((Warning: Adult content of fighting, some parts are Graphic, also reference of sexual acts.))
Part One: A Black Rose
A flick of a power weapon flashed forward in a quick horizontal hack, then followed up as it evaded its mark, following up in quick succession as another power blade bashed it aside. The assailant was a towering armored man, decked head to toe in sinister armor, menacing and jagged in nature. His helmet skull white, with a slit-gaze of red beneath, blazed with what seemed to be rage. The man was on a swift onslaught that was his attack, not giving up an inch, but his much smaller opponent kept him on edge, on his toes even with the advance. The defender, a woman clad in thin, but durable armor that embraced her lithe and shapely figure tightly, enveloping her perfect frame steadfastly. Her face, though stern was hidden behind an emotionless screen of a visor, looking similar to what a Reaver may wear. On her defense, she stepped back with quick and nimble strides, her sash around her waist fluttering in elegance and grace as it danced in her brisk movements. Her arms flicked in and out, dual wielding twin curved power swords, jutted and spine-like to cause maximum damage to her enemies.
The woman twists on her feet and ducked under a swooping strike of the colossal lean man, his strike of power missing his mark as he stepped back to gain his now lost ground. The slick woman ducked and tucked into a roll and erupting up toward his side aggressively with her twin blades, the quick flick and flash of metal were beat side to side over and over again from the now assailant to defender. Her strides swift-like with each brisk, agile step of cleverness and precision, and keeping her one move ahead as if each move was a piece of a chess game. Each strike but a pawn to the objective to win, to win is to move first a pawn and plan your true scheming attack.
The imposing man twists around, catching both of the woman’s thin blades between his gigantic Klaive, twisting and sending her blades soaring through the air. He made a quick advance, swinging downward as she acrobatically flipped off to the side skillfully and swooped up to her foot as she swung around and twists on her heels, drawing something from her belt. The clank of an extending chain is heard as a weighted blade flails outward from it, glancing off the man’s heavy armor as he easily cut the chain and stormed forward to claim his conquered moment of a seemingly close victory. He curved his large blade downward as she flipped off her hands again, landing to her feet as she drew her own gigantic klaive, not an ordinary klaive but a demi-klaive, which could be split into two blades.
Once back to her feet with a new weapon the man and woman began to swirl around each other, soft knowing steps padded along the ebony tiled floor in pure silence. Behind their visors they could barely hold back their contempt, their rage to fight, to inflict pain and claim victory, not to claim a kill… Finally, the woman broke first, the man stood steadfast as if a statue or monument. He shrugged a shoulder as he swung up from the ground, but the woman used it to her advantage as she placed an adept foot on the blade and used it to thrust upward, soaring up and over the man. She lands blissfully at her timed move and continued forth with her clear advantage striking forward and crushing a rapid metal foot to the lofty armored man, sending him crashing to the ground to a knee. The only sound heard was the rumbling clank of his armor to the stone-worked of the smooth, cold floor. The odds had turned as it was her turn to wear the golden crown of becoming the victor as she continued forwarding and leaping into the air as she literally rolled over his back as a distinctive click is heard as her demi-klaive split into two separate blades, crossing it at his throat, grinning like a wicked, hungry wolf beneath her mask-like visor of her helmet.
“Rise, Azur.” She rolled off her tongue dominantly.
Her wolfish grin only widened as the obedient man obliged and rose up to his magnificent erect height. The Incubus man bowed down properly, not speaking a word. The monkish warriors known of the Incubi did not say much as it were, there concern was to kill, and to kill as often as possible, it was their warrior way. They were the only warriors the Dark Eldar kin could truly trust, they were trustworthy and served as loyal bodyguards and mercenaries.
Azur took a vow, to only serve truthfully and without a word, a vow of speechlessness to reserve his opinion and to relish in the way of the kill and to protect his Archon, Zynixia, the woman he had just sparred. The slender woman clutched her blades together in unison, becoming the much larger two-handed sword and sheathing it across her back, giving the same bow to her personal bodyguard, advisor and even her mentor at times, at least in combat.
“Good, thank you, dear. You are not losing your touch now, are you?” She asked with a twist of sultry and a jest of a tease.
The wordless man simply shook his head, lofting it off to the side as if to say, ‘are you serious?’ He then sheathed his impressive Klaive to his back, tipping his head down in another nod, gesturing out with his hands as if to say, ‘you are improving’.
Zynixia strode off to pick up her disarmed blades, quickly sheathing at her belt of many blades and other small weapons, it was no doubt how she got her nickname, the Blade-dancer or Swordmistress. Then, casting her gaze off to the broken flail, she snapped her sight back to Azur, her cold lips twisting into another sly smirk, “You always keep me on my toes, you’ve taught me well enough as a mentor, Azur. I feel my skills improve with every passing spar we partake.”
Azur bobbed his head as he motioned for two slaves passing through the training grounds to clean up the broken scattered chain and the broken dent the massive warrior had crushed into the ground. Humans, a man and a woman spoke some gibberish language and quickly made haste to clean up the cluttered mess. The training hall itself or this one of many was a rectangular room, room for a single line of onlookers around the vicinity of the floor. The area was embraced in sleek obsidian walls, pillars in the four corners of the room, aligned pin and proper. Bright neon lights of a heavenly white reigned down impressively, shinning off the walls and tiled dark floor, at the far corner. Deep maroon curtains hung down at an entryway point.
Coming out of that entryway was a kabalite warrior making his way to his mistress, taking to a knee and dipped his head for a deep bow, “Swordmistress!”
Zylixia quick snaps to, nodding to the man, “Stand warrior, what is it?” She asked intrigued in what the warrior had to say.
He would rise up like a statue, taking a stern position and nodding beneath his spiked helmet, “Your spy has returned, mistress.” His voice even and composed.
The curvy woman nods simply, glancing back to Azur who just gave the slightest of nods, “Good, leave us at once, tell him to meet us in the throne room.”
Quickly, the armored man swiveled on his heels and made haste down the hall in which he came with a brief, “Right away!”
Zylixia let out a girlish giggle as the man quickly followed her command without question; her cast was quite the loyal bunch it had seemed. Then, stepping a slender leg forward in a long stride pulled her into a brisk pace of walking. Her sash waved behind her as if liquefied. Azur loomed closely behind her, his keen senses keeping him aware and alert to keep his Swordmistress safe from danger or would be assassins, after all Commoragh was not a safe haven, not even in an Archon’s own palace.
The Kabal of Khaine’s Fathom was by far not the largest of the Kabals within the webway realm of Commoragh, but one its leader liked to believe that could grow much further substantial. Archon Zynixia Linzulla gained her title after personally assassinating the man who was once in charge, her own father. He was an abrasive and foolish leader, self-proclaimed to fall into the grasp of She Who Thirst, wanting to serve the demon of pleasure known as Slaanesh. Further and further he fell into her desiring clutch unto there was no turning back for the foolhardy leader, thus was slain by his Trueborn daughter, Zynixia.
The woman transformed the once crumbling kabal into a grand House and standing army she could rely on. Anguishing with the hatred of the War God Khaine as its forbidding deity, the Kabal of Khaine’s Fathom could ritualize their warrior ways further as a way of living. Each and every Kabalite was trained and mastered in the arts of close combat melee, wielding anything from Power Swords, to Venom Blades, punch daggers to Klaives, a wide variety of a barrage of melee weapons. At the center of the operation, the war-hardy and precise killers of the order of the Incubi lay at the Kabals heed. Archon Zynixa appointed many of the executioner-like warriors to her ranks for her disposal, using them as her elite and designating them to train the kabalite warriors of Khaine’s Fathom. These trainers help install the greater combat ability into these warriors with various melee weapons that the Dark Eldar rejoiced in using and abiding to the highest caliber of combat.
Going along with their combat ways, they worshipped the War God of Khaine, the only true and surviving God of the Eldar Kin, the rest to fragile and slain by the daemon god of lust and desires, Slaanesh. Sacrificing slaves to their god and basking in the glory of his surviving domain, bathing in his destruction and war-like wars, the Kabal of Khaine’s Fathom relish in the ways of the kill in a close proximity. Thus, daily he is glorified with masses of the kabal, gathering to partake in sacrificing and proclaiming, preaching his ways and how the followers could route their arts of the blade and becoming their own god of war.
The tight frame of Zynixia continued on lax, but with a high regard to a stride of confidence and coaxing beauty. Azur lurking closely behind, both moved in the quietest of silence, only the soft tapping of Zynixia’s metal heels clicked through the long ebony corridor. Although menacingly huge, the monk-like warriors were also trained in the mastery of stealth and traveling as if mere phantoms among the living.
Ever since Zynixia could hold a blade she was consumed to learn how to wield it, to become a master of the art, to become a killer and astonishing intelligent leader. Long ago her father appointed Azur to be her personal trainer, to see to mentor her through the Dark Kin ways and later advise her as an Archon. Ever since meeting the two could not be separated, growing a battle-bond and an attraction of trust, something truly hard to find in the Dark Eldar city-port of Commoragh. Every day for a grueling number of years, the young Trueborn was trained day in and day out to rightfully claim the title of Swordmistress and claim the nickname of Blade-dancer. During this time was the splintering insanity of her father, falling to ruin and crippling his kabal to a stalling decaying log, rotting away like the vermin he had become. Zynixia with the true warriors of Khaine’s Fathom met the crazed demon worshiping madman in combat, freeing the Kabal of his chaotic clutch, releasing the darkness and claiming the kabal as her own, to rightfully rule and bask in Khaine’s way… the Dark Eldar way.
At the end of the long stretch of the bleak and cold hallway two torches were blazing hearths to enter a rather large room. The flaming bazaars brought warmth to the man and woman in passing as they extended into the next room before the grand throne room of the kabal. Now though, brushing past some of the pleasure pits of her spiral fortress, the lewd moans and grunts sang through the air like blissful music to their ears. Around the vicinity of the pleasure pits were private chambers for more intimate and personal sexual and even pain inflicting orgies. Many of the acts were not merely sexual, but also giving and receiving of pain, something that the Dark Elda relished in, giving them youth and beauty.
Finally the pair made it to one of the three entrances to the throne room, blockaded by two large double doors. This was the eastern entrance of the three, and once entering would be to the right of the metallic throne of blades and bone underlining the shining material of luxurious leather. The slick ebony steps leading up to her mighty throne, Azur went ahead of her, in one fell push the double doors flew open and he took his statue-like spot to the right of the throne, acting as a protecting monument to his mistress, who had hiked up the slope and sat at her seat of domain.
Behind her visor she peered around the arching hall, pillars holding the ceiling over their heads as the room was encrusted in the obsidian walls, lit by lights above and the roaring flames of torches around the area. Her entourages were gathered; some of her finest warriors and disciples moved to and fro, some xeno mercenaries and some who played their loyalty to the Archon. Wyches and beast master, Haemonculi and wrack, some of her most loyal subjects were moving about to their own business as their archon claimed her throne at the heart of the spiral. Those gathered offered their curt bows and continued their work. Approaching from the frontal double doors, the main entrance was her Lhamaean.
A Lhamaean come from an exotic sisterhood called Lhilitu, originating from the Cult of Lhamaean, Following the teachings of one of the Dark Muses of the Dark Eldar kin, Shaimesh, the Father of Poison. It is rumored that a blown kiss could kill hundreds, but the idea of this could be merely a myth. Many Archons bring them to their courtesans, not only do they bring the most toxic poisons to their disposal but they also are very imaginative and passionate lovers, this one such being that toward the Archon of the Kabal of Khaine’s Fathom. Zynixia only takes lovers of her Kin she can truly trust, this beauty being one of them, her bodyguard Azur another.
The robed woman was rather robust in the chest and hip area, even more curvy and hour-glass shaped then the Archon herself, much taller too. Her chest straining at the tight corset she wore, tight lines of tension casting across it. Her tied black hair hung from the metal tie and reached down to the arc of her back, her features narrow and stern, claiming a chaotic but seducing presence to behold. Thin brows creasing over her black predatorily eyes, bent inward claiming her dark and imposing demeanor, a threating sight to behold indeed. Her long slender legs easily carried her across the smooth ebony floor, her legs flowing out of the slit of her robes, undercoated in dark leather leggings.
Creeping behind her, a shrouded lurking figure shadowed her, clothed completely in the blackest of silky leathers, black as the true nighttime sky. Archon Zynixia stood, striding down the steps of her mighty throne, glancing to Lhamaean Sylxuna. The plentiful beauty bowed down to her mistress, one hand tucked at her gut, the other extended outward showing her deepest respects for the Archon, “Thou greets Swordmistress with the highest caliber, Lhamaean thinks the Blade-dancer bidding is the highest above all else… Thou presents to you your lurker of the night, basked in shadows and has returned unscathed.” Her voice was intoxicating, beautiful and smooth and carried as if she was a singer or poet, charismatic and thick with sultry. She stepped to the side letting the lanky hooded man seen by the stalwart indomitable Archon of the Khaine’s Fathom.
Zynixia carefully disengages her screened helmet, lifting it off her head as a swooping head of silky silver hair poured up and out through the unseen air. The healthy locks of her cascading strains and caressed through the air as it runs gently down half her back, weaving in and out hooks and deadly sharp pieces of metal, inspired by one of the greatest gladiatorial fighters of the Dark Kin, Lelith Hesperax. Holding a naturally silky shine of entice and casting a beautiful alluring aroma through the throne chambers. The radiating beauty of her face was ravishing and a magnificent sight to behold, youthful gracefulness of the body was cherished by the Dark Kin, feeding from the pain and suffering of others to keep their delightful good-looks, the sign of aging being a disgracing weakness to the retorting Eldar of Commoragh. Next to being an exquisite warrior, Zynixia beauty was of the highest felicity. Like most of the Dark kin she adapted sharp, angular features but hers were much gentler and smooth. Instead of the jutting cheek bones, hers were much me round and less defined. Her nose, long and svelte, claiming a much more bulbous shape than the usual slick point most of the kin carried.
The spy bowed deep deeply from the waist, diving down to show his out most respects for his Archon, “Your bidding is done…” He said huskily, a rather haggard voice sounds through his dark mask and hood, his face completely hidden behind his shroud.
Zynixa dipped her head slowly, glancing the man over briefly, satisfied… for now. Her hands resting at her sides, “What have you found from the Kabal of the Black Hand?”
The man straightened out, reaching for something within the hidden security of his cloak, revealing a black rose to the woman, “My Archon had a gift… a gift of death!” The man flicks a Venom Blade from a compartment hidden away and lurches toward Zynixa, leaping at her with a cry of anguish!
Another quick flash of a dark figure blinked in front of the man, a splash of crimson blood splattering across the floor and Lhamaean Sylxuna. The man died instantly from the precise strike, his neck split open as his body limply collapsed to the ground, blood pouring like a flowing jungle waterfall from his severed jugular vein. Sylxuna licked the crimson liquid from her dagger and quickly sheathed it to her belt, living in the glory of taking a life and tasting their blood. In this split second in time Zynixia barely had time to reach for one of her blades, Azur managed a few steps and a drawn weapon before the hooded figure collapsed in a heap.
Zynixia simply raises a brow as Sylxuna spoke in her poisonous tone, “Thou took his life, a blossoming heart bloomed to a chilling winter, life to death, much like the seasons…”
Azur steps forward, kicking the body over in hate, glancing to Zynixa who spoke, “I believe our spy has been compromised. Sylxuna… call the wracks to take this piece of filth to be taken to Haemonculi Grudgiel. I want him re-animated for questioning.” She then crouched down, taking the rose between her fingers, bringing it to her nose to smell.
Before she could get any kind of whiff of the aura around the rose it was knocked out of her hand as attenuated eyes glared, “Thou would not do that… poison to seize the body, alluding to your death.” Her Lhamaean then bowed down deeply, her crystal-like obsidian eyes narrow as she locked her gaze upon her ornate teal gaze of Zynixia’s, scheming a ploy as she watched the woman, “Let him suffer…” The Archon concluded.
Sylxuna bows her head fluently, “Thou will leave at once… Swordmistress.” She motioned some passing by Wracks and they quickly dragged the body away, Sylxuna followed in pursuit to delve into the torture pits deep within the Khaine’s Fathom spiral the Haemonculi called home.
Haemonculi as a whole belonged to Dark Covens and were the slowest to anger in the Dark City of Commoragh. They were the masters of torture and torment, inflicting the most horrendous of painful and horrible acts, nothing a mere human could even imagine in their nightmares. They adapted to self-mutations, adding razor sharp tools to their fingers, supplying themselves with multiple limbs. They are usually very lanky and long in shape, pale like most of the Dark Kin, and contently sinister in their mastery arts of anguish.
Once the Wrack and her Lhamaean vanished through the throne rooms main entrance she turned back and hiked up the smooth, ebony steps with course stomping feet of anger, she turned and placed herself into the leather cushion, “Azur… Bring me a drink; I have some planning ahead of me. For now on, the Kabal of the Black Hand is our enemy, it is what I truly conceived and the wretches are making a true mistake. We will prove to them our kabal brings the wraith of Khaine in full swing…”
Azur bows his head and motioned for one of the many slaves of the Kabal, pointing him off in a direction to succeed in the Archon’s desire of the drink. Zynixia rests her youthful head against her metal knuckles, ploy and aspiration of a scheming plan connecting and being drawn in her head, it was time for war… Zynixia was ready to unleash her inner War God.