Every weapon, suit of armour and vehicle used by the Kabal is a work of art, finely detailed and honed for maximum lethality. A single one of these tools of war would be a prized artefact to one of the minor Kabals, but to the Obsidian Rose the achievement of perfection is not an elusive ideal — it is the benchmark by which success and failure are measured.
These same exacting standards are applied to every aspect of life in the Kabal. Before launching a raid, the Obsidian Rose practise every step, shot and contingency until each Warrior can perform their part blindfolded. It is not uncommon for Warriors returning from a raid to be hoisted onto the bladed vanes of their craft next to the screaming captives, simply because they have allowed their weapon to become tarnished with enemy blood.
Anything less than immaculate is considered an utter affront. Archon Khromys herself is an impossibly skilled artisan in the field of weapons manufacture, and a blade or pistol bearing her signature mark will sell for a huge price in slaves and souls. Here she was forced to monotonously assemble the same parts over and over until her days blended together into a recurring nightmare.
For the Drukhari, who are by their nature born hedonists, such a fate is far worse than death or torture, for in the relentless mundanity their very souls are starved. Many so fated go mad — but Khromys developed a plan that would take many years to come to fruition. The results of her prodigious craftsmanship were noticed by the factory overseers, and within a year she was transferred to a graded workshop within High Commorragh.
Eventually, Khromys and the team of master artisans she had trained were purchased wholesale by Archon Vhloriac, who had long since discarded any memory of his past encounter with the disrespectful weaponsmith. For him she produced finer armaments than she had ever Phorsa Quex, Sybarite, Splinter of Darkness Emerging, Shard of the Jade Chrysalis before created, and her master boastfully equipped himself and his bodyguard with her wares.
When Khromys and her team were summoned before their patron they brought gifts with them, seemingly harmless artefacts and trinkets that in reality harboured dozens of concealed weapons. It was an act of treachery that was meticulously crafted, and executed to perfection. Since that day, Khromys has ruled as Overlord of the Obsidian Rose, and the Kabal has a flawless reputation for its firearms and blades.
The Kabalites of the Last Hatred have a morbid interest in the forbidden arts. Though they outwardly seek to master the transition between life and death, their aims are far grander than those of petty necromancers. Some say the Last Hatred seek to transcend mortality entirely, others that they wish to exterminate the Aeldari race and enslave whatever entity is born from the ashes.
Madness this may seem, but any who have looked into their eyes will never truly dismiss their ambition, nor the depths of depravity to which they will go to fulfil their goals. So it is that they prosecute their kin-strife against the Asuryani and Exodites, but above all it is the Ynnari who are shown the full measure of their fury.
In recent years, the Kabal have mastered the technique of permanently binding a soul to the cadaver from which it would usually depart at the moment of death.
Yet the carnival of corpses that accompanies them to war is merely a distraction to draw attention from something far more sinister, for down in the pits under their stronghold, the Kabal practises ever more complex rites.
Here the Kabalites unpick the tapestry of life, studying the postponement of entropy in gardens hung with wax-skinned undead arranged in artful but unnatural poses. Should they ever succeed in their quest, the lines between life and death may be irrevocably blurred.
Even Asdrubael Vect is viewed amongst the Kabal as a usurper who has elevated himself far beyond his birthright. Those who fight under the symbol of the Dying Sun belong to one of the oldest Kabals, renowned for their overweening pride and disdain for anything that has not endured for millennia. They prefer to raid at sunset, for their Overlord, Archon Vorl-Xoelanth, is obsessed with the transition from light and hope to darkness and despair.
Maiys of Grovenspire, Sybarite, Splinter of Blooded Alabaster, White Shard of Grovenspire The truth is that the Kabal of the Dying Sun possess ancient fragments of forbidden arcana, heirlooms from the days of the Aeldari empire of old. Their stronghold — the Pinnacle of Disdain — is an impenetrable mountain of elegant, buttressed armour and echoing chambers, within which the Kabal hide their darkest secrets.
These timeless artefacts, hidden away in shadowy vaults, possess the power to kill stars, suck the life force from worlds and exterminate whole races of sentient beings. However, they are ill understood and, in many cases, charged with psychic potential.
Thus, they are as lethal to their owners as they are to their victims, not least because it would attract the violent displeasure of the Dark City at large should their existence become known. Few other Kabals can boast as great a navy as the rulers of Pandaimon, and none can match their ability to create these machines of war. Prowling squadrons of Ravagers and sleek-sailed Raiders fill the skies of Pandaimon, sweeping between its spires in great numbers.
Long ago, this proud and ancient Kabal were brought to their knees after an ill-fated rebellion against Asdrubael Vect by their then-master, Archon Qu. However, in the centuries since, they have rebuilt their power through ensuring the Kabal of the Black Heart remains well supplied with Iron Thorn war machines.
The Lords of Iron Thorn are highly active in the raids upon realspace. Every successful attack proves afresh the supremacy of their airborne armada, and also supplies them with the massive force of slaves required to power their ceaseless industry. They believe in the application of overwhelming firepower, and delight in proving the superiority of their finely crafted gunboats over the lumbering war engines of the lesser races. Perched in the wings of the webway, they wait for the sound of screaming to beckon them to the stage of battle.
Like its namesake, the Kabal is synonymous with discordance. Wherever order and prosperity abound, the Broken Sigil strike with overwhelming force, bringing confusion and despair to the most idyllic planets in the galaxy.
True enough, his Kabalites are not above blanket-bombing with hallucinogenic gas or hijacking communications channels to ensure their victims are frightened half to death before the invasion starts in earnest. Yet the Kabalites of the Broken Sigil maintain that the price they pay in forewarning the enemy is outweighed by the rich feast of fear that awaits them when the onslaught begins.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Broken Sigil are amongst the most feared and infamous of the Kabals, especially upon the worlds of the Imperium. Entire conclaves of Ordo Xenos Inquisitors seek their demise, and on multiple occasions Lord Xerathis has found himself the personal quarry of Deathwatch Kill Teams. If this concerns the toweringly arrogant fear-monger, he conceals it well. Commorragh exists in a delicate but well-established balance.
Yet for the ruling Archons of Commorragh to allow the natural bloodthirst of their kin to go unchecked would be to invite catastrophic civil war. Each Wych Cult is a thousandsstrong organisation of gladiators that put on frequent displays of the most incredible brutality — not only for the edification of the masses, but also for their literal sustenance. Such is the scale of the carnage staged by these armies of warrior-athletes that their audiences leave the arena with the glow of well-fed predators.
Comparing architectural masterpieces such as the Crucibael or Moedh Stair to the primitive amphitheatres of other civilisations would be much like placing a glittering palace next to a mud hut. Likewise, the Drukhari athletes that perform within them make the most gifted human acrobat look like an uncoordinated ape by comparison. Each arena has its own deadly charms and challenges, from staples such as spinning blades and ravenous beasts, to gravitywells, kinetic inversion snares or even more esoteric and inventive hazards.
Each Wych Cult is constantly in competition to outdo its rivals with the sheer scope and imagination of its gore-soaked games. Many performances spread into the audience in interesting and deadly ways as the excitement builds to fever pitch.
Arterial spurts of blood rain down into the rapt crowd as battle takes place over their heads, or even amidst their stalls. The arenas crackle with tension, the viewers leaning forward in their seats with eyes wide and the leers of hungry predators etched upon their faces.
Most of the Hekatarii are female, for amongst the Drukhari it is they who are more often able to attain the pinnacle of poise and grace their craft demands. This prima Succubus surrounds herself with lesser Succubi, each of whom leads a Circle of twenty to sixty Wyches. Most Wych Cults also boast a large supporting caste, as well as multiple contingents of mercenaries. Certainly the Succubi who rule over the Wych Cults are universally female.
Most Cults contain several Succubi, each leading the Wyches of a particular Circle, but a single Succubus possessed of unmatched power and deadly grace typically reigns over them all. So it has been since the earliest days of the Dark City, and so shall it always be. More than this, however, the Wych Cults are powerful allies.
After all, each is comprised solely of trained killers who enjoy nothing more than to demonstrate their consummate skills in battle. This mutually agreeable arrangement ensures that the Wych Cults never run short of slaves and exotic combat stimulants. A good patron is always generous, lest his stable of warrior athletes decides to bite the hand that feeds them.
Meanwhile, the Archon gains the allegiance of an organisation of exceptionally trained Hekatarii to lend their blades to his raids upon realspace. The Wych Cults take every chance they can to prove their martial skills superior to those of the lesser races, both within the arena and without.
Though they profess nothing but contempt for the warrior castes of realspace, the Wyches get an undeniable thrill out of matching themselves against any suitably impressive opponent. The trophy halls of a successful Succubus will thus boast the heads of Adeptus Astartes champions, conquering Ork Warbosses and Tyranid Hive Tyrants alike. There is much more to a Wych Cult than its arena.
Each Cult keeps an extensive menagerie, re-stocked by its Beastmasters with an endless supply of alien captives and dangerous species. The Bladed Hand, for To the untrained eye, a Wych Cult raid appears like a barbaric orgy of violence in which the Commorrite gladiators tear into their foes with savage abandon. But in truth, each attack upon realspace is meticulously staged, with every Wych playing a crucial role. A Wych Cult will often stage realspace raids purely at the behest of its Succubus.
These raids are not only to gather new fodder for the arenas, but also to provide a chance for the Wyches to test their skills against new opponents. A Wych Cult raid is considered high art by many Drukhari, who will pay handsomely to fight alongside the massed gladiators, alien beasts and speeding aerial acrobats that each Succubus unleashes upon her prey. Other raids are quite literally performances in their own right.
Aboard these craft, wealthy spectators swill intoxicating nectars and offer sneers or applause as each bloody slaughter ebbs and flows, while bets are won or lost on the conduct of favoured combatants. Such spectacles are especially popular amongst the smirking ranks of the Trueborn, who become steadily more exhilarated and revitalised as they soak up the miasma of agonies that rises from battle below. Yet for all their foppish hangers-on, Wych Cult raids are veritable blizzards of violence.
They are direct and unstoppable strikes that — like the Wyches themselves — scorn the cumbersome protection of armour in favour of the safety that pure speed provides. Like a perfectly placed knife-thrust to the heart, a raid by a Wych Cult is swift, deadly and precise, capable of felling even the largest and most dangerous foes before they even realise they are under attack.
Amid hurtling squadrons of Reavers and Hellions, swept over by the half-glimpsed shadows of Razorwing Jetfighters and Voidraven Bombers, the Wyches leap and plunge into the midst of their enemies with joyous abandon, fighting amongst the piles of their mangled victims. This Cult has risen to the apex of power not through treacherous politicking, but through mastering the creed of speed over strength, and elevating their blood sports to high art.
Even outside of the Dark City, the Cult of Strife has become synonymous with flawless cruelty. The Wyches of this Cult are master executioners all, dedicated to perfecting the art of the kill in all its forms. If one of the inferior races has devised a new way of killing it shall soon be catalogued by the Cult of Strife, and — if suitably spectacular — may be adopted for use in the arenas.
Nobility from every fractal corner of the Dark City come to observe these performances, and to imbibe the exquisitely crafted suffering the Cult of Strife produces in their victims. Many Archons pay handsomely to see famous Cult of Strife Wyches fight champions from other Cults, lavishing even more riches on the eventual winner. This constant inflow of wealth allows the Cult of Strife to maintain an unending supply of the best combat drugs available, which they use to further enhance their talents in the arena.
The brutal reputation surrounding the Cult breeds in its constituent Wyches an air of superiority that is pronounced even by the standards of the Drukhari, and they take every opportunity to show that this pride is well deserved. Though the Cult of Strife boasts dozens of the best warrior-athletes in the galaxy, it is their prima Succubus — Lelith Hesperax — who is the flawless diamond at the centre of the crown.
Her allure draws in hundreds of thousands of spectators every night, each of whom is prepared to pay a high price for the privilege of watching her perform. Night after night, Lelith dances her way through massed ranks of stimm-enhanced Orks, gut-wrenching Grotesques, disgraced Archons and more, the crowd roaring its approval as she gifts each victim the kiss of death with a contemptuous flick of her blades. Whether this is a bond of reciprocal admiration or the wary respect of natural born killers is immaterial, for the alliance has proven as strong as steel, and strength is hard currency in the Dark City.
The alliance between the Kabal of the Black Heart and the Cult of Strife brings constant benefit to both. Even the most impulsive and hot-tempered Succubus must recognise that a challenge to the Cult of Strife is likely to incur the wrath of Asdrubael Vect himself. This unique symbiosis is magnified a hundredfold on the battlefields of realspace, where the followers of Lelith and Vect fight alongside one another with merciless synchronicity.
The pitiless firepower of the Kabalites and the point-blank ferocity of the Wyches mesh to deadly effect. The gladiatrixes of the Cult of Strife weave sinuously through the covering fire of the Black Heart to fall upon the surviving foes in an orgy of bloodletting. Freed from the customary necessity of watching their supposed allies for signs of treachery, both Commorrite factions are able to fight at their full potential against their luckless prey.
On those rare occasions that the belladonna of the arenas deigns to take to the field in person, the spectacle of this alliance at war is raised to the sublime. Yet when it does take place, the competition to join the raiding party is so fierce it has, on occasion, triggered fullblown inter-Kabalite war. The planet was a stronghold of the Alpha Legion, a Heretic Astartes faction synonymous with the use of stealth and subterfuge.
Vrax, however, eventually overreached himself. Having discovered that the Kabal of the Black Heart planned to raid the Imperial factory world of Melidrantis, he elected to use the Drukhari as pawns in his own schemes. Needless to say, such an insult could not be allowed to stand. Asdrubael Vect spared no effort in tracking down this mysterious assailant and prepared an attack to make an example of them. This was not to be a slave raid, but a slaughter.
As a swirling webway portal tore the skies above the Black Mountains, the Alpha Legionnaires were caught completely by surprise. From the portal flew dozens of attack craft, falling like a rain of knives towards the squat immensity of the Alpha Legion stronghold where it nestled amid the mountain peaks.
By the time the Chaos air defences cycled up and flak batteries began to pound, it was already too late. Through these gaps poured the Kabalites of the Black Heart and the Wyches of the Cult of Strife, leaping straight from the decks of their Raiders into the smoke-shrouded corridors of the fort. Towering traitors strode to meet them with bolters blazing and blades bared. The surviving Alpha Legionnaires were finally surrounded in their primary arming chamber, massively outnumbered and outgunned.
It was here that Hesperax met Vrax in single combat, mockingly offering the Chaos Lord and his followers their freedom should he defeat her. A lethal swordsman with daemonic strength burning in his veins, Vrax set upon his slender foe with his hellforged broadsword. Hesperax met him with a simple knife in each hand, standing firm with a slight smile pulling at one corner of her perfect lips. Even as the Chaos Lord fell, her followers closed in once more.
The Cult of the Cursed Blade has earned its name many times over, so much so that even for a well-protected Archon to invite Wyches from this Cult into his palace is tantamount to cutting his own throat. Treachery is held as the greatest of all virtues by the Cursed Blade, for by a process of hyperaccelerated natural selection the Wyches of the Cult ensure that only the strongest and most cunning within their ranks survive.
Weapons that deceive and wrong-foot the foe are popular within their warrior cliques. Many a harmless-looking ornament worn by the Wyches contains a hidden snap-sword, poison barb or pair of flick-blades, and it is common to see many razorflails wielded among their ranks. In the arena, a favoured performance of the Cult is to feign an alliance with an unwitting alien combatant — giving the warrior hope that they may survive the brutal ordeal — before cutting down their false ally when all other enemies are dead.
The stronghold of this devious Cult is known as the Nhexus Arena, and is far more deadly than its elegant architecture would suggest. Every curve and line contains sprung monofilament nets, venomous dart-launchers, toxin-loaded syringe-drills and a myriad of other lethal surprises.
Nor is this cornucopia of misfortune confined to the arena floor, for these deadly booby traps are ever-shifting and as likely to spring up amid the audience as to lacerate or impale the performers. This is merely part of the fun, of course, adding a delicious frisson of very real danger that many Drukhari simply cannot resist. Whilst they have ravenously preyed upon Imperial worlds lying isolated within this nightmarish realm, they have also defended such planets from slavering daemonic hordes and warbands of Chaos Space Marines, each time instilling a dim glimmer of hope in the beleaguered defenders before snuffing out thoughts of salvation with their own merciless cruelty.
Their raiding craft attack with such speed that they are almost impossible to hit, and racks of living bodies hooked under their wings release contrails of blood to mask their manoeuvres.
Their raiding forces employ whole flotillas of Raiders that fly in close formation towards the foe, escorted by Reavers, Venoms and Hellions.
When the aerial formations close with the enemy, the Wyches bound and spring from Raider to jetbike to skyboard and back again with athletic precision, dismounting and mounting so swiftly that the transports barely have to slow.
Only the Wyches themselves ever deign to touch the ground, and even then only to deliver the killing blow to enemies who are still trying to adjust to the fact that they are under attack. Even when they have become full-fledged members of the Cult, many within the Red Grief still actively participate in the gang wars that rage through the skies of Commorragh.
For most Cults and Kabals, these unending skirmishes are merely a proving ground for new recruits, but the Red Grief view them as an almost meditative practice that they return to after completing a realspace raid. Its galleries are made from transparent crystal, revealing that the audience are suspended only moments from a sickening plunge to their deaths.
The arena proper truly has no floor — just a yawning gulf prowled by drifting antigrav platforms. Such bouts are typically brief, but the promise of seeing limbless, still-living combatants tumbling to their deaths far below draws huge crowds to the Pit night after night.
Though his appearance had been welcomed by only a smattering of applause from patrons trying to maintain a facade of disinterest, now all eyes were firmly fixed on him. Only one combatant could be first to slay the new breed of Space Marine, thought Khresilla — but it had to be done right, with appropriate flair for the occasion. Khresilla jammed her heel on the thrust pedal and her skyboard screamed around the crystalline spar.
Through the translucent facets of the fractal column she could see the Space Marine swing his spent gun at an oncoming Reaver. This was the distraction Khresilla needed. She rounded the corner of the spar with her target in sight and her hellglaive ready. The Space Marine still had his back turned as she closed the final few yards, but suddenly Khresilla experienced a sharp pain across her midriff followed by total numbness.
She felt herself drifting towards her prey, but looking down she saw neither her skyboard nor her legs — only droplets of blood trailing from where her lower half should be. As the flood of Wyches leap through the opposing battle line, they swipe and slash with practised deftness, leaving a carpet of mutilated bodies that writhe in agony and cry out for death.
The legend is synonymous with the end of innocence, a tenet that the Cult of the Seventh Woe embraces wholeheartedly by teaching those born into their ranks to wield a blade before they can talk. Pistols are fired at bone joints, and blade-strikes aim to carve out ligaments and tendons. In this way their enemies are left alive but completely incapacitated, flailing helplessly and in agony as the realisation of their own dark fate crystallises in their minds. Once the entire enemy force has been thus mutilated, the Wyches leisurely stalk the battleground, savouring the screams of their opponents as they are pinned to the prows of Raiders.
In the arenas, this fighting style is less showy than that of some other Cults — whose beheadings and disembowelments coat the crowds in showers of viscera — but discerning patrons appreciate the delectable suffering that is wrung from the rag-doll victims of the Seventh Woe Wyches. The Cult deliberately puts itself at a disadvantage against its enemies, taking on superior numbers in heavily armed emplacements with little more than well-sharpened knives, haywire grenades, and the Raiders and Venoms that bear them planetside.
When the killing begins, however, the Wyches will improvise, turning the technologies of their foes against them, crippling the largest of enemies with judiciously targeted haywire attacks, and digging out the fleshy bounty inside with the care of an epicure savouring every nuance of his carefully prepared meal.
In fact, stories of planetary defenders falling on their blades and killing their compatriots out of fear when a Drukhari raid appears are often just accounts of the Blade Denied practising their grim art.
They are practitioners of the killing trance, and through gruesome meditations they set their minds to the sole task of butchery. The Cult of the Wrath Unbound seek to harness this half-crazed state of mind to better become one with the kill. Led by the Succubus Hythnamene Veilblood, the Wyches and Beastmasters of this Cult practise long and gory rituals before each performance or battle, gradually letting their intellect slip away and their hungry instincts take over.
Slowly but surely they become creatures of pure bloodlust; their eyes roll back in their heads, and ancient litanies to Khaela Mensha Khaine — the Aeldari god of war — spill out of their painted lips.
Whilst the killing trance is upon them, the warriors of the Wrath Unbound are every bit as savage as the packs of Khymerae and Clawed Fiends that run with them on the hunt. As such, their raids gather more and more momentum as the slaughter increases and the Wyches slip further into their trance.
An intended assault upon a single city can easily become an orgy of violence that consumes a continent or even an entire world. In this way, the Cult spreads despair far beyond where its raiding fleets reave. The Pain Eternal are exceptional in that they do not make regular appearances within the arenas of High Commorragh.
Instead, they are a spacefaring Cult that dock only once every few years in the Dark City. Unstinting in the service of the Dark Muse Hekatii, Mother of Strife, the Pain Eternal exists to tear down and destroy everything that is holy to the lesser races of the galaxy.
Acts of anarchy and despoilment are held as a kind of inverse worship for the Pain Eternal, for they believe in a higher reward than the adulation of the crowd. The stagnant serenity of worship is a powerful goad to the Pain Eternal. Despite the best efforts of the Sisters of Battle, many a religious stronghold has found massed strike forces of Wyches descending without warning, hell-bent on replacing the surety of faith with terror and doubt. The sistrens of Hekatrices that lead the Pain Eternal love nothing more than to snuff out the flame of hope wherever it can be found, taking pains to defile and destroy the saints and venerated nobility of those they see as beneath them.
Their detractors often say that the Pain Eternal wreak their own brand of havoc for no greater reason than to prove that nothing is sacred, but the Succubi who lead them to battle profess a far greater aim — where the Wyches of the arenas fight to bleed away the lifeblood of mortals, the Cult of the Pain Eternal wishes to bleed away the lifeblood of gods.
Their unnatural sciences give them power over life and death, yet those who deal with the Haemonculi should be wary, as there is always a price to pay… The Haemonculi deal in body modification, drug distillation and beauty elixirs. However, the true source of their power lies elsewhere. Every member of Commorrite society must eventually ask for their help, for the Haemonculi are masters of the flesh, be it alive or dead. Those of a like mind gather together into Covens, and each Coven occupies a vast demesne of cells and laboratories under the core.
Here these diabolical figures slice and meld the flesh of those that fall into their clutches, savouring their pain as a gourmet would savour a fine meal. The dungeon-strongholds of the Haemonculi take many forms, each echoing the madness in the minds of their creators. Labyrinths of fractured mirrors, spiral-edged pits with narrow, twisting walkways, towers of living flesh illuminated by millions of glimmering eyes — all of these unspeakable sights and more await the unwary traveller in the darkness beneath the core.
The eldest and most vile Haemonculi dwell at the heart of each nightmarish lair, revelling in epic depravities of their own invention. To cross these monstrous beings is considered beyond foolish.
Not only is their vengeance terrible to behold, but the Haemonculi have the power to bestow — or withhold — life after death. Artificially grown Drukhari are far more commonplace. It is this that affords them such power within Commorrite society.
Even a corpse that has been all but destroyed in the crucible of war can be restored to its former glory; the Master Haemonculus Urien Rakarth once crafted a perfect new Archon Vriech from a single withered hand. Hence Kabals on realspace raids take great pains to strike hard and fast, returning before the night is out with the remains of their deceased in order that their strongest warriors — barring the occasional individual who encounters an unfortunate accident — can return to life.
The key to this terrible process is, of course, pain. The Drukhari are rejuvenated by witnessing agony, and if saturated with enough of it, they can heal from almost any wound.
As such the mortal remains of those delivered to the dubious care of the Haemonculi are installed into crystalfronted pods arrayed above the pain racks and torture tables. These sarcophagi are arrayed in concentric circles that rise up into the darkness, each holding a semi-cocooned Drukhari warrior in a regenerative state. As a cacophony of shrieks rises around the chamber, those installed in the cocoons slowly feast upon the energies, ever so gradually growing back their bodies — skeleton first, then muscle, sinew and skin, until they are whole once more.
Members of a Coven will compete to create the most pleasingly abhorrent monstrosities in the lead-up to a raid, releasing them upon the foe and watching the results with interest. Realspace raids by Haemonculus Covens are comparatively unhurried affairs, their leaders having lived for thousands of years and seeing no call for unseemly rushing around.
Instead they will strike from unexpected quarters, preferring if possible to use offshoot webway portals that open deep within abandoned mines, shadowed forests or other sites local lifeforms consider to be cursed.
The Coven will emerge like horrors from primitive folklore, glorying in the unreasoning terror that spreads before their advance. With the defenders slain, the Coven gather up the choicest victims then disappear back into the shadowed realm from whence they came. How an individual becomes a Haemonculus is uncertain.
They are all of incredibly advanced age, and their withered and nightmarish appearance speaks of one who has passed well beyond the ability to recapture a youthful physique. Monstrous self-mutilation leaves many Haemonculi unable or unwilling to engage in physically demanding tasks.
Indeed, most Haemonculi eschew mundane physical exertion, and instead perform their grand tasks through their supplicants and minions, namely Wracks, Grotesques and various Engines of Pain. Over their long and abhorrent lives, the Haemonculi have encountered, captured and painstakingly studied almost every race in the galaxy, and in doing so have created tools of death and torture that can afflict any physiology.
Whenever a new species presents itself, the Covens are quick to set out and procure specimens. Each Haemonculus has their own favoured creations, and leads several Cells numbering between ten and fifty Wracks.
They are a Coven possessed of innumerable mutilated thralls and led by the most infamous of the Haemonculi. They are considered by many Commorrites to be the apex — or rather the nadir — of the inverted hierarchy of the underspires, and as such they receive more supplicants than any other Coven.
To be a Prophet of Flesh is to be respectfully feared amongst the Drukhari, and to cast terror into the hearts of enemies and allies alike. Furthermore, when they desire fresh specimens from the lesser races over which they can worry, the packed cells of Wracks are sent en masse into realspace in terrifying raids. By the time the favoured few make it to the lesser ranks of the Haemonculi they are entirely free of blemish, having had much of their original bodies replaced with unmarred grafts.
Though they become convinced of their own purity, the opposite is true, for in climbing the heights of status, the aspirants invariably stain their souls with depravities that are unimaginable even by the base standards of the Dark City. Many of the Prophets of Flesh dabble in soothsaying, despite the prohibition of psychic activity that pervades Commorragh. In this regard they are quite surgical in their approach, divining through careful study how the trauma of one conflict will form a scar throughout an entire war zone.
This is one of the practices that makes the Prophets so sought after by Archons, Succubi and even Haemonculi from other Covens, for their visions extend far into the future and can provide glimpses of atrocities that have yet to be achieved. Like all Haemonculi, the Prophets of Flesh engage in multiple sadistic arts during their extended lifespans, practicing new forms of cruelty to help stave off the ennui that comes with functional immortality.
As they flirt with various methods of torture, fleshcrafting and deathletting, a Haemonculus may find themselves drawn to a particular discipline over all others. These disciplines take many shapes in the undercity, and devotees of each can be found throughout the Covens — those known as Nemesines seek the best ways to kill every creature in the galaxy, whereas Repugnomancers delight in creating artefacts of abject revulsion.
Many Prophets of Flesh are Black Cornucopians — expert plunderers and architects of largescale raids. They model their behaviour on the Sculptor of Torments, Urien Rakarth, and through constant abductions have stocked their oubliettes with enough victims to see them through centuries of isolation. Yet this supremacy does not carry with it complacency. It was from the shamanistic species known as the Mehn-Shi that the Haemonculus Letikuss Ohm adapted the method of rewiring nervous tissue so that dreams — and in particular, nightmares — will have physical effects on living tissue.
In this vein, the Prophets have always kept a close eye on the genetic dabbling conducted within the Imperium of Man. As he launched his Indomitus Crusade to stem the tide of Chaos surging across the galaxy, they saw the new breed of Adeptus Astartes he brought to battle. The Primaris Space Marines were the product of genetic manipulations that — whilst rudimentary by the standards of the Dark City — were undoubtedly effective in creating resilient warriors.
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The primary Eldar force for many editions, some early Codex: Eldar books included rules for many of the non-Dark Eldar sub-factions, such as Harlequins and Exodites, alongside the Craftworld units. Watch Dogs: Legion - Ultimate Edition. Serious Sam 4: Deluxe Edition. Two of the profile images of the basic soldiers from haemonculus covens and dark eldar. A Codex is a publication of Games Workshop that details the units and models each army in the Warhammer 40, tabletop miniatures game can use when playing a game.
Codices follow the same edition publication history as the Warhammer 40, tabletop game itself. The 1st Edition of the game, published in , is referred to as Rogue Trader.
Each of these FAQs contains all of the most up-to-date errata and answers you'll need to make sure that your games run as smoothly as possible, incorporating feedback from you guys and gals out there in the Warhammer community, the playtesters and of course, our studio design team. Dark Eldar 7th ED Codex. Daring Dark Eldar Raider Rider. Only 1 left in stock - order soon.
What other items do customers buy after viewing this item? This was, of course, due to only Troops being scoring units well mostly at least. Dark Eldar rumors that really look too good to be true, but Reecius would not be making these up good guy. Dark Eldar Rumors! The next Dark Eldar codex is due out in the second half of with several changes.
The new edition of 40k has reinvigorated my motivation to build and paint The Dark Eldar have had a mercurial history.
Howdy partners, Reecius here form Frontline Gaming to bring you a slightly overdue review on the new 8th ed Codex Craftworlds…. Check the Tactics Corner for more great reviews. Part 1 of this review will cover the army and Craftworld wide special rules, psychic powers, Warlord Traits, relics, and stratagems.
Here you can find dark eldar codex 7th pdf shared files. Download Warhammer 40k codex dark eldar 3e rus pdf from mediafire. On the shooting front, normal eldar are almost better in every way. Dark eldar don't have the best anti tank, I mean they can shoot down heavy armor really well, but the majority of vehicles you face are armor 11 or armor 12, which dark eldar have a hard time dealing with efficiently.
Dark eldar also lack variety.
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