Good morning folks.
Over the next 5 days leading up to The Auctorian Conquest campaign weekend, hosted by Leicester Sabres, I will be posting the background text I co-wrote with the GM.
If you want to get involved, head over to the Facebook Event Page here!
But not before you read this, the background for the forces of the Dark Eldar;
The throne room was as quiet as any room in Commorragh; the echoes of screams of both pain and pleasure were a constant companion wherever one ventured in the Dark City. Normally a hive of activity, seasonal gladiatorial games had drawn most of his subjects away, leaving Asdrubael Vect to his thoughts. A being of a bygone age, he had become bored of the petty thrills and meagre highs of such events; besides which, he had more important matters to address.
Silently, the doors to the throne room drifted open, revealing a marching column of his most trusted Incubi guard. Despite centuries of loyal service, Vect's survival instincts were keened to a razor-edge, all too aware that a challenge to his leadership (and life) could come at any moment. At the centre of the formation was a massive being. Not only did he stand over a head taller than even the crested helms of his guards, but his shackled form was easily twice as broad. Swathed and hooded in tattered robes, the figured still emanated power. Despite being brought in as a prisoner, Vect felt that the being could leave freely if he chose. That unnerved him.
"It is not every day that a mon-keigh makes it in to Commorragh by their own means, even an Astartes." Despite himself, Vect could not keep the sneer from his voice, "You must have an interesting story: I might even let you tell it before I force your own beating hearts down your throat."
Unbowed by the display of arrogance, the figure raised his hands to his hood, the shackles turning to mist as he did so. Lowering the cowl revealed a helmet of ageless blue, adorned with sigils of power and corruption that glowed with the unlight of the Warp. "Lord Vect; my name is Ahriman of the Prodigal Sons. I am pleased to make you acquaintance."
The sorcerer stepped forward with an outstretched hand, only to be met by the cackling glaive blades of his guards. "So defensive. What makes you nervous, my Lord?"
"Your reputation precedes you Ahriman. I know of the realms you walk, of the entities you serve and the deals you make. I know of your powers and your intelligence. As I am sure you know of mine." The Archon rose from his throne, as a snake might from tall grass. The scales of his armour flowed around his form like oil and his blade hung from his hand in a carefully constructed pose of languid indifference. "You are not one to make rash mistakes and are therefore here for a reason. So, Lord Ahriman, what bargain do you wish to make?"
Ahriman chuckled. The vox-grills in his power armour turned the deep rumble into harsh static. "You entertain me, Lord Vect. I am sure you know of my precognitive abilities; The Change is coming. Soon a war like no other shall begin; the likes of which even beings as old as we can scarcely remember. The Webway will be breached, allowing the very stuff of the Warp to flow through it. Your Craftworld cousins shall perish in an attempt to stem the tide, Commorragh shall drown in a flood of raw emotion and She Who Thirsts shall consume every soul within it."
The unblinking eyes of Vect's helm regarded Ahriman coldly. Behind them, his true eyes scrutinised the ancient Chaos Space Marine for any sign of deceit. He had enough experience with the minions of Chaos to expect inherent dishonesty.
"Why should I trust the ramblings of a madman?"
"Oh, I do not lie," replied Ahriman, failing to rise to the bait. "The Change never lies. It is simply one truth. In a galaxy of the infinitely possible, my words could easily be falsehood, or as real as the sword in your own hand. Is that a chance you would be willing to take?" Ahriman paused for the merest fraction of a second, before remembering to add "My Lord."
Vect stepped forward again, now only an arm's length from his 'prisoner', each well within the other's deadly reach. "What would you propose?"
"I offer a chance of survival."
"And why would I help you?" Again, Vect's dismissive sneer flavoured the tone of his voice, "why should I sacrifice the lives of my kin for one such as you on one of the possibilities of the future?"
"Tzeentch, like you, holds no love for the Dark Prince." The very mention of the Architect of Fate's true name soured the air; it hung like acrid smoke, causing several of the Incubi to gag ever so slightly. "He would not appreciate the shift in power that this incursion would cause between the Pantheon. Therefore, he shall protect you and your kin from his sister-brother that you so fear, should you pledge your allegiance to me now."
Vect paced the throne room, each step measured to portray his level of concentration, that he would not simply be held at the whim of the agent of Chaos, and show that he would not be rushed into any decision he did not wish to make. He never showed his back to Ahriman, who in turn stood motionless except for his helmet, which tracked the archon's movement around the room as if acquiring a target along Bolter sights. As high as the risk was throwing his lot in with the Son of Magnus, Vect knew that Tzeentch bestowed truths in equal measure to his lies.
"I will want an offering from you; a token of your faith."
Tilting his head to the side, Ahriman nodded once, pulling a tome out from the folds of his robes. Bound with hide that looked suspiciously like necrotised flesh and rimmed with hoarfrost, the book pulsed with etheric energy. He paused fractionally, not wishing to part with such a prized possession, before throwing it to Vect's feet. The pages fanned open, revealing a list of words that had no place existing in reality, scribed in Ahriman's own blood.
"My personal Grimoire. Within these pages is the power to command forces beyond the imagination."
Vect slowly knelt to retrieve the book. "There are only three of these; one held by the followers of the mon-keigh Emperor and one in the deepest vaults of the Black Library, in hidden chambers only the Solitaire can access."
"It is every bit as complete as the version held within the Black Library, though this edition has felt the touch of many of the Daemons named within directly." Ahriman walked toward the Archon of archons, unhindered by the Incubi surrounding him. “It is not every day that a mortal gets to take possession of that book, Asdrubael. Do we have a deal?"
Vect continued to stare longingly at the book in his hand. With almost glacial speed, he turned his eyes from the book to instead lock on Ahriman's. Under his helmet, a vicious smile spread across his alien features...
Over the next 5 days leading up to The Auctorian Conquest campaign weekend, hosted by Leicester Sabres, I will be posting the background text I co-wrote with the GM.
If you want to get involved, head over to the Facebook Event Page here!
But not before you read this, the background for the forces of the Dark Eldar;
The throne room was as quiet as any room in Commorragh; the echoes of screams of both pain and pleasure were a constant companion wherever one ventured in the Dark City. Normally a hive of activity, seasonal gladiatorial games had drawn most of his subjects away, leaving Asdrubael Vect to his thoughts. A being of a bygone age, he had become bored of the petty thrills and meagre highs of such events; besides which, he had more important matters to address.
Silently, the doors to the throne room drifted open, revealing a marching column of his most trusted Incubi guard. Despite centuries of loyal service, Vect's survival instincts were keened to a razor-edge, all too aware that a challenge to his leadership (and life) could come at any moment. At the centre of the formation was a massive being. Not only did he stand over a head taller than even the crested helms of his guards, but his shackled form was easily twice as broad. Swathed and hooded in tattered robes, the figured still emanated power. Despite being brought in as a prisoner, Vect felt that the being could leave freely if he chose. That unnerved him.
"It is not every day that a mon-keigh makes it in to Commorragh by their own means, even an Astartes." Despite himself, Vect could not keep the sneer from his voice, "You must have an interesting story: I might even let you tell it before I force your own beating hearts down your throat."
Unbowed by the display of arrogance, the figure raised his hands to his hood, the shackles turning to mist as he did so. Lowering the cowl revealed a helmet of ageless blue, adorned with sigils of power and corruption that glowed with the unlight of the Warp. "Lord Vect; my name is Ahriman of the Prodigal Sons. I am pleased to make you acquaintance."
The sorcerer stepped forward with an outstretched hand, only to be met by the cackling glaive blades of his guards. "So defensive. What makes you nervous, my Lord?"
"Your reputation precedes you Ahriman. I know of the realms you walk, of the entities you serve and the deals you make. I know of your powers and your intelligence. As I am sure you know of mine." The Archon rose from his throne, as a snake might from tall grass. The scales of his armour flowed around his form like oil and his blade hung from his hand in a carefully constructed pose of languid indifference. "You are not one to make rash mistakes and are therefore here for a reason. So, Lord Ahriman, what bargain do you wish to make?"
Ahriman chuckled. The vox-grills in his power armour turned the deep rumble into harsh static. "You entertain me, Lord Vect. I am sure you know of my precognitive abilities; The Change is coming. Soon a war like no other shall begin; the likes of which even beings as old as we can scarcely remember. The Webway will be breached, allowing the very stuff of the Warp to flow through it. Your Craftworld cousins shall perish in an attempt to stem the tide, Commorragh shall drown in a flood of raw emotion and She Who Thirsts shall consume every soul within it."
The unblinking eyes of Vect's helm regarded Ahriman coldly. Behind them, his true eyes scrutinised the ancient Chaos Space Marine for any sign of deceit. He had enough experience with the minions of Chaos to expect inherent dishonesty.
"Why should I trust the ramblings of a madman?"
"Oh, I do not lie," replied Ahriman, failing to rise to the bait. "The Change never lies. It is simply one truth. In a galaxy of the infinitely possible, my words could easily be falsehood, or as real as the sword in your own hand. Is that a chance you would be willing to take?" Ahriman paused for the merest fraction of a second, before remembering to add "My Lord."
Vect stepped forward again, now only an arm's length from his 'prisoner', each well within the other's deadly reach. "What would you propose?"
"I offer a chance of survival."
"And why would I help you?" Again, Vect's dismissive sneer flavoured the tone of his voice, "why should I sacrifice the lives of my kin for one such as you on one of the possibilities of the future?"
"Tzeentch, like you, holds no love for the Dark Prince." The very mention of the Architect of Fate's true name soured the air; it hung like acrid smoke, causing several of the Incubi to gag ever so slightly. "He would not appreciate the shift in power that this incursion would cause between the Pantheon. Therefore, he shall protect you and your kin from his sister-brother that you so fear, should you pledge your allegiance to me now."
Vect paced the throne room, each step measured to portray his level of concentration, that he would not simply be held at the whim of the agent of Chaos, and show that he would not be rushed into any decision he did not wish to make. He never showed his back to Ahriman, who in turn stood motionless except for his helmet, which tracked the archon's movement around the room as if acquiring a target along Bolter sights. As high as the risk was throwing his lot in with the Son of Magnus, Vect knew that Tzeentch bestowed truths in equal measure to his lies.
"I will want an offering from you; a token of your faith."
Tilting his head to the side, Ahriman nodded once, pulling a tome out from the folds of his robes. Bound with hide that looked suspiciously like necrotised flesh and rimmed with hoarfrost, the book pulsed with etheric energy. He paused fractionally, not wishing to part with such a prized possession, before throwing it to Vect's feet. The pages fanned open, revealing a list of words that had no place existing in reality, scribed in Ahriman's own blood.
"My personal Grimoire. Within these pages is the power to command forces beyond the imagination."
Vect slowly knelt to retrieve the book. "There are only three of these; one held by the followers of the mon-keigh Emperor and one in the deepest vaults of the Black Library, in hidden chambers only the Solitaire can access."
"It is every bit as complete as the version held within the Black Library, though this edition has felt the touch of many of the Daemons named within directly." Ahriman walked toward the Archon of archons, unhindered by the Incubi surrounding him. “It is not every day that a mortal gets to take possession of that book, Asdrubael. Do we have a deal?"
Vect continued to stare longingly at the book in his hand. With almost glacial speed, he turned his eyes from the book to instead lock on Ahriman's. Under his helmet, a vicious smile spread across his alien features...
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