"Is an eldar not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No!' says the simpletons in the Exodite Worlds, 'it belongs to the world spirit.' 'No!' says She Who Thirsts, 'it belongs to Me.' 'No!' says the farseer in the craftworld, 'it belongs to everyone.' I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Commorragh. A city where the artist would not fear the censor; where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality; where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Commorragh can be your city as well." -Asdrubael Vect, brought to you by the Commorrite tourism association.

Commorragh. Dark, delicious, eternal Commorragh. A place of infinite possibility and irony, where suffering and agony are the daily fair of ageless creatures of unspeakable wickedness. The city is a machine fueled by the bodies of innocents doomed to endure the depravations of it's citizens in their quest to cheat an ancient evil of their ancestors' creation. A curse that lays waste to their bodies and spirits that can only be mended by the emotional torment of lesser creatures.

It is a city for the predator, the revolutionary, the leader, and the enslaved. Intrigue runs from it's sewers to it's spires, from the endless political dances of the archons and trueborn to the murderous sell-steel henchmen that fight in their name in the district tiers below. Alliances were forged and broken on a monthly basis, all who played the game knew that the stakes were total, and the price for stumbling could very well mean a long awaited appointment with She Who Thirsts.

This was a fact prevalent on the mind of a particular trueborn. Naerion Ynneath, 492nd pureblood descendant of the Ynneath dynasty, firstborn son of Archon Kuhral Ynneath of the Invisible Hand Kabal was currently hiding in an abandoned dwelling in Lower Commorragh, seeking to evade those he once wielded great authority over. Kabalite warriors and agents of the Invisible Hand were even now searching for him, either mounted in Raiders gliding over the districts, or hiding among the plebeians just waiting to catch sight of him.

Why may you ask was this highborn warrior hiding in the gutters of the lower tiers rubbing shoulders with lowborn cutthroats and slavish vermin? Truthfully Naerion had underestimated the competition, or rather an individual he had never considered to be part of the game in the first instance. Namely his deranged half-sister Anaeil Ynneath, a woman who to him had been nothing more than an immature and incompetent sybarite, a family member that could be brushed aside as an afterthought. That is until she killed their father, and did so in a way that directly incriminated him. While normally this would be cause for congratulation among his peers, seeing as he was next in line for succession, but his sister had been busy. She must have been making deals and forging pacts for several decades in total secrecy, playing on the fact that his attention had been focused on his more visible rivals. Rather than he claiming what was rightfully his, Anaeil called him out on his 'crime' and to his horror the Kabal sided with her. Many of his allies turned on him on the spot once they saw where the wind was blowing, the rest were killed or forced into hiding like he was now.

The Invisible Hand had a new Archon now, and she had little patience for rival siblings, she would settle for nothing less than his head on her desk. Despite himself, Naerion could not help but admire his half-sister's cunning and subterfuge, she played the game like a true master. And like him knew well to dispatch loose ends. That did not mean he would take this lying down, he fully intended to make Anaeil regret him surviving her treachery. Be it a century or a millennium he would not rest until he had his vengeance, and inflicted upon her a punishment of such screaming retribution, it would be celebrated in song for ages to come.

But for now, he would have to settle for his current predicament. Having abandoned his masterfully crafted suit of armor in favor of an old cloak and facemask, he had evaded the Kabalites and taken refuge in this rotten abode, it's former occupant lay in the corner upon a pool of blood, a crescent moon of crimson drawn into his neck.

Lower Commorragh was an overbuilt miasma of impossible architecture, spacial-anomalies, and gutted ruins shrouded in the darkness of the spires and bridges that branched out so thickly overhead, no light ever reached the streets below. The minds of lesser races have been known to break just by looking at it for too long.

The building he was now occupying was a mouldering ruin of peeling walls, and cracked ceilings constructed from a cheap resinous material.

As he contemplated his situation, Naerion spun a monomolecular blade in glittering arcs in one hand as he gazed upon the door, his other hand rested on the butt of a splinter pistol. With his allies gone, Anaeil was far out of his reach, and with the full might of the Invisible Hand at her command, she was practically untouchable. This was something that needed to be handled with patience, and tact. His advantage lay in the fact that just as he had underestimated her, she had overlooked his own capabilities. And now that her hand was turned, he would not underestimate her ever again. He would wait, gather strength, let her twist in the wind and let her guard down, and then he would strike.

He cursed his father for siring that harpy. And while he had every intention of one day disposing of him and assuming leadership of the Kabal for himself, a small withered part of him mourned his loss. Kuhral had done more than sire him, he had elevated Naerion above all others and taught him how to survive the endless intrigue of Kabalite politics, it was the closest thing to a caring parent one could find in Commorragh. Naerion swiftly banished those thoughts, he never had parents, in the end Kuhral had been just another obstacle in his plans, and now Anaeil had taken his place and would be likewise dealt with.

Naerion paused the dagger in it's mesmerizing dance over his fingers, and angled the blade so it caught his reflection. Pale, angular, patrician features framed with raven locks, and set with an amethyst gaze stared right back at him upon the surface of the polished metal. His was a face not so easily missed, greatly out of place next to the half-born degenerates that inhabited these regions of the eternal city. He was after all an important figure in many political circles up until two cycles ago.

It was therefore probably prudent to pay a visit to one of the haemonculi covens to have his features reshaped into a less recognizable form. But the thought stung his vanity bitterly, Naerion was very proud of the way he looked. Besides, he wanted his sister to recognize him before he cut out her eyes.

His sensitive ears detected the subtle hum of a Raider flying over the building, he could not stay here for long.

(Rictrix Spire, High Commorragh)

The kabalite fortress of the Invisible Hand was built into the apogee of the Rictrix spire, nestled deep in the most luxurious and wealthy part of the dark city. The fortress appeared as a barbed fruit mounted upon the tip of a spear, large numbers of skimmer craft and scourges flew around and upon it like a pox of flies.

The Invisible Hand was an old and powerful kabal, where other petty archons would need to endure the presence of other kabals in their own tier, the Invisible Hand had the entire spire to themselves, having long driven any rivals out into the lower districts. The Invisible Hand maintained it's own docks and shipyards, barracks, training fields, and factories giving them a self sufficiency that the vast majority of kabals lacked.

This was the legacy that newly ascended Archon Anaeil Ynneath had inherited. This was the culmination of fifty years of silent maneuvering, clandestine meetings, and the carefully orchestrated elimination of opponents. And in the end, she managed to not only kill her father, but remove her strongest opponent from the equation. But there was still a blemish on her victory; Naerion was still alive. Arrogant as he was, Naerion is a highly clever and resourceful creature. And now that she had lost track of him, he was more dangerous than ever.

Her underlings were of course hard at work trying to find and eliminate her wayward sibling, her saving grace lay in the fact that for all his subtleties, Naerion was unfamiliar with the regions and sub-realms below High Commorragh, having only left the spire to take part in raids, and then coming back bringing fresh captives and other spoils.

This inexperience would have invariably drawn him to seek shelter in Lower Commorragh, a warren constantly fought over by highly territorial kabals which tend to kill all trespassers on sight. There was hope in her darkened heart, that her brother's life would be claimed by the uncountable dangers and endless turf wars inimical to the area and it's decaying outer districts.

Still the Thirteen Foundations of Vengeance spoke very clearly on this – an enemy can never be presumed dead unless his body is found.

She sat regally upon her throne of obsidian and bone. The red half-light of the Ilmaea, Commorragh's captive suns, taken from realspace at the height of the Eldar Empire's glory and technological mastery, filled her throne room with their dying rays. Casting a hellish gleam upon the gaunt figure standing at the foot of the rings of steps which connected her raised dais to the floor, his head was bowed in silent submission.

"I trust you have everything in order?" She asked the wizened eldar. He looked up to her, pitch black eyes of infinite sadism and malice shouting out his profession as a master haemonculus. His name was Zalikith, a member of that mysterious and rightly feared class of torture scientists and flesh crafters, and masters of an art that made them an invaluable cornerstone of Commorrite civilization.

"Yes Lady Ynneath, everything is in place for the event that should you meet an untimely fate, you will not endure True Death," Zalikith purred, his sickly smile stretching his almost translucent skin.

Haemonculi have the ability to resurrect the recently departed, they can regenerate the body of an eldar from the merest scraps of flesh, thereby saving their souls from being devoured by She Who Thirsts and effectively cheating death. It was this contingency that made getting rid of her father, the previous Archon all the more difficult.

And as her coup had proven, the system was not infallible, there were ways to bestow guaranteed True Death upon a rival, but they were far from cheap or plentiful. But their mere existence was a threat to the future of her reign. Oh how fortunate was she, to have attracted the services of a being who specialized in the field of risk management.

"Excellent," she said steepling her fingers. Her throne room was empty for this discourse, the Incubi who had been guarding her father at the time of his demise had been killed by the same destructive event that lynch pinned her rise to power, an event that had unfortunately greatly angered the Hierarch of their shrine, who quickly saw through her scheme, voiding a contract that had lasted centuries. It would take a while to find another shrine willing to service her needs. She could not trust her own warriors to a task as vital as bodyguard duty.

"And what of your dear brother, my lady?" Zalikith inquired.

Anaeil's expression deepened to a frown, "He will be found and eliminated, if not by my own warriors than the denizens of Lower Commorragh, I have placed quite a lucrative murder-fee on his head, one that will ensure he receives no respite."

The haemonculus bowed his head almost imperceptibly as a sign of acknowledgment, "A shame truly, I had hoped to use his flesh as a canvas for my latest inspiration, he was such a promising specimen, excellent condition, no prior reanimations..." Anaeil silenced him with a raised hand. Not at all interested in hearing an academic dissertation of Naerion's body.

"That's enough, dear Zalikith, you may excuse yourself from my presence," she said offhandedly, reminding the haemonculus of his place.

"As you wish, mistress," Zalikith bowed with a measured slowness that lay just between mocking and condescending.

He then turned and headed for the exit.

When he was out of earshot, Anaeil let a hiss of anger escape her lips. If it was anyone else, she would have flayed them alive for such impertinence and gall. But Zalikith was invaluable to her ends, and the arrogant pain artist knew it. But if he were to ever pay such insult in front of her underlings, she would have no choice but to have him made an example of, fortunately he seemed to know that too.

More to the point, assassinating a haemonculus was poorly looked upon, and it would make the various haemonculi covens very leery of bestowing their patronage; and a kabal without access to their unique brand of expertise would die out very quickly.

She consoled herself that in time, his usefulness would come to any end, and she could discharge his services in favor of a more respectful chief haemonculus. And by that time Naerion would be dead, and her hold over the Invisible Hand total. She still had to weed out those who had been secretly backing her brother, and the fools who were already aligning themselves against her, intent on taking control of the kabal for themselves.

In this city, there was no margin allowed for error.

A/N: I know, some of you want to kill me for making another Warhammer story while the other is unfinished, but I just couldn't help it! I've always wanted to write a Dark Eldar story, specifically one about the Incubi. Plus with the Dark Eldar, I can write characters in the most over the top fashion without breaking the theme of the faction, as long as I make them classy about it. All around, the Dark Eldar are fun to write about.