« History of Cygnus Primaris: The Grostiche Incident | Home | History of Cygnus Primaris: The wound in the fields of Cydor »

The Wastes of Cygnus Primaris: The stalemate

Eldar Verse Demons of Chaos
Game Size: 1500 points
Game type: seek and destroy
Result: Draw

The Eldar

“The demons have made no progress in claiming the Mon-keigh ruin Farseer.” A lone warrior dressed in what may have once been the armor of the Dire Avenger aspect path. The crested helm warped and burnt of its original vibrant colors. His armor is mutated and burnt away in most places, his cherished Dire Blade resembling burnt brittle wood from the hilt up. He was an Exarch once, now, due the tainted effects of the warp fire he and his squad suffered his aspect is barely recognizable. Coalan considers himself blessed by the ancestors and by the God of War that he is even alive. Most of his fellow Avengers suffered worse. In a single wave of rolling unnatural fire they were reduced from brave willing warriors to wounded and dying casualties of war.

“But we have not made any progress in taking the ruin either nor have we found the cause for the weakening in the barrier between reality and the warp. Even now the defeated demons coalesce like oil slithering over the surface of water, reforming as new.” Coalan is young compared to the woman he addresses and he has lived a dozen life times compared to a Mon-Keigh. In her tone he can sense deep anger and bitterness with all the intensity that a lifetime that spans thousands of years would carry and all of it masked beneath soothing calm. Such is the way Farseer Raelin.

The Farseer watches over the city and receives Coalin’s news while standing at the edge of what once was something called The Castellum Imperialis. Raelin has made little mention of its purpose except to say that it was once the opulent palace of Cygnus Primaris’ Lord Governor Militant. This world is a wasteland now and every continent plays host to a different nightmare. She shuns the wraithbone armor and helm of her Rune Armor and wears only a traditional and simple gown with Alatoic’s livery tastefully displayed. Her lengths of auburn hair blow freely in the sour dead air of this world. Only the light cast from lanterns hung in the ruins of this place reflect off the many soul stone bits of jewelry that she wares. Each one a grim reminder of a friend lost in the fields of war on Cygnus Primaris or any other of a thousand damned worlds in the black vastness.

“What of Autarch Tuathal?” The Exarch inquires. He is a soldier beyond all other concerns and his loyalty for his commander his first priority.

“His wounds were grave. Whether he survives or passes into the infinity circuit is in the hands of fate now. He is strong. I believe he will carry on as we must do as well.” She has insight into the fate of the Autarch but his warriors need hope and she will give it to them. “Exarch, report to the lines that we must redouble our efforts to hold the city. We’ve denied the Demon his prize for now but we must find out what warp born thorn anchors their corruption to this city and extricate it.”

“Yes Farseer” The Exarch turns and leaves. Raelin turns back to the cityscape and watches the violent storm clouds and unnatural winds dance overhead. She dare not stare into the ether that lies just beyond the veil of reality. She knows full well what waits there.

The Demons

Through the barriers that separate the material universe from the undulating tumultuous chaos is the Warp. It shadows all places and lies just beneath all of reality and here; in this city it is very alive.

Things crawl and slither and squish about the spectral warp mirror of the city: things of chaos, things with no shape or many shapes or a shape that is beyond definition.

Horrid leathery winged things soar high over a deep rotted crack in the ethereal landscape. Its filled with a fetid and languid bile that bubbles and belches and buzzes with a droning cacophony of flies.

A numberless legion stands vigil over the wound and its puss like content. This legion is short and round and hideous, each one a collection of rotted flesh, sores and teeth given life and shape. They parade and rejoice, theirs it not a silent vigil.

“Oh my children, I hear you. I hear your hunger for this city. I hear your glee and know how dearly you wanted victory!” a cooing kind bit phrase spoken by bubbling liquidly tone, its volume deep and booming and coming from the great wound. “I know how it pains you to be delayed.”

The cheerful hoard leap and dance as best as there tiny decayed bodies can. They chant the name of their benefactor. “Jabor! Jabor! Jabor!”

Another figure lingers at the edge of the grim parade. A tall demon of only slicked red muscle, blackish antlers and burning eyes. It straddles a beast, both bovine and machine and demon all as one. The iron hided creature it rides is called a Juggernaut, the demon is a Herald to his God Khorne, his name Surgat. He watches the antics of the Nurglings as they are lovingly coddled by their master. A Bloodthirster would do no such thing. War is a place for slaughter and conquest not displays like this. He recalls being cut and hacked apart by the frail Eldar. Only after enduring a hail of fire from their wraith bone totem crafts did they dare to challenge him in mortal combat. He recalls with crystal clarity his Juggernaut battering the Eldar warmonger through the walls of a ruin. The defeat at the hands of screaming mirror bladed warrior women stings deeply. He sooths that sting by allowing his beast to grind one of the Nurglings into the ethereal dirt with its hoof.

“But that is all it is my little ones” The voice slowly rolls from the great wound. “Not a denial but just a delay… we can wait…” A large bloated hand thick enough to wrap around an Astartes’ torso with ease. Ichor oozes from each crack and hole in the dead flesh. The Nurglings Rejoice. Jabor rises.