The Princess of Commorragh
A humorous look at life in Commorragh through the eyes of Reri Hesperax, daughter of Lelith Hesperax.
Chapter One
“...and in other news: The Flayer Queen has put forth a personal challenge to Lord Auvryl, Archon of the Kabal of the Third Abyss, after overhearing his comments about her wyches’ performance. Lord Auvryl is alleged to have stated, ‘I’ve seen Orks that were more graceful than these pathetic excuses of flesh.’ The number of open conflicts between the Third Abyss and the Cult of the First Blood is already on the rise, so make sure to stop by their arenas on your way back from those realspace raids. At the third scream, the time will be…”
Reri’s hand batted at the Vox Alarm Clock as the warble of some poor soul being flayed alive broke the silence of her bedroom. It was early, too damn early, but that was simply part of the price one paid when one was the daughter of a Succubus. A typical day for Reri never seemed to truly start until her mother had inflicted some fresh wound upon her, physically or otherwise, and the longer she took getting ready, the more vicious her mother would be.
Yawning, the Dark Eldar slid from her bed and strode past the wall-sized windows that afforded her a view of High Commorragh’s splendor. Having lived among the tops of the blackened spires for close to a quarter of a century, the baroque beauty of it all barely even fazed Reri these days. She quickly stole into her bathroom for a quick shower before donning her usual outfit, ignoring the impressive blood fountains produced by the Scourge’s morning feast all the while. An assemblage of gold-trimmed, segmented plates fused with a tight bodysuit, her Wychsuit was but one of the many tools that would keep her alive to see another day. The form-fitting attire was lightweight and allowed her a full range of motion, though it sacrificed several degrees of protection to accommodate such. Still, it was the mantra of wyches to avoid projectiles and blows, doubly so for the Trueborn child of the head of the Cult of Strife.
Hesperax: the family name of the deadliest gladiator ever to grace the arenas with her presence. The popularly-known “Queen of Commorragh” had always been the subject of much speculation and rumors due to her incredible skill, especially given that she never relied upon drugs in combat. Many believed Lelith to be the product of some Haemonculus or Daemonic experiment, and her child, Reri, doubly so. Though it was true that Lelith rarely graced others with her presence, save for the occasional realspace raid, the Succubus had somehow managed to conceal her pregnancy for the several years of gestation commonplace among Dark Eldar. It was as if, in one moment, a part of Lelith had budded off and gained sentience. A terrifying thought to many, but one that furthered the Queen’s legend nonetheless.
None could say who the father was, least of all Reri herself. It had simply been hammered into her during her education that she did not have one. Lelith never once let her daughter think of herself as one of the more common “tube-born,” however. After all, it was rather hard to think anything else when the elder Dark Eldar constantly complained about how slow carrying Reri had made her. In reality, the Queen’s already legendary speed had increased as a result of living and training with an increase of body weight for years.
In the end, all that mattered to Reri was the fact her blood warranted her the title of “Princess.” It was far from an endearing or respectful label, however, mainly hurled as an insult or challenge by those who had the courage. Which, much to her dismay, were plenty in number, least of all from within the Cult of Strife itself. All that she did was constantly picked apart and compared to her mother in hopes of finding a way of dethroning the Queen. Though life in Commorragh was itself a collection of scheming plots and webs of lies, the constant feeling of being in Lelith’s shadow was a staple that weighed heavily upon the back of Reri’s mind.
One day, she would have to succeed her mother, or perhaps lay claim to her own throne.
But first, she had to have breakfast.
Flowing from shadow to shadow, Reri left the relative safety of her room and crept down the corridor towards the kitchen. Lelith had taken to hiding small traps throughout the household as of late, though there had always been an unspoken rule that hallways, bedrooms, and bathrooms were “safe.” Designed to keep her daughter’s awareness at its peak, they were a practical means to ensure Reri would never find herself ambushed and slain by would-be assassins.
Nothing so far… and the archway looks clear, Reri thought to herself, eying the kitchen’s entrance with an appraising eye. She had the overwhelming sense of being watched, and she knew full well that she was walking into an ambush. True, she could easily steal out of a side passageway and have a meal elsewhere, but that would invite some form of reprisal from her mother later. No, it was best to get it over with.
The second she stepped through the arch, the telltale whistle of a dagger met her sensitive ears. Already in motion, she flowed out of the weapon’s path along her abdomen with a careful sidestep. Another dagger, this time aimed at her head. Dropping low, two more flung at her knees. All said and done, six deadly knives embedded themselves in the walls about Reri as she ended her graceful ballet with a flourish.
That was her first mistake of the day.
“How many times have I told you…” came a velvety purr from right behind Reri. Before she could even process the words, the girl found herself in a tight headlock. “...that you should not be trying to show off to one far beyond you? Are you truly so vain that you think a simple twist of the hand will garner you favor in the arena?”
“Love… Love you too… Mom…” Reri spat as she pried in vain at her mother’s arm about her neck.
A chuckle slipped into her ear. “Now, repeat Rule #23 before you collapse from lack of oxygen.”
The chokehold increased, leaving Reri fighting to get the words from her throat. “E-Every movement should… be deliberate…”
“That’s my girl.”
In the time it took to blink, Reri found herself falling forwards as her mother’s hold upon her evaporated. Barely catching herself in time, the young Dark Eldar glared at the Succubi who was now opposite her in the kitchen. Acting as if nothing was amiss, Lelith hummed as she began to work the stove.
“How would you like your eggs, dear?” she inquired, voice thickly laden with a false sweetness one usually reserved for pets and small children.
“Soaked in your blood,” mumbled Reri under her breath as she rubbed her neck.
“Hmmm?”
“Scrambled.”
“I thought so. Set the table, would you?”
Making as much noise as she could, Reri grumpily prepared the ornate slab that took up a majority of the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. Beyond the voluptuous table lay a balcony adorned by flying buttresses. Not only did the platform offer its occupants an overlook of the arenas managed by the Cult of Strife, but, if one listened hard enough, they might even be able to hear the delectable cries of agony below. It was the sort of luxury afforded to only the most elite of Commorragh, but one Reri loathed all the same. Mostly due to the fact she seemed to be thrown off of it into the pits below every other day.
Still, there was one bright side to all this: her mother’s cooking. Somehow, in-between all the rigorous training Lelith did, she had honed her blade in proper food craft as well. The smell alone was enough to cause Reri’s mouth to water in anticipation.
“Hurry up, you old cow. Sometimes I wonder if you just enjoy watching me suffer,” she whined, only half-serious.
“Oh dear, you’ve found me out. Whatever shall I do…” came Lelith’s reply, as she strode into the room with two plate overburdened with food. “Eat up. I’m expecting a Scourge with your name on it shortly.”
Reri wasted no time in digging into the culinary work of art placed in front of her. Normally, she might check it for poison, but her mother never applied such when there was a job to do. Technically, Reri was not an official part of the Cult of Strife. Nor was she Lelith’s aide. Reri was a mercenary, one often used by her mother when she could not entrust a task to anyone else. It allowed the Queen to remain detached from the political machinations of the Dark City, all while being right in the middle of it.
Dabbing her face, the young Dark Eldar eyed her elder counterpart with curiosity. “I was supposed to meet up with Lord Vincus of the Shadow Eclipse today. Something about his Kabal’s beasts getting loose in the Old City. I take it this more important than some slaves being eviscerated and their masters complaining?”
Lelith chuckled as she picked her teeth clean. “Indeed. Far more. This comes as a personal favor from Vect himself.”
That got Reri’s full attention, albeit with a sigh. “Don’t tell me it’s another one of those packages of his. I still haven’t gotten all of the greenskin’s blood from my other set of armor.”
“Oh, but you loved every minute of those Orks falling around you. You might be young, but I know even you had to delight in that level of raw combat and pain.”
“Hmph. Still doesn’t make it any easier to clean. And besides, *some* of us don’t need to splurge on agony to keep ourselves looking good.”
“Remind me to have some bloodbrides pay you a visit later. Oh, but here’s your bird…”
Both women watched as a twisted, winged figure alighted on the balcony. At Lelith’s beckoning, the Scourge let himself into the dining room to stand before the pair.
“I bring word from Supreme Overlord Vect. For Hesperax’s eyes only.”
Lelith held out her hand expectantly, in which the Scourge deposited a wax-sealed missive. “Commorragh is better for your service. Take your pick of four slaves working on the exterior as a bonus for your efforts.”
“My Lady humbles me, I shall take my leave.” He bowed, then took off without wasting any further time. As Lelith began to unseal the message, both Dark Eldars’ sharp ears picked up the distant cries of alarm that indicated the Scourge had made his selection.
“Mrmm… Another package indeed. This time a Haemonculus whose name I do not recognize. Here.”
Reri caught the letter thrown at her like a dagger, then glanced at the single line upon it: “HAEMONCULUS BRYTH: 1”
“He’s never very specific, is he?”
Her mother shrugged as she made to clean up their dishes. “That’s Vect for you. Now run along before I decide to really send those bloodbrides at you.”
“Remind me to get you a mother-of-the-year award later.”
Chapter Two
“Moving on to item number twelve, we have an orphan from a recent raid on Piolea…” “No! Leave me alone! I want Mommy! I want Mommy!”
“As you can see, the mon’keigh’s anguish is simply delectable. Perfect for your personal use or even as a gift. We shall start the bidding at…”
Where is he… wondered Reri as she scanned the crowd of decrepit Parched. For a nightmarish surgeon of the damned, Haemonculus Bryth was proving hard to nail down. Reri’s information web had brought her here, to this auction of realspace raid goods, where Bryth was known to lurk. That fact alone was already setting off alarms in her head. Any self-respecting Haemonculus rarely left their laboratories within The Core, much less performed the menial task of slave-fodder gathering themselves. It reeked of a new Lord of Pain trying to establish a foothold, of one that was growing desperate, or perhaps of both. None of the cases helped explain why Vect was interested in this individual. Or, for that matter, what Bryth might have that Vect wanted.
Though, that was the nature of Vect’s tasks, Reri supposed. In each instance, she had been given a name and the number of items she was expected to collect from them. In some cases, the owner had already been informed of Vect’s interest and a deal struck behind the scenes. Those were the simple milk-runs, a glorified delivery service that, for some reason lost on Reri, could not be trusted to Scourge or countless other qualified individuals. Boring, but relatively safe. The real excitement came when her quarry made an effort to conceal the prize, making the trip down into the festering cesspool that was the Lower City worth the effort.
Lately, however, someone or something had gotten wind of Vect’s machinations. The Princess was used to being constantly tailed, but there was something far more sinister lurking in her shadows as of late. Mercenaries from the Null City, gangs of Hellions, and Incubi, to name a few. It all pointed to a plot much larger than herself, and made her current task all the more worrisome.
“Do I hear fifty? Fifty? Ladies and Gentleman, this child is from a nobleborn home, perfect for corruption and… Fifty from the man in blue. Do I hear sixty?”
There, hovering at the edge of the crowd. He’s alone. No Wrack bodyguards.
“Sixty going once… going twice… A splinter pistol aimed at my head from the woman in green. Do I hear a shardcarbine? ...A shardcarbine from the man in blue.”
“I WANT MY MOMMY!”
As the assemblage of wretches began to whip themselves into a hellacious standoff, Reri slipped from her vantage point and up behind the Haemonculi. Before he could react, she had planted a blade across his throat and against his back.
“Scream, and you will be the first food these pathetic excuses of flesh will taste. Do you understand?”
A nod. Good. That made things easier. Still, she had to act fast, before the crowd’s tension broke and a blood orgy erupted.
“You have something that you should have never had in the first place. You’re going to take me to it. Now.”
A flash, followed by a ripple of reactionary gunfire. Reflexively, Reri pulled the haemonculi out of harm’s way. The man’s sparse frame offered little resistance, but she still had to wrestle to keep him from escaping.
“You arrrrre too late, Prrrrincess… I’ve alrrrready sold it to someone…” His chuckle was cut short as the wych-blade began to slice into his neck.
“Who? Answer quickly. I give you about twenty seconds before you’re unable to speak, and another ten beyond that before the Parched start to tear you apart.”
“How darrre…!”
The dagger went deeper in response. “Who?”
“Some Mon’keigh, paid in Arrrcheotech…”
“Hmph. So you were just desperate, then. Pathetic. You don’t deserve to be called my kin.”
Twirling on her heels, Reri strode away from the cacophony of battle. Bryth’s head fell from his neck a moment later, much to the delight of the nearest Parched. Such self-contained riots were commonplace around auction-sites, and were the perfect means of disposing a body in a way that prevented any competent haemonculi from reviving them.
A Mon’keigh, huh? Maybe today won’t be boring after all…
Gallery
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Reri's choice of clothing is only slightly less revealing than her mother's.
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