Editing Geshtinanna (section)

=The Attack on Archon K'thraal=

Treachery. Bloody-handed treachery.

Archon K’thraal snarled into the night as he crawled on the bloodied stumps that were once his legs across the corpse-strewn ground. His armor, once as magnificent as it was powerful, was now pitted and scarred with las-scoring and gouges from other unearthly weapons. Uniformed mon'keigh corpses ripped asunder by foul energies surrounded him, indistinguishable from the mangled, still forms of his own kabalite warriors. Betrayal. It had to be. How else could the Chaos deviants amongst the human world's population have known to stage their uprising on the very day his raid would strike? He wracked his mind for answers, and only one bubbled to the surface, time and time again: treachery. 

Now the accursed cultists had managed to tear a hole in the veil here, and terrors worse than even his kabal had been loosed upon this world. Victory was no longer tangible; escape was the only option. If only he could reach the lower depths of the hive and find the Webway portal…

Something slithered behind the archon, and his nimble hand found, drew and aimed his sidearm in one swift, deadly motion, ready to defend him from whatever mutant horror stalked the Eldar. He squeezed a burst of fire into the darkness, and a hissing sound followed the sharp discharge of his pistol, a serpentine body wearing the armor of his kabal materializing from the shadows and raising a placating hand.

"Mas-s-ster," the serpent-thing called, one of its four arms severed with a clean stroke above the elbow, "We mus-s-st reach the Webway."

Snarling, K’thraal maintained a tight grip on his pistol as he fought to seize the sslyth's arm and gain whatever support he could. Broodeater, this bodyguard that had earned its moniker from its debased appetites, had always been loyal to him. Or at least, to the grave lotus the archon paid with.

"Then help me, you simpering little--"

K’thraal's stinging insult was left unspoken as he turned his gaze to find the sslyth suddenly impaled on what appeared to be a torn away shard of tank armor, the snake-like alien hanging limp as its lifeblood coursed down the jagged metal.

Laughter suddenly bubbled from behind the archon, a haunting sound, eerily feminine and filled with equal measures of scorn and joy. The Dark Eldar's splinter pistol snapped around him, firing wildly at the mocking laughter, but finding no target. A black blur shot across K’thraal's vision and his hand was sliced cleanly at the wrist, blood spurting as the appendage, and the weapon it held, fell to the ground. Screaming in pain in spite of the combat drugs coursing through his body, the archon's vision blurred as his attacker finally revealed itself.

The creature might have once been a mon'keigh, but there was little similarity beyond basic form. It was decidedly feminine in appearance, pale skin etched with eldritch symbols that stung the Eldar's eyes to look upon, black feathers sprouting from its body in place of hair. Its fingers ended in black, talon-like claws that were stained with blood both fresh and dried. But perhaps most horrifying of all was the face that wasn't there, the creature’s features absent entirely, its ‘face’ a smooth mask of flesh. Yet somehow he felt its cold, unfeeling eyes upon him.

A voice tore into K’thraal's mind, the same that had been mocking him so joyfully earlier, now all too clear within the confines of his skull.

"Hello, pretty little thing. Leaving so soon?"

Snarling in rage at the indignity of being laid low by this foul, insignificant creature, K’thraal's remaining hand snatched the severed one at his side, and he pried the cold fingers free of his pistol with his teeth. As the creature watched him, the archon came under the distinct impression that it was amused, hovering there with its head cocked, silently observing his futile attempts at survival. Freeing the pistol from the grip of his bloody hand, the archon returned his attention to the space where the beast had been, expending the last of his weapon’s charge. But he fired at nothing: the avian creature, real and present a fraction of a second before, was gone.
 
The soft flutter of wings was the only warning the Eldar had before it was upon him, the creature’s bare feet landing on his chest, shattering his armor and the bones underneath. Another blur of movement saw his remaining limb removed with surgical precision, a quartet of long, feathered black wings sprouting from the undersides of the creatures arms.

Its faceless features filled K’thraal's vision, and he felt the terrible smile where his eyes told him there was none. Once again, its voice cut into his mind. "Now, now… Play nice, little thing. Your pathetic kabal has been a true joy to slaughter, and I'd hate for the festivities to end on a sour note."

Wheezing heavily and trying to focus despite the incredible pain that rendered the dulling effects of his combat drugs useless, K’thraal writhed under the creature, coughing wetly and spitting ichor, black blood welling up between the thing’s toes where it pressed into the wound on his chest. The creature's wings seemed to shudder as a gasp of pleasure resounded in his mind, filling the deranged archon with revulsion and fear. It was toying with him, watching him die as he himself had done to countless others.

"It has been so very long since I've been able to savor the screams your beautiful throats produce, Eldar," the creature said, "And your dark kin make such excellent playthings. You think yourselves predators when all you do is hide in your little city. Where is your terrible might now? Gone. Gone like the one-time glory of your race.”

K’thraal spat a mouthful of blood into the creature’s faceless mask, laughing and coughing more blood as he did. "Don't make me laugh, daemon. We are the true inheritors of this galaxy. We are the only ones fit to rule. All else are mere cattle before us."

Seemingly unperturbed by the spatter of blood on its featureless face, the daemon's laughter bubbled within the archon's mind, deep, resonating chuckles, causing him to cry out in pain as blood streamed from his ears. Stretching its arms and spreading its wings with a satisfied sigh, the daemon's words were laced with a mocking chuckle.

"Oh, little one... I’ll admit, I needed that. It is so rare to hear such delightful humor. Such hubris… And yet you are nothing but a fool, another pawn in a game that has long since outgrown your blasted kind. You will die here and the Dark Prince will feast upon your soul."

Letting the horror of that inevitable fate weigh on the archon’s mind, the creature paused briefly, as if considering how best to wound him next.

"I have been to Comorragh. Did you know that? I've seen your Dark City and I have tasted of its fruits. When that fool sought to usurp the one you call Vect by summoning the Warp within his spire manse, I was there. Truthfully, I was unimpressed. Your kind are hobbyists when it comes to torture; amateurs. However, Slaanesh was pleased. From what I understand, he still affords himself a chuckle when reminded of that day."

Leaning forward, the creature’s mask of smooth flesh filled K’thraal's vision, and he felt tiny spiderwebs of frost stretching across the tip of his nose where the daemon was closest.
 
"When you find yourself before She Who Thirsts," the daemon whispered, her tone almost loving as her talons wrapped around his throat, "Tell him… Tell him Geshtinnana sent you."

Finally, with a wet sound of tearing flesh, the archon's throat was torn from his neck like rotten parchment, the daemon's feathers glistening black, its naked form stained crimson with arterial spray. Turning her eyeless gaze toward the sky, roiling with arcs of violet lightning as the raw stuff of the Warp bled into reality, the daemon's voice whispered a soft, sibilant phrase of devotion.

"Let the galaxy burn."