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Posts : 172
Join date : 2009-09-19
Age : 22
Location : Fuck you

PostSubject: Commorragh   Sat Apr 03, 2010 9:57 pm

This is a story I got directley from my Dark Eldar codex. I guess i'll post more.

The story is called ''The Annals of Terror''

"What can one say of Commorragh, the Dark City of the Eldar? It is the embodiment of anarchy and terror. It is fear, hatred and desperation incarnate. How long I was enslaved in that timeless city, I cannot say. There is no day or night, just an eternal twilight, an ever-present ruddy glow that bathes all living things 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 as another means to increase our suffering. When the Masters deigned to speak to us, they bought arcane machines to translate their words; they would not sully their tongues with the language of others. Most of my fellow slaves fell beneath the blades and poisons of those tortures beyond compare; the Haemonculi. Sometimes a Succubus of the Wyches would come and take the fittest to battle against brutal creatures and skilled fighters in the death of 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, slashing and cutting, darting to and fro, leaving a trickle of blood with every pass. No-one dies quickly in the Dark City.

They prey upon each other as much as their captives. The great Kabals may hold power, but in the twisting alleys and dusk-shrouding corridors, allegiance is secondary to martial skill. To stray into the wrong territory is tantamount to suicide, running battles are fought every day, blood is spilt constantly. The ghastly Mandrakes are the worst, one wizened old 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 treachery and betrayal. Assassination, murder and double-dealing are established ways of life to these decadents. Ownership of myself changed hands so many times that I was unsure who were my masters and who were their enemies. Some times 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 amongst them, who took to this depraved life with natural empathy. They bowed down to the Eldar and treated them as lords, in return for favours. It is claimed that the most promising are taken as apprentices by the Haemonculi. Most end up as twisted creatures in permanent agony, but others survive and learn, to be let free again into the outside world to spread their corrupt ways.

The Hellions are a constant plague to 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 of that 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 with writhing pain. I cannot see. I cannot speak. Most horrid of all, I cannot forget. Nightmares and waking visions plague me, the drip of my own blood, the cries of anguish haunt me.

No-one escapes the Dark City."

penned by Lasko Pyre, posthumously pronounced Heretic, (died by own hand);

Heres a pic of Commoragh

oh, heres a video from the videogame soulstorm
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