The young Warrior looked at him without fear, only concern for his bleeding hand.

“Who are you?” Tsallion asked, stabbing him in the gut.

“Poisoned Tongue!” He cried out in pain.

“Don’t lie to me!” He removed the head of the Kabalite knowing that time was short.

Tying the head by its hair to his belt, he took up his Splinter Cannon before collecting ammo from the bodies and entering the turbo lift.
_________________

“Dracon!”

“Goreveh! You’re alive!”

“What is happening here?” She set down the body of Gorrvex.

“The Prince believes that we are conspiring against him. He believes you have twisted us against him.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He said your very name to me. He wants you executed, and tortured, most likely.”

The Dracon nodded to the others. “Where is Tsallion?”

“Keeping the Poisoned Tongue at bay. He should be here soon.” Kat’tar spoke with confidence.

“Baranda’ch.” Goreveh nodded, but with no response from her squad mate.

The turbo lift opened up behind them and Tsallion stepped out, making his way over the mezzanine to the stairs upon which the squad had gathered.

“My lord, I have news.” He tore the head from his belt to show them, but then the entire ship rumbled.

A wound was cut in the side of the deck as the ship banked into a spire. Thousands were thrown out into the streets of the Web City due to the sudden depressurisation, along with the Dracon, his squad and all of the slaves in the starboard pens of the ship.


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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Jan 20 2013, 20:23

Fantastic! Love the characters and banter. The action was well paced. As usual I can't wait for the next chapter. Very Happy

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Jan 20 2013, 20:56

Thanks, Mush. I am really enjoying writing about these characters, Tsallion and Baranda'ch especially. I dont know when the next chapter will be as my charger's died and im using the internet on my PS3. I'll try to get the issue fixed soon, though!

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Jan 20 2013, 23:20

Quote :
He hated a lot of things in Commorragh and so he reserved the word loathe for things he really detested.

This made me smile Very Happy So very Dark Eldar.

As always I look forward to seeing what happens next!

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Tue Jan 22 2013, 21:13

Thank you, Lady Malys! I did think it was a particularly DEldar sentiment so I thought I should include it somewhere.

The next chapter is entitled The Hellions... where more Hellions are involved, I guess.

(Laptop charger now fixed, by the way, so normal order of random glacial and sporadic posting frequencies shall be resumed.)

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Thu Feb 07 2013, 23:47

I'm working on more, again, and am finally getting around to editting older posts.

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Fri Feb 08 2013, 00:14

Good news! I'll be watching this space. I shall expect it to be invaded by Reavers / Hellions / get set on fire soon Very Happy

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Thu Feb 21 2013, 00:02

'Note' section added underneath Dramatis Personae.

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sat Feb 23 2013, 14:28

Finally edited all the writing so that it can be read. My use of the English language is horrible when I am writing quickly.

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Tue Mar 05 2013, 03:01

Very good work, as usual. I have only managed to read the first chapter as yet because of my damned job getting in the way. However, I will read the rest tomorrow. I'll pm you on a couple of points, you know what my memory is like. Very Happy

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Tue Mar 05 2013, 17:40

Thank you, Rite'ash! I look forward to see what you have to say when you've finished it. Smile

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PostSubject: Re: Night Hydra.   Sun Apr 21 2013, 01:02

I have all of the next chapter written. I'm just sorting out my use of English at the moment. It will be up soon. Smile
You can look forward to Merciless beatings, emotion, duelling and Hellions!

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