| What can one say about Commoragh, the Dark City of the Eldar? It is the emboiment of anarchy and terror. It is fear, hatred, and desperation incarnate. How long I was enslaved in the timeless city, I cannot say. There is no day or night, just an ever-present ruddy glow that bathes all thing in blood-light. The air is filled with screams and cruel laughter. When they put out my eyes, my ears alone still conveyed that omnipresent aura of dread and loathing. They took great delight in telling us what tortures and agonies they had prepared, using dread-ridden anticipation to increase our suffering. When the masters deigned to speak to us, they brought arcane machines their words, they would not sully their tounges with the language of others. Most of my fellow slaves fell beneath the blades and poisons and tortures beyond compare; the Haemonculi. Sometimes, a Succubi would come and take the fittest to battle against brutal creatures and skilled fighters in the death arenas. Ten men at a time, great warriors amongst humanity, would face a lone gladiator. They stood no chance against the Wyches; who delighted in toying with their foe, leaving a trickle of blood with every pass. No-one dies quickly in the dark city. They prey upon each other as muvh as their captives. The great Kabals hold power, but in the twisting alleys and dusk-shrouded corridors, allegiance is secondary to martial skill. To stray into the wrong territory is tastamount to suicide, running battles are fought, blood is spilt constantly.vThe ghastly mandrakes are the worst, one wizened slave told us. They stalk the shadows at will, plucking their victims from their homes, ambushing the unwary, and slicing them to death with their claws. We were never truly imprisoned in the slave quarters, but it was clear that if we left, we would be at the mercy of the dark city - a barrier more effective than any amount of walls, fences and razorwire. They made no attempt to hide their deceitful ways, actually glorifying in trechery and betrayal. Assassination, murder and double-dealing are established ways of life to the decadents. Ownership of myself changed hands so many times that I was unsure who was my Master and who were his enemies. Sometimes I was stolen, other times I was traded for raw souls, given as a prize in the arena, or simply taken as a right of conquest. Life is worthless in the Dark City, only pain misery and death have value. Others I saw, humans among them, who took to this depraved life with natural empathy. They bowed down to the Eldar and treated them as lords in exchange for favours. It is claimed that the most promising are taken as apprentices by the Haemonculi. Most end up as twisted creatures in permnrnt agony, but others survive and learn, to be let free again into the outside world to spread their corrupt ways. The hellions are a plague to us all, they race through the winding streets, blades shimmering as they randomly lop off limbs and heads with wanton glee. They gather for insane races; goaded by each other they attempt death-defying feats of aerial skill. Many die, and when one of the Masters die, others quickly gather to feed upon the escaping soul. They fight each other, bite and claw if they have no weapons, to partake in the precious essence. My escape was miraculous; the Emperor must have rewarded my undying faith in those times. However, though I am physically free, my body bears the scars; the many many scars. Every breath takes me to a new plane of agony, every heartbeat sets my jagged nerves writhing with pain. I cannot see. I cannot speak. Most horrid of all, I cannot forget. Nightmares and walking visions plague me, the drip of my own blood, the cries of anguish haunt me. No-one escapes the Dark City. |
| Deep under the cursed city of Commorragh, Urien Rakarth, master of all Haemonculi entered his secret laboratory. Here, in total darkness and infernal heat Urien worked alone, gibbering and insane. The walls of his laboratory were lined with captives given to Urien for his experiments. Chained and gagged, some were dead, some were alive. Of some, he was no longer sure. Urien studied his prisoners, and finally gestured to his huge grotesque bodyguards to bring one of them to his inner sanctorium. His choice was a muscular man, once a powerful Space Marine in the service of the Emperor of Mankind. Unable to struggle within of the massive grotesques and gagged with a snake-like organism, the man fixed Urien with hate-filled eyes. Urien ordered him to be tied to the operating table and then reached for his tools. As one of Urien's razor-sharp claws drew blood, the captive groaned. The luminous eyes of the mad experimenter lightened with a green glow and he felt pleasure in the man's pain. As he continued to work, the Master Haemonculus talked to himself in a rasping voice, "You should be greatful. Once I remove your skin you will feel cooler. And when I have finished with you, you will serve a much greater purpose." Urien stopped and strained his mind to remenber. Perhaps once there had indeed been a purpose, but it was all washed away under an ocean of pain. cruelty, torture and insanity. Urien shrugged, and and turned his attention to his exparament. A cry of agony pierced the darkness. |
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