Flavoured Battle Report Ep. 4 - Plot on Elas Shil'ui (Lore only)

- On a remote world in the Eastern Fringe -

The wind picks up into a stronger gale and the air starts to crackle and pop between the dense pine-like trees of the forest. The leaves start rustling and there is a short spark of light. An old webway passage has just awakened to life. From the gate emerge 4 tall and lithe figures. Three of them clad in bright orange robes wearing black helmets and a fourth in an ornate yellow suit of wraithbone and a red cloak. The wind dies down and the silence returns to the glade as the figures start walking, leisurely, away from the gate as if on a stroll towards the edge of the woods.

- Baron Haldir, I must protest, what you plan to do is only worthy of a squat. What next? Keep a ledger of grudges you will spend what little is left of eternity hunting? You could have enlisted any mercenary void-dreamer, yet instead you call upon the seers of Lugganath to...ignite a squabble?
- Ah but, High-Seer Elandrin, have I erred in choosing you for this task? We fight the Great Enemy today! Has your foresight dwindled since escaping Vigilus?
- You are a scoundrel Haldir, with no real interest in the fate of the aeldari or the great enemy, leave your honeyed words for the mon'keigh rogue traders and Commorite merchants. How do you intend to fight the Great Enemy on Elas Shil'ui? This is supposed to be a Maiden World last I checked. But for the sake of repaying the favor of saving our humble council and the remains of our meager bladehost I will accompany you on this fool's errand.
- You have been away for a long time then High-Seer. Elas Shil'ui has been colonized by the fledgeling T'au of the Bork'an sept. Their earth caste scientists have found out this planet has been terraformed artificially and are studying it. They want our secrets from before the fall! But not only that but they have turned a significant amount of wildland into a weapons-testing range - only to then try to grow back the forests.
- I can't imagine the zealots of Biel'tan have taken that lightly. How come they haven't been scourged?
- That is unfortunately due to the fracturing of the great Craftworld. Ever since the visit of the mysterious prophetess who claims to channel the God of the Dead, doom has befallen them. That and an ingloriously failed incursion to try and recover the "Spear of Khaine". For all your foresight, you farseers are veritable bringers of apocalypse for many.
- Ah, finally, some refreshing honesty from a Corsair. But for all your distrust here we are. A small seer council at your disposal on a world colonized by a fledgeling race seeking to stand on the shoulders of giants. It would surprise me if you suddenly grew a conscience for the Maiden Worlds and would take up the stewardship that Biel-Tan once offered them. What do we seek here?
- We will take a stroll towards the local weapons testing facility and give the T'au there a real target to test their missiles and railguns on instead of the defenseless foliage and wildlife. As it happens, my scouts report that there is a diplomatic delegation from their very homeworld here to check on the development of the settlement. Normally the T'au leadership would be locked up inside their Coalition center in the planetary capital - but today we have the fortune to see the Ethereals and military leader's from at least a Longrifle's scope, mighty proud of showing of their guns as they are.
- Ah, so assassination is your plan? That might disrupt activity for a little while here, but without a warhost we cannot excise the T'au presence - even if you were to bombard it with your fleet.
- "The plan is a bit more treacherous than just that." Said Haldir with a toothy grin. His deep blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. It was clear that in his head he had it all planned out, better than any seer would foretell it.
- I have tried to scry the fates to decipher your plan and saw the shooting of one of the T'au in civilian garb. The further I have tried to scry the more the paths twisted and twinned, fate is murky. Whatever you have planned here, Baron, is as likely to fail as it is to succeed. More-so towards failiure since it seems to almost flirt with concepts and ideas the Pariah Eldrad of Ulthwe has used in the past.
- Oh what an honor High-Seer to be compared to one of your esteemed rank, believe me, this is all going to work out perfectly no matter what the fates have in store for us. My vengeance on the Great Enemy will be achieved and the Maiden-World will be left defenseless for the reaping.
 - Your bravado is becoming tiresome. Let's just get this over with.
 - Worry not, we are almost there. Just a couple quick strides. Believe me High-Seer. After this is done the Light of The Fallen Suns will want to promote me into their leadership for my brilliance.
- That or Cegorach will snatch you and make you a harlequin for your random whimsy.

 The group reached the edge of the forest after a burst of quick movement. The twin cold suns of the planet were still high in the sky, fully illuminating the mountainous craggs and forested areas.
In what looked to be a barren field now, somewhere bellow the coterie's position, was one of the T'au's mustering grounds. Groups of battlesuits of all categories lined the barracks and the fire cast was preparing to put on a parade for the water and ethereal caste come from the homeworld. Baron Haldir reached for a small cube at his hip, similar to the soul-boxes the Drukhari use. He reaches in and extracts a Long-Rifle.

- A tesseract? I have to give it to you scoundrel you are a resourceful one.
- It's a useful tool for storing many armaments, you should see the size of some things that fit in there!
- Ok now what?
- Now we hide, even more so than we are now. Give the order to your warlocks.

Elandrin nodded towards one of the robed Warlocks. Virnael grabbed one of the spiritstones at his chest and started tracing a rune in the air. A fog rolled in from the woods, and it looked as if the green and brown covered their bright garments entirely. Anyone looking in that direction without very precise instruments would not be able to determine their presence. As the warlock was tracing the runes, Haldir tapped on his armor-interface, sending a message to Elandrin's helmet. The message displayed on the visual interface was an elaborate script and an image of a tall armored figure clad in purple, ornamented with Raven-motifs and on his shoulder emblazoned with the sigil of Oruboros - a snake eating its own tail.

- "Is this your brilliant idea, scoundrel?" Whispered Elandrin.
- The sooner you get it over with the sooner your boon will be fulfilled and we can get our wretched selves away from these barbarians. Be ready for a swift exit. Once this is done we need to be away like lightning on a summer's night.

After a few moments of frantic body language which could roughly be translated as exasperation and a profound wish to kick the Corsair off the ledge they were standing on the High-Seer sat down and gathered his psychic might. The shrouding was still in effect so no prying eyes would be alarmed by the floating aeldari on the cliffside.

Down at the mustering ground the parade began in full-swing. Fire-warriors marched in column, their armor perfectly-polished. While heavy XV-88 Broadsides and three mighty Riptides followed in tow.
The leadership looked pleased at the parade-drill and was eagerly awaiting to see the combat drill for which the artificially created gulch was set up. And then...panic set in as several of the Ethereals and Fire-Cast commanders gasped and started ordering troops to aim weapons at thin air. What they could see and hear in their minds was the image of the armored sorcerer and the sound of his booming, corrupted voice which to their surprise they could somehow understand.

- Xenos filth! I am Akenat'Mat Ra, high sorcerer! This is an ultimatum that your worthless world will be scoured clean of life in the name of the Deceiver within the week! Your preening, strutting and pathetic technology are no use for our arcane might! Your souls will fuel our crucible of hatred, your miserable race is not even fit to even be our slaves. Prove yourselves in a clash of forces and we may spare your mewling, pathetic lives while your retreat to your inner worlds. Refuse and we will grind you into dust beneath out armored heel. Your trial is try to take back the ruins of the city of Tash'ar'is, that you tried colonising on the nearby moon. Should you succeed in beating us back there...we MIGHT stay true to our words. You have exactly three planetary rotations to comply. Behold, with just a flick of my wrist your lives end!

As those final words were spoken, Haldir shot one of the Water caste diplomats dead with his long rifle. The parade ground descended into madness. Weapons went off. The Ethereals were evacuated under heavy guardianship and more and more troops were mustered out to quell the cacophony. 

-"Now warlocks! Get us hence!" Said Haldir as silently but as strongly as he could under the cover of the psychic concealment. He grabbed the still-entranced Farseer by the waist and as if reality blinked for a moment - the coterie was no longer there. The Warlock Yloen spirited them away with psychic-quickening.

-That should get their attention! You were right seer...I did have to shoot one of them. Now let's see how this little squabble plays out. Whoever wins, they both lose. Should the Thousand Sons lose we get to recapture the webway-tear that they managed to brute force in. Should the T'au lose Elas Shil'ui should be safely back in Aeldari hands in no time. You'll see Elandrin. This will work out just fine!

Artwork taken from:
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/m2yo1 - all credits to the creator. 

Flavoured Battle-Report Ep. 3 Chaos vs Space Wolves

Guest-written by Andrei P.(Garak) 


“All forces report they are ready to drop” reported Captain Gadok. He was currently in his assigned drop pod, ready for the countdown to begin, and supremely glad to not be anywhere near the person he was talking to.
“Good. Begin obital bombardment” said the voice over his helmet comm. Gadok was sure he detected supreme satisfaction in that voice over giving such an order.
“The fortress should only be garrisoned by thralls. Maybe some PDF troops might be in the area but isn’t this a bit overkill?”
“Are you questioning my orders?” snarled the voice as Gadok winced. “Did I hear that right?”
“I would never dare to, my lord. I apologize for my poorly chosen words.”
The only reply he got was a disgusted snort and the click of the comm channel being turned off. Gadok the Abandoned brief a sigh of relief and hated himself for it. But there was little he could do about his current situation. Both his Primarch and his Great Company had left him to die long ago, the only thing approaching brotherhood left to him was his current warband. They were the Disfavored, a collection of cast offs, rejects, screw ups, insane people and the desperate. Those who had nowhere else to go.
They were not a brotherhood. They could never be. There was too much hatred between them all. Too much distrust. But this allowed them to at least continue their war against the lapdogs of the False Emperor. That at least brought a smile to his sour face.
It was time to go to war once more.
****
As drop pods, Thunderhawk gunships and bulky troop landers disgorged themselves from the orbiting fleet, alarms rang down on the planet. The target of all these forces was a grim fortress in the middle of a city long ruined by some forgotten conflict. The defenders of this edifice were quick to action, troops taking their places on the ramparts and the outer fortifications, defense lasers powering up, missile silos opening to deliver their deadly payloads. The only weakness they had was the shield generator. Old and little used, its machine spirit was slow to wake, not being one hungry for destruction. This slowness was to prove catastrophic.
The orbital bombardment struck without mercy. The bunkers and trenches of the outer fortifications were ripped asunder, the troops taking shelter within them dying in droves. The fortress itself took several hits, weakening the outer walls significantly, the bastion housing the missile silo taking an especially fierce pounding. Despite the fury of the bombardment, the deafening noise and the shaking of the earth, the defenders were unimpressed, fear having no place in their hearts. As black and gold drop pods began descending from the sky and slamming into the earth, the defenders raised their weapons to the sky and howled their joy for all to hear.
And to witness.

****
No sooner the drop pods slammed into the ground that their doors slammed open and the power armored transhumans within charged out. Their armors were a mix of heraldries, some proclaiming their wearers as veterans of the original traitor Legions, others as renegades from newer chapters. There was no uniformity among the Disfavored, despite the Legion they proclaimed fealty to.
None of that mattered to them. Painting their armor some new color meant nothing – to some of them even their old colors were nothing, just some paint on armor with no meaning attached. They were here to raid the fortress and take the cyclonic torpedoes stored in a bunker far beneath it.
At a point near the missile bastion, the air glowed and buzzed for a brief moment before it exploded in a blinding flash. Where once there was nothing but an empty street, now there were seven hulking figures. Armored in Terminator armor, they decided to take a more direct approach to the battlefield. Six of the figures bore the colors of the Word Bearers, religious fanatics and iconoclasts. The seventh figure, the one who commanded this raid in the first place, wore armor of black and gold.
Towering over his fellow Astartes and wielding weapons heavy with legend and dread, he smiled to see the walls before him weakened. He was Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos.
 He listened to the vox chatter, hearing the berserkers to the north yell their insane cries as they charged the trenches, Thunderhawk pilots reporting the tanks being delivered and the general chatter of unit leaders. He was a bit disappointed that Userkaf and his Rubric marines had landed further to the south than he’d wanted. Then again maybe it was wrong to expect too much from a scribe like him, the man had written a library’s worth of books about his memories of Prospero. As if he could somehow hold on to the past, keep it alive.
This thought was interrupted as he heard confusion over the vox at the same time that he spotted the defenders. Not only were they more than he’d been told but they were wrong ones as well. I’m going to skin Erebus when this is over.
The fortress itself was positively drowning in the iconography of the Dark Angels chapter, there were giant winged figures with swords on every face of the central tower for Warp’s sake. So why then, in the cursed names of Horus and the Emperor, was it defended by the blasted Sons of Russ? The Vlka Fenryka and the Dark Angels hated each other. This made no sense. And they weren’t even regular Astartes, but Guilliman’s new breed of bootlicker. It felt like the Lord of Change had just played a very poor joke. This was madness.
And going by the vox chatter, the Disfavored were equally mystified. Well most of them at least. The berserkers didn’t care, if they’d even noticed, as they were too busy drenching themselves in gore and massacring the marines trying to hold the ruins of a bunker.
With a snarl of rage, he ordered all troops to breach the fortress wall, which caused every plasma gunner to risk his weapon blowing up in his face rather than angering him. Which all well and nice but as he surveyed the battlefield, he saw the Dreadnaught standing amid the ruined trenches. Only the madness of the Sons of Russ would possess them to give such a warmachine a shield and an axe, when it was already armed with tank crushing fists. This also meant they had left it without any of its normal ranged weapons. Still, that machine would break the berserkers easily. Their chainaxes would ground uselessly against its armor and shield.

“Follow me” he told the former Word Bearers as he charged the Dreadnaught. It didn’t take long for Abaddon to notice they didn’t follow him. He should probably have expected that. Such lack of passion would see them shunned by the others in their Legion. He suspected even Gadok wouldn’t have accepted them in his warband but they had brought valuable Terminator armor that they’d stolen when they left.

“I bring you true death, old one!” shouted Abaddon as he charged the Dreadnaught. He swung with Drach’nyen, aiming the deamon blade at the cables connecting its feet to its sarcophagus body. But the half dead pilot within the warmachine, proved fast as he took a step back and parried the blow with the head of his axe. Impressed at the skill of his enemy he tried to tear of its axe wielding arm with the Talon of Horus but the Son of Russ blocked the blow his shield, furious sparks shooting it’s energy field as it collided with the one encasing the claws of the Talon.
“You will find I am no easy prey Despoiler” thundered the voice of the pilot from its external speakers. “My name is Ivar “The Boneless”. I have slain countless enemies of the Allfather. You shall be no different.” With that the warmachine swung its giant axe, aiming to cut the Warmaster on two. Abaddon snarled as he parried with the Talon of Horus. The blows from the axe shook him with each blow but no axe, no matter how fine, would be able to sunder the weapon of a Primarch.
“Big talk from someone who died once already” he snarled, as he drew upon Drach’nyen’s power and felt the deamon resist him. With a furious roar, Abaddon ducked under the axe swinging for his head, got within the dreadnought’s reach and rammed the Talon into the sarcophagus. The war machine emitted a furious howl as the blades of the Talon tore through its armor and pierced the shriveled corpse of its pilot. Roaring his own fury in response, Abaddon tore the weapon up and out, spraying bits of machinery and flesh over the battlefield. The dreadnought froze in place, now nothing but a statue.

“Rest in peace now Ivar” said Abaddon. “You’ll meet your brothers soon enough.” He turned back toward the fortress, just in time to see its defenders unleashing bright plasma blasts at the Word Bearer Terminators. Four of them fell dead, their suits ripped apart by Cawl’s improved design. The berserkes were also taking casualties as the fortress Icarus guns and the missile silo were unleashed upon them. This was to be expected but still annoying as …. Argh! He felt a foreign mind probe his thoughts, looking for battle plans or secrets. A damn psyker. He idly wondered if the Vlka Fenryka were still deluded as to the source of their psykik power.
At least his tank support had arrived and he could smile in pleasure as the walls of the missile bastion crumbled under the fire of the Night Lords Land Raider. Casting one final look at the fallen Dreadnaught he said “You were no Fellhand”, he then signaled the Terminators to charge. This time they did so, wanting to avenge themselves on the Hallblaster squad defending the ramparts. Abaddon joined the charge as the defenders let loose another volley, killing another Terminator. Not enough to stop us.
With a snarl on his lips he ran up the slope leading to the breach, masonry crunching under his boots, and gained the ramparts. And then Drach’nyen drank deep as he slaughtered them without mercy or respite.
“For the Allfather! For the Russ! And for Father Cawl!” yelled a captain in heavy Gravis armor as he charged into the fray. He showed skill as he used the falling corpse of one his brothers to hide the angle of his attack and his blade gouged a wound into Abaddon’s power armor.
 “You have seen your last dawn Heir to Horus. I, Jarl Hrod, shall see to it.”

Another one who thinks himself a hero worthy of their vaunted sagas.
He was about to strike back when he heard howling behind himself and the curses of Userkaf. “These mongrel dogs have Wulfen with them! And another Dreadnaught!”
 “Ha! You didn’t think we could surprise you, did you Heretic scum” laughed Hrod.
Damn. Those mutant bastards were coming up from the ruins behind him. They’d swarm up the same breach he did and force him to waste time. And the snipers up in the tower were trying to pick off Userkaf, seeing him as a threat.
“Throw everything you have at them. Divert the Agony to unload its cultists right in their snouts.” Even as he talked, he swung his deamon blade at the enemy Captain, forcing him to step back if he wanted to still have a head.

“And the war machine?” this from Gadok.
“Deal with it later. Have the tanks and your Rubric marines move up, keep pounding the fortress.” He made another attack with the sword, forcing the captain to retreat once more. He was on the edge of falling into the missile silo.
“We will not –“
He never got to finish as Abaddon bisected him from left shoulder to right hip with Drach’nyen. “Just die and shut up.”
The missile bastion was now secure. As he took in the rest of the field, he saw the cultists shooting at the Wulfen and then charging in. Whoever led them was obviously someone who wanted to avoid drawing his ire. A good man that. Thoughtful of him.

The tanks seemed to finally crack open the rest of the fortress, they were now firing on the Devastator squad up ahead, and his forces were advancing. He heard reports that the Negavolt cultists were gaining the ramparts on the other bastion.  As he went forward, looking for more enemies to slay, he saw the flash of a teleporter off to his left and saw more Vlka Fenryka, these wearing Terminator armor adorned with wolf pelts. There no wolves on Fenris, he recalled and sneered in disgust. The Terminators were marching on the Rubric marines of the Thousand Sons, a predictable target for them.

As soon as his forces cleared the fortress, we could have the Land Raider and the Predator tank hunt down that other Dreadnaught and finish this force of –
His thoughts were interrupted as a lightning bolt struck the last Word Bearer as he stepped over the dead Devastator squad. The bolt blew a hole through his head and leap right at Abaddon. The pain that engulfed him was immense and he felt his twin hearts like they had turned into lead. Molten fire seemed to course through his veins as he fell to his knees, darkness engulfing him, alarms blaring from his armor. Just before the blackness took him, there was a bright light.

****
Abaddon had fallen. It didn’t matter that he was retrieved via teleporter before the enemy could cut off his head. Abaddon had fallen. The blow to morale was devastating. Gadok took a quick look at the field. Userkaf had been wounded by the same lightning that had felled the Warmaster. The cultists were still struggling with the wulfen but the outcome of that fight was obvious even to a blind man. The Terminators had been gunned down by the combined firepower of the Thousand Sons and the Land Raider. The Space Marines in the bastion closest to him had repelled the Negavolt cultists and were counter charging one of his squads, singing their death song the whole time. And that damn Dreadnaught had finished off the berserkers and was now pulping some more cultists. Well, this was a bit on the edge. He still had enough troops to win this, especially with the tanks. The enemy Devastator squad had been taken out, so they couldn’t harm the tanks at range and –
He saw the tanks pulling back.

“What are you doing” he snarled at them over the vox.
“Abaddon has fallen, I’m hearing nothing shouts of pain over the vox and lovely as they are, I’m not looking to die here. Whatever for?”
Damn those Night Lords! Those selfish bastards! They could still win this if only …. Ahhh what’s the use? He could see his troops looking over their shoulders at the retreating tanks and he knew this was over. Without the tanks, they lacked the firepower to kill that damn Dreadnaught. Why risk it after all?
I’m going to say these was Thunderwolf cavalry coming from behind us. Maybe he’ll buy it, thought Gadok.
So the Disfavored retreated from the field, to the delight and confusion of the surviving warriors of the Vlka Fenryka.

Flavoured Battle-report Ep. 2 Death Guard vs Aeldari

Guest written by Robert P.

This was not looking good. The numbers were all wrong, the losses too severe. 14 plague marines lost, bolters and plague spewers damaged beyond repair and all of their bloat drones lost in the battle against the greenskins. Philemon, Tallyman of the Lords of Silence sighed as he rolled the parchment accounting for the losses and handed it to his nurgling. The nugling grumpily accepted the scroll and let out a loud fart in protest. He clearly didn't enjoy having to carry all these scrolls.

He looked up and finally started to register the sound of flies around him. He had blocked them out, as he always did when he was focusing on his work, and now he was looking at the source of the swarm. Typhus, the Plague Father's chosen had commandeered multiple warbands for this assault. Vox traffic had even confirmed that an Iron Warriors warband was on the way to reinforce them, though they will probably not be needed.

"This has better be worth it" - Philemon said under his breath. Typhus' head quickly turned towards him, "There is no place for doubt. I wouldn't have gathered all of you mongrels here if it would not serve our cause". Typhus pointed his manreaper towards Philemon, the Destroyer Hive started swarming around him with a dreaded sound that only Fulgrim's lot could tolerate. "Now, do as you were told or I will relieve you of your duty. You are not the only one who knows how to count.". Philemon looked to his left where Kledo stood. The Plague Surgeon, also of his warband gave him a look that was urging him to comply. Philemon nodded towards Typhus and the Destroyer Hive dispersed. "Good. I need to focus now."

It was not an ideal situation being stuck in a ruined manufactorum, the only backup being 60 poxwalkers. Despite their "charming" smiles, they did not make for pleasant company. Furthermore, there was a suffocating sensation that was pressing onto him. The veil between the Empyrean and the material realm was thin here. You didn't need to be a psyker to feel that, even the poxwalkers war groaning and twitching more than usual.

Suddenly a shot came from a ruin close by. It was clearly aimed at Typhus, but it hit the wall behind him. "Sniper",he growled, "I will have that coward's head". Philemon took cover and looked at where the shot had made a small crater. He started writing down calculations on a piece of parchment, "This was too close to be a greenskin". Another shot came from the left flank, hitting a Blightspawn's tank and cracking it. "My guess is eldar".

From the left flank, Starweavers came, their occupants yet unknown. Overhead a Phoenix flyer passed and unloaded on the small horde of poxwalkers. From the right flank, Fire Prisms as orange as the sunsets of old Terra from Vorx's stories. Where was Vorx? Or Dragan? They would need reinforcements. The numbers were wrong yet again. "We are not going to survive this, not at this rate".

From the south, giant wings could be heard. Typhus left out a sigh "Unfortunately, we will". Philemon could not believe his eyes. He could barely resist the urge to kneel. The primarch was there in all his putrid glory. The air was shimmering around him as the power of the warp coursed through him, yet at that moment Philemon also saw Typhus starting to concentrate and all that power around Mortarion dispersed. Typhus gave off a small chuckle. The primarch grunted and dashed towards an eldar transport cleaving it in half with a swift slash from his scythe. The two halves of the transport fell to the ground and laughter could be heard coming from inside. The Harlequins sprang from the ruined vehicle in a well coordinated dance. They spoke to each other in a weird language that made Philemon cringe at the sound of it. It sounded like it was rhyming and it was dreadful.

The sound of the Harlequins cover was suddenly covered by chanting and gunfire. It seems that the Iron warriors had finally brought their slaves to bear. With the primarch and mortal bodies to sacrifice, they now stood a chance.

The harlequins wasted no time in leaping over the Horde of poxwalkers which had started to dwindle. They slaughtered left and right and would have been triumphant against the slow, clumsy husks except for one thing. Regardless of how nimble their performance was, hitting them was no problem for the Blightspawn's plague spewer. Hot liquid enveloped most of them and as they fell, they started to change. When their masks fell off, they had an even wider grin on their faces. "Finally, they have a reason to laugh" said Philemon out loud. Everyone ignored him.

Despite this small victory, the cultist Horde had also encountered problems as even more harlequins debarked and starting slashing through their ranks. They had almost broken when fresh reinforcements arrived and started fighting back against the harlequins. The few survivors leapt over a nearby wall to challenge the Iron Warriors warlord and the Malignant Plaguecaster aiding him. The Warlord went down easily as he was caught unprepared by the sudden leap from the troupe master. The cultist reinforcements froze at the sight and were unsure what to do. Their morale quickly returned as the Plaguecaster vaporised his opponent.

The eldar were starting to panic. This was getting out of hand and needed to be ended quickly. The sniper managed to hit mortarion to no effect. The Fire Prisms also focused fire on him, managing to wound him, however the psykers had failed miserably at their attacks and the Primarch still stood. By his might and by the power of the Death Guard artillery that had recently arrived, the eldar Dire Avengers that were protecting the psykers were eliminated and now, mortarion stood face to face with none other than Eldrad Ulthran. With a sweep of his scythe, two of his allies were lost and one was badly wounded, yet Eldrad gracefully dodged the attack. He fought back, but there was little he could do.

A last futile attempt to sabotage the ritual was made by another Starweaver, yet it ended up destroyed and most of its occupants now lay dead near the central ruin. The eldar had failed, their deaths having contributed to the ritual. A Great Unclean One and several lesser nurgle daemons emerged from the newly created tear in the warp. The remaining eldar were decimated, except Eldrad who had the foresight to retreat after he had attacked Mortarion.

Philemon gazed at the now bolstered army. They could now take the fight to the Imperium and bring the Plague Father's blessings upon the unfortunately ignorant. He finished the head count and yet again, he handed the scroll to his nurgling who was just as happy to help as before. A vox transmission came from Solace in high orbit, Thunderhawks were en route. The day was won for the glory of Chaos.

Flavoured Battle-report Ep. 1 Aeldari vs Chaos

-Before the battle-

After the caravan of soulstones was ambushed by the forces of Abbadon, with the Archenemy leading the assault, the morale of the Aeldari coterie led by Elandrin the Sage was low. They had barely managed to save a handful of stones from the grasp of chaos. Most of them belonging not even to his own craftworld of Lugganath. The soulstones of the tribesmen and maiden-born of Saimm Hann comprised most of the salvage. At least they had managed to stave off the slaves of the Prince of Excess in the fighting. But all seemed lost. Jain Zar was spotted being cleft in twain by the demonic claw of Abbadon. As if a cruel joke was played upon them, a webway portal opened from which emerged three harlequins bearing the insignia of the Midnight Sorrow - fanatics to the last.

The leader of the three was a twisted figure dubbing himself The Reflection of Cruelty. An apt name seeing as his mask would constantly reflect the distorted, disgusted looks of Elandrin's family from before the fall...but everyone saw something different in the dubious seer's mask. Flanking him were two virtuosos, one with an elegant sword with the entirety of the story of the fall carved into its blade, the other seemingly unarmed to the naked eye - the aeldari however knew his hand was the harlequin's caress. The Bladed figure was introduced as The Baron of Sunset while the never-still companion called himself Kurnos' Ire.

Cruelty's Reflection spared no time in quickly pushing the decision to create wraithguards from the fallen warriors, clamoring for a counter-strike for which he - would lead the spearhead. He has been granted a vision by Cegorach that they would be victorious. But the task of creating Wraiths...necromancy...would be a grim one to undertake.

A young witch in the craftworld raiding party quickly volunteered to induct the soulstones into the wraith constructs, having read runes with similar outcomes to that of the enigmatic harlequin. She was extremely young by eldar standards, barely a human's lifespan, and her mastery of the runes was not great for she has not walked the witchpath enougn to be granted more lore. At the harlequin's insistence...and their seemingly blind confidence in this young seeress, Elandrin conceded to allow her to perform the ritual of awakening.

The camp was silent that night. Noone spoke a word, but the tension in the air was thick. From the most solemn dire avenger to the lowliest raider, they only communicated through the barest twitch. The psychic fog that was created by the ritual of awakening chilled them to their very core. The echoes of the warp, of the whispering dead were blowing in the desert winds of Vigilus.

As the constructs rose to their feet one by one, arming themselves with weapons of great destruction that no living aeldari would dare wield...the young witch gained a new name among the members of the bladehost. Arviel the Dark.

This terrifying act did little to rouse the morale of the survivors, but at least now they had a chance. They would fight back. And the souls of the dead were screaming for vengeance.  As their small corsair fleet aided the Saimm-Hann fleet in orbit to harry the Chaos Armada, so too would the blood of the damned be spilled come morn.


 -Dawn approaches -

This time the warband would not be the ones defending themselves from the hungry chaos marauders, the Aeldari would have the first strike. After barely licking their wounds from the last battle, the small blade-host rapidly deployed itself to chase their previous attackers, hoping to bite at the ankles of the Warmaster's rear-guard. 

It was a cold morning on Vigilus, the crystaline frost from last night was still blanketing the earth, but the atmosphere was far from serene. The Black Legion had just finished plundering an Imperial Ammunition-storage and their demonically-enhanced brethren have managed to supply themselves with a plethora of lascannons, autocannons and various chainweapons. Even the pathetic mon'keigh mortals at their side were flush with fresh weaponry, howling and raving with high spirits at their recent conquest. The comotion was broken by the whooshing sound of grav-engines on the horizon. Wave Serpent transports and a brightly colored Starweaver spearheaded the Aeldari vanguard - hungry for blood. Even though the Black Legionaries were fat on the spoils of conquest, The Reflection of Cruelty intended to make this their final meal. 

Even under this lightning fast-attack, the tactical skill of the Despoiler was displayed for all to see. He has marshaled what looked like an unstoppable wave of mortal followers at his side on the left flank, while his second in command - a devious Lord dressed in the colors of the Architect of Fate has hunkered down into a defensible positions with the slew of fresh pillage, ready to slay the Aeldari. Despite being supposedly surprised by the assault - the heretics fired the first shots. Las-fire barreling into the Wave-serpent of Arviel and her Sword-wielding Wraiths. The blows were not enough however and soon the Havocs were smashed into the ruin they were hiding in, as the crackling serpent shields around the hovertank violently dispersed, and the walkers of the Witchpath in the back hurled bolts of eldritch lightning and warpfire, throw with such violence and one could argue carelessness that the Shadowseer has tempted the warp and suffered dearly for it. His red-hued holo-suit turned a dark crimson and thick torrents of blood streaked out from beneath his levitating form. Such agonies would destroy the mind of a lesser being, but The Reflection of Cruelty laughed and laughed even as his own flesh was being seared by his careless use of the warp. The chaos marines that saw his mask saw the tortured face of a larger-than-life blonde figure in his final death throes, eyes-bleeding. Those old enough to remember the heresy could hint at the vision being a grotesque reminder of the suffering of Sanguinius. The barrage of shuriken weaponry that followed, disks large enough to decapitate a man - flensed and shredded a good portion of the Heretics' heavy weaponry.

 

 The Chaos counter-attack was a punishing one as a massive daemon-engine ridden by some mechadendrite-filled monstrosity charged from behind a building - tearing into the Wave Serpent on Abbadon's side. By the grace of Cegorach the Wraithbone survived the frenzied assault, but it was holding itself together by literal threads. As the assault waned, a Sorcerer of Chaos zoomed in on a bike and through some indescribable warp-machination ignited the transport in a massive explosion. Wraithguard, guardians and the Reflection himself were slain in the blast - his mask shattering into a thousand pieces, his form utterly consumed by the flames. As the flash subsided, all that was left was a small piece of cloth with the Rune of the Midnight Sorrow on it. 

As vengeance for their leader's execution the Virtuosos leaped onto the sorcerer. The Baron of Sunset lunged with the Storied Sword and left the magus within an inch of his life, but was beaten back by the force-sword of his adversary - the gift of the Dark Gods imbuing him for the sacrifice of Aeldari souls. Kurnos' Ire had lashed onto the Black Legionaries holding the mid-ground but without the guidance of their leader their resolve was weak - their play without a main actor. They were but a sideshow to the grand stage that has moved to Abbadon and his hordes. After a couple of heartless stabs and pirouettes...they faded back into the webway.

By this point the battle was raging on both sides of the field. The Wraiths under Arviel have chopped the remaining Havocs down, but were left isolated without a target, far from what was now the main battle. Though she had lost herself to the trance. She was one with the departed dead, guiding them as if she were in their skin...and they cried out for more vengeance. The death of a couple of marines has not sated their now unshackled psyche's emotions. And emotions are a dangerous thing for the Eldar mind. 

Two...particularly dangerous agents of the Black Legion, wearing jump-packs have swooped down from their vantage points to where the wraiths have mostly congregated to take care of these unliving pests. They have attempted to charge the constructs but calculated that a headlong assault during their murderous frenzy would be unwise, and decided to bide their time and invoke the Ruinous Powers. In a state that seemed like possession by Khaela Mensha Khaine - Arviel guided her wraithguard to shoot wraithcannons at close range at the Sorcerer during his dark ritual. The weapon has sent the marine into the warp he was so anxious about summoning then fueled by bloodlust the automatons rushed in wildly flailing their fists and weapons at the Lord with the burning chainblade. 

 

The resulting melee was a wake-up call to the witch lost to the wraithsight. Despite the constructs best efforts, even under the effects of a mystical psytronome - the Chainlord effortlessly cut through Wraithbone like a monofilament weapon cutting air. She was woken up by Elandrin swooping in on his Windrider and blasting away the fiend with a bolt of lightning. Even though it only incapacitated him it was enough to take that dangerous weapon outside of the reach of the young Arviel. This was when the retreat was called in. The Sage decided the Death toll had been enough, and the tide of mortals was not abating despite the constant storm of shuriken and D-scythe fire. Abbadon has even managed to dismantle a number of Wraiths himself as the hit and run continued on his side. As the rage of the dead abated. The retreat was called. 

 

To the Warmaster these Aeldari were mere pests, and was glad to sacrifice a couple of his servants, both mortal and fellow marines to further his gains. After all - this guerilla attack was nothing. He still had the weapons and the ammunition...and his Bringers of Despair would unleash it upon a much...much bigger target. A red-painted Imperial bullseye, whom he would deprive of a precious relic-machine. 

- To be continued -