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 -