A few short cycles. That was all the time it took for Naerion to despise every last molecule of Hierarch Andorahl. The incubus shrine leader had come upon him mere moments after reawakening from his painful initiation ceremony. And thereafter committed every waking moment to transforming Naerion's existence into a hell beyond imagining.

The Hierarch had sequestered Naerion in a remote corner of the shrine, for his own protection. Naerion was possessed with an uncontrollable desire for violence and bloodshed, and wanted nothing more than to lash out at the nearest living thing; and seeing that the nearest living things were mostly fully blooded incubus warriors, such yearnings would be a death sentence.

Instead the Hierarch threw wretched captives at him, which Naerion proceeded to beat into bloody unrecognizable pulps with his bare fists.

Andorahl was showing him a nadir of suffering that he never knew existed. Every pore of his body ached with want, the need to kill.

The formal training he had underwent as a fledgling was the best that the Invisible Hand kabal's exorbitant wealth could buy, his instructors had been merciless and demanding, often threatening him with the loss of various extremities if he did not show improvement. The regimen that Andorahl was subjecting him to was orders of magnitude more brutal and life threatening.

The sinister mercenary king was standing in the shadows, silently observing every action through his narrow emerald optics. What little light in the room reflected dimly from the dozens of fractured soul stones hanging from the bladed rack projecting over his shoulders, each one representing a craftworld warrior that he had personally vanquished. One such gem was affixed to the left pectoral region of the hierarch's breastplate, a duo of corrugated cables connected to the desecrated spirit savior, wrapping around the raised collar and connecting to the other side of the breastplate. This artifice was known as 'the Tormentor' it was well named, for Naerion had felt it's ravenous, nerve gnawing bite every time the Hierarch felt the slightest displeasure for his progress. His only consolation was that the Hierarch was only exercising a small portion of the device's potential, Naerion had personally seen unfortunates reduced to a quivering mass of tears and vacated bowels, whimpering pathetically, and in the case of bloodstones, reduced to a lumpen smear of bubbling, steaming flesh and blood on the floor.

Naerion had to remind himself that treading the Path of the Incubus would make him into a far more potent warrior, and in doing so quench the sanity destroying rage that had haunted him since fleeing the Rictrix Spire. But he failed to see how standing on one leg on top of a narrow pillar would bring him closer to his desire.

The exiled dracon controlled his posture with unerring precision, all muscles kept in check to maintain his balance. He was poised on his right foot, his body leaning slightly forwards, back arched in the other direction; his left arm thrust uncomfortably towards the ceiling, and his right clasped to his chest right beneath his sternum; his left leg extended backwards, keeping the rest of him stable. He had been holding this position for hours, and it was starting to take it's toll.

Andorahl himself was content to watch his newest disciple suffer. Truthfully, this particular session had run past it's course, but the Hierarch was unwilling to let the boy off when it was clear he could endure longer. It was uncommon for Trueborn to undergo the trials that uplifted eldar into true warriors, for one of Naerion's former standing it was almost unheard of. Indeed the vast majority of his warriors were halfborn, there were even a few that were of Exodite lineage. But only a small number were naturally born in the dark city. The trueborn believed that they were superior to all other denizens of the eternal city, by dint of being birthed by a female eldar, instead of the iron womb of a procreation tank; therefore they saw the Incubi as servants, albeit extremely valuable, and most importantly 'loyal' servants.

Naerion actually showed promise, if he survived he could very well become a potent asset to his shrine, though there were plenty in the brotherhood that would disagree. After all it would mean one of them would lose their head if his assumption proved correct.

"Postulant, you are troubled," Andorahl intoned suddenly, watching his student's posture shift slightly in surprise at being addressed.

"Hierarch, I do not wish to seem impudent..." he clenched his teeth, "But you have me standing here for hours and I have yet to divine any purpose behind it."

"You see my lessons as redundant?" The Hierarch questioned monotonously, but the threat behind the statement was chillingly clear.

"Are you angry?" He questioned.

"You will have to be more specific," Naerion growled, "I have felt nothing but anger since you started training me."

"Frustration is but the sickly cousin of anger, student!" The Hierarch snapped, "You have washed your hands in the blood of your predecessor, quaffed from the springs of Khaine's bloodlust. These things work well for you, but you will need more if you are to find success here."

He strode out of the shadows and stalked around the room. "You say that you find no purpose in this task, that your perspective is insufficient to divine the meaning behind it. That is because you have allowed your mind to grow still as you sought balance. Balance is a critical piece for any warrior, but true greatness requires power."

"Anger," answered Naerion.

"No, anger is too fleeting, one-dimensional," the Hierarch scoffed, "Anger is but a single step to the aspect of true strength. There is also hate, and pain." He stopped in front of Naerion, looking upwards and fixing the younger eldar with a cold, lidless gaze. "In every eldar, whether they be exodite, craftworlder, or born to Commorragh these things may be found, and yet all too often they are left unused."

Suddenly Naerion was aware that the Hierarch was no longer on the ground. Andorahl vaulted into him, he gave a strangled cry as he was knocked off his feet, and a cold metal gauntlet encircled his throat, the Hierarch's black sabatons stood squarely on the pillar whilst holding Naerion up by the neck. Andorahl needed only to will it, and his hand would crush Naerion's larynx.

"Does this frighten you? Do you fear death scion of Ynneath?" The Hierarch hissed, grip tightening, "You may have skill, you may have a measure of talent. But raw ability alone is worthless! Only through strife, one grows strong. Now show it to me, show me what makes you suffer!"

He remembers a voice, soft as silk as it sang him a lullaby. He remembered a smile, one reserved only for him, the only source of love and affection in his life. He recalled smiling back, unguarded, unafraid. He was happy.

A face resolved, creamy skin with colorful complexion, eyes narrow and purple, cheekbones set high, lips full. It was not a face native to the eternal city. Through the lens of a small child, she was the most wonderful thing he knew. In those younger days, he had a mother.

But in the end it had only been a passing thing.

That voice turned to screams of soul-rending agony. Her smile turned to a tormented grimace. That perfect face, so much like his own, came apart under the knives, the skin had turned pale when the blood came out. He had no mother.

"The pain, there it is," Andorahl snarled as he threw Naerion to the floor. The younger eldar rolled with the impact, quickly getting to his feet as the Hierarch landed gracefully a few strides away. "Life is pain, only in it's destruction can succor be found. Only in death do we find purpose in life."

A mailed fist matched coordinates with his head, causing hammers to ring in his skull as he stumbled back. Enraged Naerion struck pack, only for his fist to be stopped inches from the Hierarch's expressionless murder mask. The tormentor flashed, and a scream ripped out of his throat as the harmful energy set his nerves aflame. He fell to his knees, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he gazed up and shot a furious look at his teacher.

"What do you hate, Naerion?"

"Everything." The student spat.

"Then your training continues."

Larent Weks was a typical labor slave, condemned as countless billions of other people, human and xenos to toil in the sweatshops of their cruel eldar masters for the rest of their predictably short lives. Between the barely restrained anarchy and state-sponsored terrorism, the attrition rate amongst slaves was rather high. Just this morning he stepped away from his work station to relieve himself in the corner, and when he returned he found the man who had been working the machine next to him for the last three weeks, beheaded and partially eaten; likely the work of a mandrake.

Even still he tried to make the most of it, tried to ignore the sounds of weapons firing and pain filled screams echoing from every direction. He minded his own business while trying his best to remain below the notice of his alien masters.

Apparently he was unsuccessful. Now he was tied to a chair in a dark room, a single shaft of light fell from the ceiling to illuminate the bizarre figure standing in front of him. He wore a large coat with a huge collar, and a sinister death mask over his face, upon his back was a heavy weapon of some sort. He was at once gaudy and dark, electrifying but depressing.

"What do you want?" Larent asked the elaborately dressed stranger wearily.

"Many things, but sadly I can't quite come to own all of them, such is my life," the eldar replied with dramatic grief, "But for the present I desire perspective."

The lights came on and Larent's eyes widened slightly. All of his fellow slaves were on the floor, stone dead. They had all apparently been killed by several shots to the head.

"Tragic isn't it?" the eldar asked mournfully.

"What did you do to them? Why?"

"Them? Oh, they simply went crazy when I told them that those guns shot pudding. So very unfortunate."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to do nothing, least of all believe."

"Why are you here?" He demanded.

"I will get to that, but is that really the question you wanted to ask?" the dark fool asked.

There was silence, "Are you going to kill me?"

"Oh that's a good one!" the jester applauded, "You see homicide is a little hobby of mine. It's one I cannot get enough of, and there is always room for improvement! As long as you apply yourself, stay focused, and keep shooting."

"You're insane," Larent said.

"That's exactly what my father said before I cut him into pieces. My sister elaborated the same before I starved her and fed father's minced remains to her, I even got her to laugh as she did so. But in the end she could not take a little joke, so she went and spoiled everything by jumping onto a sword, leaving me with nobody to talk to." The alien chuckled perversely, "Another thing me and dear Naerion have in common; troublesome family." He leaned over him slowly, "Do you have family?"

"Not anymore," Larent answered, "My brother and father were sent to a Wych arena and never came back, my mother was transformed into a flesh sculpture, and my sisters were sent to a breeding mill... I probably have a lot of nieces and nephews by now."

"You seem rather content with that."

"I just can't give a shit anymore," Larent said quietly.

"And that is why I want to hire you," the death jester responded.

"Excuse me?"

"I have a homecoming planned," the harlequin drawled, "For a rather dashing personage that I referred to earlier. He's been trying to take a new direction in his life, and needs to have his achievement recognized, but in order to do that I will need the help of someone who is incapable of sympathy, someone so cynical that the suffering of others is at best a source of cheap entertainment and at worst background noise."

"So most of the city's population then," Larent said skeptically, "Why am I so special?"

"Because as you so eloquently put it; 'don't give a shit.'"

"Whatever, what's in it for me?"

"I will forgo killing you."

"Hmph, anything else?"

"Safe passage to realspace."

"Sounds fine," he agreed completely nonchalant. "My boss is dead now anyway."

"Splendid. We are going to do wonderful things you and I," the dark harlequin gestured theatrically.

"Doubt it, who are you anyway?"

"I go by many names my apathetic ally, but you may call me Hassarian."

"By taking life, you gain power over your own; this is the way of the Incubus," Andorahl intoned as he guided Naerion through the many and strenuous poses of Arhra's chosen.

"You came to me seeking to escape your rage, yet see how much you crave it. You must master two planes, war and vigilance, in equal respect. The stage we control, the wrath of Khaine, must be worn as raiment over your soul, and never be cast aside. Perfection is the goal, war helps us pursue this perfection, and then follows the stillness. You must reject peace, for it is only an empty illusion, even in the absence of enemies conflict is eternal. Peace has never existed, there is only the ragged breaths between one war and the next, it is in these times of stillness we stand vigilant and rearm our spirits for the moment war begins anew."

Naerion allowed these words to twist through his thoughts like serpents in the vine. Repeating them in his mind made them seem all the more profound, a dark epiphany that served to further unravel the enigmas of the mortal experience.

"If taking life in anger is the way of the Incubus, what purpose does it serve to protect?" Naerion dared to ask.

"One who slays without regard, without focus, without purpose has no claim to the mantle of the warrior. By offering our service to bringers of worthy tribute we are given a purpose, and within this purpose we find conflict upon which we perfect ourselves. In this regard, the Archons who seek us out serve us in more ways than we have ever served them, for it is we who emerge the greater when the pact is sealed."

This answer caused Naerion to think about the times he relied on his own Incubi escort. The idea that they had been silently taking advantage of him ground against his sense of pride. As a dracon, Naerion had held the Incubi in the greatest trust, blades that would never turn against him. Eldar that can be trusted to keep their word were as precious as they were practically non-existent, which was why powerful archons went to such lengths to procure the services of the Incubi sect, for they offered an incorruptible barrier to grasping minions seeking to supplant them.

"I thought..."

"You were convinced that my brethren's willingness to die on your behalf was a reflection of esteem? Of respect?" The Hierarch's mocking laugh echoed through the chamber, "We are loyal only to Arhra's creed of warfare which serves to support the political establishment of Commorragh, which ensures the continuity of the True People. The spoiled brat you were before pales in comparison to what you are becoming now."

"So you concede that I am making progress," Naerion observed.

"I concede nothing," Andorahl replied, "The fact that your head yet remains attached to your body should be all you need to confirm that my patience – limited as it is – has yet to reach it's end for you. As it is you are less than completely trifling – and may yet have a place amongst my followers. But the trials of endurance shall persist in the meanwhile."

"What must be done to continue forward?"

"A war-spirit must be kindled for the trials that follow. It is your anger, your will to destroy that endows the gift of heightened senses. It is a state of perspective to hone to the keenest of edges. You must channel this hatred, master it, make it a permanent aspect of your identity. When you can do that, when you become anger, you will have your war-spirit."