Autumn's Last Voyage

By evolution-500

Genre: Horror/Tragedy

Disclaimer: Starbreaker is a property owned by DC Comics and "Warhammer 40K" is a property belonging to Games Workshop. I do not own any of these titles nor these characters.

WARNING: This story contains references to violence, coarse language, disturbing themes and imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter One: Almerac

"Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?"

- Friedrich Nietzsche

The orange sun was setting over the ruined civilization of Almerac when the strange vessel arrived, its dark and twisted form casting a shadow over the land.

Taking refuge, the surviving remnants of the population scurried away in fright into the ruins of their homes, watching with wary and fearful eyes as the ship landed in an open section of the city, kicking up dust and debris.

From the vessel, its occupants emerged - dark and fearsome-looking beings that were largely humanoid in appearance, long in limb and strangely graceful in their movements, all of their heads concealed by helmets with featureless faceplates, their eyes hidden by a pair of red lenses.

All of their helmets were artful in their construction, some of them conical and tapering off at the end, while others had horns.

The vast majority of the beings were outfitted in strange dark green lightweight combat armor or warsuits with loin cloths, much of which reminded them of beetles.

Some had bladed plates, but a lot of the warsuits in general looked to be held in place using long metal barbs.

All of them sported exotic-looking rifles, pistols and blades of some sort, but one had what looked distinctively like some sort of power sword, a long, curved and vicious-looking scimitar-like blade with a red ruby on its gold handle.

It was this particular individual that commanded the attention of everyone, for he carried himself with an air of authority, the horns of his intimidating featureless helmet far longer than the others.

As the survivors fearfully watched from the shadows, the being stepped forward, planting his sword into the ground in front of him.

* * * * *

The smell of fear and despair was ripe and overwhelming.

Lifting his helmeted head, Khanzyth closed his eyes and inhaled through his nostrils, relishing the despair.

"Oh, how exquisite!" He said in his native language. "Such an intoxicating smell!"

Beside him, the others nodded in agreement, while the twins regarded their surroundings, their lensed eyes taking everything in.

Where once stood a glorious kingdom of neoclassical style was now a jumble of crumbling and ruined buildings, the fire and ash still fresh.

Bodies lay scattered, burned and bloody, some of them impaled to the ground with large stakes or torn to pieces, while various vehicles and advanced-looking tanks were completely shredded, the desolate carnage polluting the landscape, the air filled with rising smoke and burning embers.

Many soldiers were either dead or dying, some of them crucified and/or completely dismembered, looking more like trophy displays, while nearby volcanoes rumbled and bubbled all around, sending up plumes of plumes of smoke and bubbling lava.

"What could have caused all this?" A Kabalite Warrior questioned, eying the devastation.

Khanzyth remained silent, his lensed eyes missing nothing as he studied the crucified bodies.

Approaching one closest to him, the Archon grabbed it by its head, pulling it up by its hair, allowing him to see the face of those that occupied this planet for the first time.

"Hm," Khanzyth hummed as he thoughtfully traced a gauntleted claw along the being's face, scrutinizing it carefully.

The figure before him was a female, her appearance uncannily similar to humans, so much so that for a moment part of him had wondered if he and his Kabalite Warriors had inadvertently stumbled upon some human colony.

From her height, she seemed to have been quite a tall woman, her form slender, sensually curved and full-breasted, yet strong.

A warrior by all indications, but based on her garments, the woman had been no mere soldier.

Dressed in a form-fitting black armored suit with gold pauldrons and bands on her arms, her armor was dented and shredded, her clothing torn, bloodied and ripped, her white cape fluttering in tatters under the cool breeze along with her long, wavy, flowing crimson hair.

A long sword was impaled directly into a section of the chest area that had been exposed, the blade cutting into the woman's cleavage.

From the knives stabbed into her hands and the various cuts and bruises on her body, she had clearly been tortured, though there didn't seem to be anything suggestive of rape.

Tilting the woman's face from side to side, Khanzyth inclined his own as he regarded the woman's facial features.

A sculpted, pale and regal-looking heart-shaped face with a short and delicate nose stared down in silence, her luscious lips red and full, her eyes closed, looking as if she were asleep.

Humming to himself, Khanzyth nodded to himself in approval and appreciation, admiring the woman's beauty before him.

"What a pity," he remarked. "For a Mon-Keigh, she seemed to have been quite beautiful." Closing his eyes, he sighed. "A shame, really."

"Indeed," an unfamiliar voice spoke nearby in his own language, catching him and the other Drukhari off-guard. "Queen Maxima in life had been blessed with beauty, immense strength, and many attributes worthy of the gods, but alas, even her strength and powers couldn't save her from the fury of her own people. Nor from the being that now rules this world."

Turning to the speaker, Khanzyth paused as he was greeted by an old bearded man with tanned skin, a hook nose and hawkish yet sad eyes, his clothing consisting of a blue robe with a hood and a gold collar, his wrists bound with gold cuffs.

Lowering her head down, the Archon turned away from the woman, narrowing his eyes at the man.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his fingers clenching his sword in readiness. "How do you know our language?"

The man raised a placating hand. "Please, do not fear, stranger. My name is Orin," he introduced. "Former servant and advisor to her Royal Majesty, Queen Maxima. I am using our telepathic abilities in order to speak to you all."

Straightening, Khanzyth felt all the color in his face drain, watching as the other Drukhari anxiously glanced at one another.

"You have psychic capabilities?" he questioned, his tone sharp, feeling on edge.

"Yes, Khanzyth Mazroruin of Commorragh," Orin enigmatically answered, his hands folded together in his sleeves. "Every Almeracian is born telepathic and strong, but only a few ever become truly exceptional warriors."

Clenching his mouth, the Archon lifted his chin, approaching the old man. "So," he spoke, his presence looming over the old man, who only stood at five-nine, "you know who I am."

Orin nodded, unintimidated, his eyes empty and broken. "I do, just as I know what you are and why you are here, Lord Archon."

The air was still as the two beings stared each other down.

Twisting his mouth into a sneer, Khanzyth lowly chuckled as he circled around Orin, like an animal toying with its food. "Well, well, well! Isn't this a surprise! I have to admit, Mon-Keigh, I'm rather disappointed. I was hoping to play a little with your people by giving them the illusion that we're here to save them, but it would seem that it's all for naught. Kind of a relief, really; I was never much of an actor admittedly." He then gave a nonchalant shrug. "Still, can't blame one for trying."

Bringing up his sword, the Archon took a threatening step toward the old man. "Now then, why don't we start with an appetizer before the main course?"

Orin gave no response, his impassive face unnervingly calm as Khanzyth stopped directly in front of him, the latter's towering form looming menacingly over his.

Curious, Khanzyth tilted his helmeted head as he regarded the old man, intrigued. "You do not fear us?"

Letting out a despondent scoff that lacked strength, Orin shook his head. "No, Lord Archon, I do not. Even at your most fearsome and repulsive, you Commorrites are mere minnows to the shadow that haunts this world. Whatever tortures you wish to inflict on me have already been inflicted. All of my friends are dead, my family slaughtered, and the closest thing that I have to a daughter has been tortured and drained of all of her life energies." As he spoke, Orin's eyes lingered on Queen Maxima's lifeless broken form, his orbs watery with unshed tears. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. "You can't torture something already dead on the inside, Drukhari."

The Archon leaned forward. "Is that a challenge?"

Orin shook his head. "No, Lord Archon, just merely stating a fact." His expression became grave. "My master wishes to see you, so I have been tasked with leading you all to him."

Khanzyth raised a brow underneath his warmask. "Your master?"

"The newly and legally-appointed Lord of Almerac," Orin explained, his visage darkening. "A vicious bastard who makes your kind seem like mere lambs, and he is only one of many, many other dangerous beings in this universe. He is expecting you."

"Hm. Is he now?" Clicking his tongue, Khanzyth glanced over to his Kabalite Warriors and twin Incubi before returning his gaze to the old man. Raising his wrist-mounted Vox, the Archon activated the speaker. "Lead the way then, Mon-Keigh. I look forward to capturing and torturing this new lord of yours."

To his surprise, Orin darkly laughed. "You are more than welcome to do so, Lord Archon, but believe me, you won't be successful. Many have tried to kill him, and those that have, they ended up dead or worse. Come with me."

Turning on his heel, the Almeracian led the way, guiding the Drukhari through the bloody ruins.

* * * * *

The carnage was considerable.

Everywhere Khanzyth looked, he saw ruins of every shape and size.

Giant busts and marble statues depicting some male or female figure were defaced and cracked, some crumbling. Few if any were left untouched by whatever calamity touched this world; every statue was either headless, limbless or marred with deep gaping holes.

One statue had no arms nor head, while another statue depicting a strong warrior had gaping hole in its chest, the handsome bearded face badly shattered on one side.

As they passed by the ruined remnants of their statues, Orin harrumphed in indignation.

"Your gods, I gather?" Khanzyth drawled, his tone bored.

"Our warrior forebearers," Orin grimly replied, his eyes filled with a deep bitter fury. "Everything he touches turns to ruin."

Clicking his tongue, Khanzyth said nothing, looking amongst the collapsed temples as he surveyed the scene around him.

He saw a father bawling his eyes out as he held in his arms the crushed lifeless remnants of his son.

He saw a heavily bandaged woman missing an arm sitting dazedly by a shattered wall, her unfocused eyes staring blankly ahead with a perpetually haunted expression.

He saw a little boy scurrying around in the debris, digging like an animal, calling for his mother.

He saw a group of people huddled together over a fire, trying to keep warm, their clothes ripped.

Everywhere he looked, fear and despair could be found in such bountiful quantities, so much so that even with his warmask on he could sense it. It reminded him a little of Commorragh in a way, if not a sliver of that twisted city-state within the Webway.

Pulling his mouth into a sharp-toothed grin in spite of himself, Khanzyth reared his head back and inhaled through his nostrils, relishing it.

"Hmmm," he purred. "How delicious!"

Beside him, the other Drukhari cackled, some of them sensually moaning and licking their lips. Only the Incubi twins showed some level of restraint, the two of them standing silently beside Khanzyth as he followed their guide.

Offering the Archon a glance, Orin said nothing, focusing all his attention on the path ahead.

On some stone walls and on parts of the ground nearby, Khanzyth made out black silhouettes etched along them.

"Why have your people drawn those silhouettes, old man?" One of the Kabalite Warriors spoke, much to Khanzyth's irritation as he and the others offered him a glare.

Orin let out a low, despondent, mirthless laugh. "They didn't. What you see are the outlines of those that hadn't been able to avoid the blasts."

Looking from side to side, Khanzyth couldn't help noticing with a mixture of curiosity and interest more statuesque figures, their forms grey, all of them posed in a variety of fearful gestures.

"I see some of your statues are untouched," he noted, gesturing to them.

"Those aren't statues, Lord Archon," Orin replied, his eyes focused on the road ahead as he spoke. "Those were people. Flash-heated corpses preserved in ash."

Looking to him in surprise, Khanzyth returned his eyes back to the grey figures, taking their features in once they were close enough.

A mixture of men, women and children were standing and crawling in terror, with one or two individuals curled up, as if attempting to pitifully hide within themselves.

A mother and father were posed trying to shield what looked to be an infant and a little girl, their expressions locked in fearful malformed screams.

Smirking beneath his helmet, the Archon unholstered a Splinter pistol and aimed, firing a shot.

Several figures burst into dust, drawing a sinister cackle from the Drukhari and a harsh glare from Orin.

"The joke is on you, Lord Archon," the latter spoke. "You can't satiate your cravings with that which is dead."

Khanzyth chuckled. "You would be surprised, old man. The dead are just as fun to torment as much as the living. Our flesh-sculptors are the finest in their craft, capable of making even metal scream in agony."

The old man said nothing, his eyes staring long and hard at him before averting his gaze. "I have no doubt that's true."

As the group continued onward, Khanzyth glanced around, keeping his eyes peeled for the slightest indications of a possible ambush.

Crossing a road, the Archon was following Orin, when the Incubi twins suddenly raised up their hands in warning, their weapons drawn.

"My lord, I've just spotted a number of vessels hovering over the sky," Yrazyth spoke, pointing to some dark shapes in the distance.

Wrinkling his nose, Khanzyth grabbed Orin by the throat, his power sword clenched as he snarled, "What is the meaning of this, worm?!"

To his surprise, Orin didn't let out a single grunt of pain whatsoever, not even a grunt of discomfort. Rather than suffocating, the old man was calmly and quietly standing there before him, his wrinkled visage devoid of any expression.

Looking at his Incubi warriors in confusion, Khanzyth looked back to Orin, puzzled by what was happening.

It was then that the Archon suddenly became aware of something unusual; under his grip, the man's neck felt unusually hard and solid, the skin and muscles showing no signs of jostling, let alone forming any signs of either imprints nor indentations.

Furrowing his brows in confusion, Khanzyth looked at his gauntleted fingers and Orin's skin, perplexed as he pulled them away to discover no cuts nor bruising whatsoever.

"Are you finished, Lord Archon?" Orin spoke.

Snarling, Khanzyth struck him with the back of his gauntlet as hard as he could, hoping to draw blood...only to find himself cringing. Massaging his sore hand, Khanzyth looked up in incredulity, his eyes widening upon seeing the unblemished face of Orin staring at him.

"Save your energy, Drukhari," Orin admonished. "If I had wanted you dead in the first place, I would have torn you all apart in seconds with my bare hands."

"Then why don't you?" Yrazyth questioned, his klaive ready.

"Because the new Lord of Almerac commands it. Now come, the master awaits."

Turning his back to them, the old man pressed forward.

Exchanging puzzled looks with his Incubi bodyguards, Khanzyth followed, his intrigue matched by his growing sense of unease.

For several minutes, no one spoke a word, the planet silent save for the crackling fire and the howl of the evening wind as the sun started to set, casting reddish gold and orange hues.

Shifting in discomfort, Khanzyth fidgeted with his power sword before glancing up at the vessels, a collection of strange silver structures that were covered in what looked to be solar panels, all of them completely stationary in the air.

Finally, he spoke.

"Your attack vessels have an unusual design," the Archon commented.

"Those are not ours, Lord Archon," Orin responded, "nor are they vessels. They are drones."

Humming to himself, Khanzyth nodded as he digested that information.

"I see..." He replied, his curiosity growing as they passed a dilapidated house. "What can you tell me about this new lord of yours? I gather he is a considerably powerful Almeracian warrior."

"He is not Almeracian," Orin said sharply. "He is a being unlike anything you can even imagine, Lord Archon. I would say that in spirit your kind has much in common with him, but based on what I've seen, that is a disservice to you Commorrites."

Khanzyth chuckled. "How flattering."

The old man gave no response, his dead eyes focused on the path ahead.

Moving past the crumbling ruins of a library, the Archon suddenly became aware of a number of loud crashes, along with the distinct sound of pistons and working servos and a dull throbbing.

Curious, he followed his guide around a corner to the right, only for Khanzyth and the other suddenly freeze at the unexpected sight up ahead.

Looming over everything was a gigantic structure that resembled a black trapezohedron, its ominous shape casting a shadow over the planet.

Beneath that, Khanzyth spotted a castle of neoclassical design with enormous pillars stretched hundreds of meters high, its structure grand and impressive, the only building to be left untouched.

However, it was the creatures in front of the castle that piqued his interest.

All around were a number of giant bronze and copperish ant-like machines with large black eye-like lenses with long whip-like antennae, their forms sophisticated yet gruesome.

While clearly mechanical in nature, the creatures looked as if they had been crafted from the corpses of numerous species, their innards a complex network of fibrous muscle strands, wires, cables, pulsating organs and interconnecting pipework, some of them glowing with yellow energy.

Their six ball-jointed limbs were long, thick, twisted and gnarled, some of them having what clearly looked like bones, although occasionally Khanzyth spotted something that looked vaguely like a person's face on a given section.

In some ways, he found himself uneasily reminded of the Tyrannids, while another part of him couldn't help thinking of the Necrons, if not some bizarre modified insectoid variant of the Flayed Ones, but nothing in their appearance aside from some trace elements suggested a direct connection to either.

Many of the creatures were hunched in a fetal position, while a few wandered on patrols, their bodies twisting, shifting and snapping into taller and even more grotesque bipedal humanoid forms, the process so painful-looking that they uttered agonizing screams.

Looking to his guide, Khanzyth directed his attention over to the beings. "What are those?"

"They are called Mechanix," Orin answered.

Frowning, Khanzyth glanced back to the machines. "'Mechanix'?"

"Specialized flesh-crafted drones designed to fulfil every whim of their master's will," the old man explained. "From what I understand, he had enslaved a species of intelligent Formicidae with telepathic abilities eons ago, but he had them all modified into something debased for his own sick purposes. Gods know how many beings have been grafted into those foul things - whether they're dead or alive, it's all the same to him. He's weaponized their telepathic abilities to amplify the terror and chaos that he creates. Even worse, through means I have yet to even fathom, he's managed to make every organism grafted into their beings all cognizant of what's happening to them. Their collective suffering provides the new lord both his nourishment and endless entertainment."

Curious, Khanzyth raised a questioning brow underneath his warmask before looking back to the strange creatures with a certain level of appreciation, their shrieks and despairing cries punctuating every movement and transformation made.

'Nourishment?' he wondered.

It was a curious phrase which suggested something similar to the Drukhari, which made Khanzyth wonder if a raiding party had conquered this world before them, but based on Orin's words, it seemed to suggest a different presence altogether.

As the Archon silently observed the machines, Khanzyth folded his arms in interest, listening to the heavy dull thrum and surge of power.

In many ways, the Mechanix reminded him of the sort of beings created by the infamous Lords of Pain; when it came to their craft, the Haemonculi flesh-sculptors were masters in the art of agony, always coming up with new ways create havoc on the body.

If only he had a Haemonculi with him - he was sure that they would have been fascinated with these beings.

Every entity was a conglomerate of several different species grafted into metal and into each other, a gigantic living and breathing torture rack of grotesquery that only a Drukhari could appreciate. These creatures

"What are they doing exactly?" the Archon questioned, tilting his head as the machines sat unmoving.

"They are tapping directly into the energies of this planet, making preparations."

"Preparations for what?" Khanzyth pressed.

Orin shook his head. "That, I do not know, Lord Archon. Regardless of what, I recommend not shooting them - destroying even one will cause a nuclear explosion."

Khanzyth watched as the Kabalite Warriors gave each other anxious glances, his Incubi bodyguards shifting ever so slightly in unease.

"Was that what caused some of the destruction here?" the Archon questioned.

"Some of it," Orin admitted. "The new Lord of Almerac is clever. Dangerously so. In our attempts at showing mercy, he used our sorrow and compassion against us. Thus, when we tried to put some of our loved ones out of their misery once they became part of those wretched creatures, it ended up backfiring horribly, with catastrophic results. And now Tae Tamrac, our great capital city, lies in ruins."

Khanzyth was silent, nodding thoughtfully as he absorbed the old man's words.

Looking to the giant black trapezohedron that hovered over the castle, the former gestured to it. "And what is that structure?"

"That is the tyrant's personal vessel," Orin answered. "Many have tried to destroy it, and many have failed. I know not from what world it is from, nor the materials used in its construction, nor that of its owner. All I know is that they're blights on this world, and should you be successful in disposing of them, know that all of Almerac will owe you a debt."

Khanzyth raised a curious brow. "You would willingly betray your new lord?"

The old man gave him a flat look. "I am merely stating facts, Lord Archon. Nothing less, nothing more."

"A very dangerous statement to make, old man," Khanzyth said as he crossed his arms. "You know of our nature."

"That I do very well, Lord Archon," Orin replied, "and from what I've seen, your kind are as monstrous as the being that lords over the throne."

"So why even make it?"

To Khanzyth's surprise, the old man let out a low despondent laugh, murmuring, "Why indeed. Perhaps it is because you are lesser than him and I find you more pitiable. You are free from your cursed "Thirst", and yet you are too scared to know anything else in life but torment. Perhaps by confronting your darker mirror you can overcome that darkness. Then again, who's to say that you Drukhari even care about things such as salvation and/or redemption? What do those words even mean to a person such as you?" He then gestured to the castle. "This way please."

* * * * *

The castle's interior was as exotic and grandiose as its exterior.

Inside, the Drukhari found themselves in a well-lit long and spacious hallway of black marble, the ceiling so high that it seemed to stretch all the way up hundreds of feet, the stone walls lined with lush royal red tapestries of satin.

In the middle of said-hallway was a large, elaborately designed fountain lined with numerous stone sculptures encircling it in the center, all of them depicting a muscular group of nude males holding up a bowl with a bathing goddess inside.

Upon seeing the sculptures, Khanzyth gave Orin a look, raising a brow under his helmet.

"I see your Queen has interesting tastes in art," the former dryly remarked.

"Maxima respected strength, as do many an Almeracian," Orin replied.

The hallway was silent save for the the constantly running water from the fountain and the groups' footfalls as they clacked along the marble.

At the end of the hall was a grand porcelain staircase of unusual height, and together with their guide, they climbed up several different levels, the passages growing tighter and narrower.

As they ascended, Khanzyth couldn't help feeling tense, the Archon looking over his shoulder down to the entrance.

"Is something wrong, Lord Archon?" Orin questioned.

"No, just surprised to see how seemingly empty this castle is," he commented lightly. "I gather your master's soldiers are on the top level."

Orin chuckled. "There aren't any. He slaughtered everyone, including the soldiers. Their remains now wander the courtyards as part of his foul Mechanix."

Humming, Khanzyth tightened his grip on his power sword. "I see." With a sharp thrust, he attempted to stab the old man...only to find the blade unable to penetrate the man's skin.

Pausing in his steps, Orin turned give the Archon an unimpressed look, giving a withering glance to the weapon and the other Drukhari, all of whom started raising their weapons, completely caught off-guard.

Khanzyth stared in disbelief, his eyes wide like saucers beneath his warmask as he looked at both the power sword and the old man.

Like the power swords wielded by their Craftworld counterparts, Drukhari power swords were capable of maintaining a potent power field that would burn and disrupt the atomic bonds of any substance the blade would come into contact with.

Combined with the heavy coating of horrific toxins and poisons, they were capable of causing all forms of excruciating death.

And yet...this didn't even affect the old man at all!

Not only did it fail to even break his skin, but it also failed to even leave a mark of any kind; not a single cut or bruise could be found anywhere.

For several moments, the air was still as Orin gave Khanzyth a look of pure contempt.

"Trying to kill an old man, are you?" the former rhetorically questioned, shaking his head. "Typical Drukhari. I was actually going to wish all you good luck, but if that is the best you can do, then I'll save my breath. Perhaps your deaths will be the new Lord of Almerac's one good deed."

Khanzyth snarled as he attempted to strike again, only for the old man to grab him by his wrist, causing the Archon to wince.

Gods, the sheer power in his grip, it was far stronger than anything he ever dealt with!

"PROTECT THE ARCHON!" His Incubi cried, raising their klaives as they prepared to strike, the Drukhari taking aim.

Without even turning to face them, the old man effortless grabbed the former by the blades, the edges not even cutting into his skin.

"W-Wha?" Yrazyth sputtered.

Straining with all their might, the Drukhari struggled to overpower Orin, but the latter was undeterred, looking passively on.

With a single shove, Orin sent the three of them hurtling down the stairs, causing them to crash into the other Drukhari below them.

Blasters, Splinter Pistols and Rifles and Disintegrator Cannons were fired along with Splinter Cannons, all of them striking their target with pinpoint accuracy, but though the old man staggered slightly under some of the shots, he remained standing.

His clothing became torn around the chest area, but nothing on his person was damaged.

Staring in incredulity, Khanzyth and the others stared wide-eyed at the old man, shakily watching him as he regarded them all with pure, undisguised loathing.

Clenching the handle of the power sword in his hand, Orin's voice boomed, "FOOLS! Despite my warning you to save your strength, you waste it on me?!"

Taking a step down toward them, the Drukhari flinched, the latter edging back with their weapons raised.

For several moments, Orin said nothing, his eyes hard and cold, regarding them as if they were all nothing but maggots under his boot.

Raising the power sword to study the blade, his eyes squinted before sniffing it, harrumphing.

"...I see." Looking up at the Drukhari, his wrinkled eyes narrowed. "You tiny things. You tiny, stupid, cowardly little things. You believe yourselves warriors?" He then spread his arms wide open. "Come then! Come and take your best shot, you sniveling little rats! Show me what makes you "Drukhari" the fiercest warriors in the universe!"

Khanzyth fired his Splinter pistol, watching as the rounds struck the old man directly, but the man remained defiant and untouched.

Giving the Archon a glare, Orin's mouth curled in disdain as his voice lowered, "Look at you. Look at you all, shaking and trembling like a bunch of scared whelps. What entitled and insufferable little brats you all are. You call yourselves warriors?" He then started to laugh. "You are all absolutely ridiculous." Tossing his head back, his mocking laughter grew as the Dark Eldar growled. "You Drukhari prey on those you perceive to be beneath you, and yet here I stand, an old man who has lost everything, with armies smashed, and you are unable to even hurt me, let alone kill me. You are...the saddest, most miserable and pathetic race of beings that I have ever met. You Drukhari are not warriors - you came here thinking that you were the hunters, but the truth is, you are so far down on the bottom of the food chain, I actually pity you. And now you have made the fatal mistake of coming. Here."

Raising the power sword, he gestured to the top of the stairs.

"Up there you will find the new Lord of Almerac waiting for you, but if this is the best that your lot can do, you might as well not even bother. I would suggest killing yourselves to spare yourselves for what's to come, but I know that you won't, because you Drukhari are a cowardly lot. Allow me to demonstrate what a true warrior looks like."

Taking the power sword by the blade, Orin lifted it up and impaled it straight into his chest with a grunt.

Blood stained the marble staircase as the old man collapsed to his knees, slumping back as he raised his fluttering eyes to the ceiling.

"F-For Almerac..."

With that, Orin gave his last breath, the castle falling silent as the Drukhari all stared up at his unmoving body, watching the crimson flood flow down the stairs.

Pushing themselves off the floor, Khanzyth climbed upward and approached Orin's body.

Grabbing the handle of his power sword, the Archon planted his boots onto the latter and pushed his corpse aside, watching as it rolled indelicately to the foot of the stairs.

"A pity that we couldn't savor his suffering," Khanzyth commented. "Such waste." He then pointed up the stairs. "Let's pay this "Lord" of his a visit then, shall we?"

As he took a step forward, Bhumar blocked his path. "Wait!" Pausing in his step, Khanzyth stared at the Dracon, waiting for his explanation. "My lord, shouldn't we...shouldn't we retreat?"

"Retreat?" Khanzyth questioned. "What are you on about?"

"My lord, I think it would be advisable if we were to leave this place, preferably as soon as possible," Bhumar warned. "That man was far stronger than anything our kind has ever dealt with, and he wasn't even wearing armor! No forcefield generators, no special equipment, nothing! Our weapons didn't even graze his skin!"

"And yet my sword was what killed him," Khanzyth pointed out the obvious.

"Only after he used it on himself!" Bhumar retorted. "His strength exceeded that of any Mon-Keigh Space Marine or Primarch - one shudders to think how strong the rest of their soldiers were in life, and he was nowhere near as tall nor as built as those monsters. If that old man was unphased by our weaponry, how much more dangerous is this "Lord" of his?"

Khanzyth considered his points, watching as the rest of the Drukhari anxiously looked down at the body at the foot of the stairs.

Scoffing, Khanzyth gave a dismissive wave. "You are overreacting, Bhumar. It was a mere fluke, nothing more. Now move aside."

"But-But Lord Archon-"

"I said move aside!" Khanzyth warned, threateningly stepping forward, his mask inches from the youth's. "Are you not a warrior? You are a Dracon, not some crying infant fresh off the breast, so gather your nerves and act like it - you're embarrassing yourself!"

For several moments, the two of them stood stock still, the air tense.

Finally, Bhumar backed down, lowering his head in deference. "My apologies, my lord. I've overstepped."

Khanzyth stared him down. "Make sure it doesn't happen again." For several seconds, his lensed eyes lingered on the Dracon's, then finally looked back up the stairs. "Now, let us greet this mysterious "Lord of Almerac" - we will show that old dead grox that the blood of Khaine flows through our veins."

With power sword in hand, the Archon began his ascent, his Drukhari following close behind.