Out of Character: This is not meant to be a definitive "fixing" of Warhammer 40,000, it's more of a reworking of it to suit my tastes. People should be allowed to enjoy whatever version of the setting they like, including the canon one. This work also covers themes of violence and sexuality and is not suitable for those under 18.
In Character: Good evening, everyone. I've got my Terran merlot and the days' combat is complete. My name is Ynathe Azuuza ("Yin-Ath A-zoo-za"), I am a Wych gladiator in Commorragh, I enjoy long walks on the beach and short kills, and you may refer to me as the "Goddess of Pain" if "Ynathe Azuuza" is too tricky.
I have recently come into the possession of a series of manuals for a wargame played on some Imperial worlds. This wargame is seemingly intended to justify the Imperium of Man's policy to the teenage and adult Terrans who enjoy it, and as such I will use my elite education to separate truth from lies.
Surely an empire of blood's propaganda is worth dissecting? This work is the
Codex: Drukhari, for the Ninth Edition of the wargame. I do wish to state outright that I do not judge anyone who plays this game, nor do I condemn anyone who may prefer to imagine the universe as a vast expanse full of "only war". To quote a wiser Mon'keigh (affectionate) than most: "If we shadows have offended / Think but this, and all is mended / That you have but slumbered here / While these visions did appear / And this weak and idle theme / no more yielding but a dream".
Whether this world or that one dominated by war is the dream is up to the dreamer.
Let us begin.
Welcome, galactic raider, to Codex: Drukhari. In your hands is a tome to entice and amuse your jaded passions. Inked upon its bound pages are revelations of the cruel drives of a decadent alien aristocracy, the depths to which these sadistic pirates gladly dove to survive and the ways in which they flourish, unhindered, in a fractured and fearful galaxy.
A fine start! Surely this tome will entice and amuse. However, let us look at the word choice. "Cruel drives" and "decadent alien aristocracy" are not objective terms. We Drukhari can be cruel, yes, but are we able to be simply defined as cruel? No, we are as varied and complex as any Terran, and I find it hard to read with a straight face that we Drukhari are so cruel when the Imperium to this day worships a man their own species nailed to a post and left to die. It was humanity, after all, that invented crucifixion.
Still, I do like the rest of this description. It paints us as fearsome villains, which is always fun. I will note, however, that one of the main groups the Imperium likes to paint as fearsome villains are those with non-normative sexual preferences. While the Imperium has little use for discrimination against homosexuals in committed relationships, even the odd-yet-harmless beyond that are treated as gateways to Slaaneshi madness. Terrans often call those who refuse to submit to cowards mad. It is an interesting quirk of the species.
The Drukhari are a degenerate society of the ancient Aeldari xenos race. They are a dark culture of torturers and raiders, striking out at the galaxy's inhabitants from their labyrinthine shadow-realm of Commorragh. Selfish, prideful, arrogant and murderous, the Drukhari area self- serving people. The militant syndicates of their Kabals, the hedonistic gladiatorial cliques known as Wych Cults and the Haemonculus Covens that operate gruesome guilds of arcane alchemists all vie with each other for power and material wealth. The Drukhari's fractured civilisation is held together with fear, intimidation anda horrific trade in pain and torment that feeds their withered souls.
I am sure one can read the drooling contempt in these words. We cannot simply be "ancient" or "storied", we must be "degenerate". We cannot be "confident", we must be "arrogant". We are murderous, but so are most sapient species. We Drukhari are little more violent than most, we simply are honest about the beautiful horror. I will give them this, "hedonistic gladiatorial cliques" does describe our Wych Cults well. The description of the Haemonculi is unenlightened and highlights pulpishness. As for that last sentence,
et tu?
The diverse range of Drukhari miniatures offers a fantastic array of options for both veteran hobbyists and newcomers alike. Just as the factions within Commorragh society ally and rupture in shifting collusions, your realspace raiding party on the tabletop might be made up of a mixture of forces. Conversely, they may concentrate solely on one or two armies to represent the warriors of a single, obsessed noble. Perhaps you prefer gang-like cartels made up of Kabalite Warriors and their ruling Archons, supported by attack craft such as Voidraven Bombers or the winged services of mercenary Scourges. Maybe the exotic arena fighters of the Wyches are more your style, leaping into battle from baroque, skimming transports and being accompanied to war by exotic beasts. Or perhaps your raiding party requires the surgical horror of the Haemonculi and their shambling creations, wielding toxin-coated blades.
Shockingly, after the last bits of fascistic bigotry, we get this paragraph. It is almost entirely accurate, save for the choice of words such as "gang-like" and "surgical horror". This does effectively capture the might and beauty of our kind at war. Perhaps some Terrans might see through the nonsense and come join us. We do get Terrans here, of varying moralities.
[This Codex] also contains exciting Crusade content you can use to follow the sadistic careers of your arrogant warriors from one prey-world to the next, as they amass ever more power.
We Drukhari have little use for power. What we want is beauty, thoughtful joy, and self-mastery. Terrans so commonly fantasize that their values are universal.
Power is only as useful as it can be exchanged for better things.
To those they leave alive to spread fear of their passing, these arrogant xenos are evil incarnate. While the Drukhari's superior science has mastered a multitude of feats, it ultimately focuses on their victims' misery—how to create it and how to prolong it.
...We would not be where we are if we were so obsessed with cruelty. Species that focus on suffering to that extent simply do not develop societies at all. Oh, and while there is beauty in the misery of others, most Drukhari prefer to appreciate that from the consenting or deserving. The finest misery to sample is one's own, for one knows it most well.
Then again, it's a bit harder to justify extermination when one considers those facts.
The Drukhari exhibit every obsessive and wanton act of cruelty that all Aeldari risk giving into.
"They hate us because they ain't us". We Drukhari engage in our cruelty with knives. The Craftworld Aeldari do it with planet-obliterating orbital bombardment. The Terrans see themselves in our fallen brothers and sisters, and are thus sympathetic to them. Furthermore, the Terrans are quite aware that to be a Drukhari is to be free. It is not our occasional savagery that they object to, not really. It's the idea that someone could be happy and good to others without kneeling and scraping to anyone with a rank. They make specters to scare themselves.
From the depths of their subdimensional realm - the Dark City of Commorragh - raiding parties of sadistic Drukhari gleefully strike out.
So do ships helmed by artists, philosophers, sculptors, and pleasure-ships of every shade. There are raids, though, during war. Why that is abnormal is beyond me.
Little pleases the Drukhari more than the screams of their prey, the sight of horror in their victims' eyes or the feel of flesh parting under their blades. Every nuance of misery that the refined senses of the Aeldari can detect—the sight, sound, and taste of suffering—is a potent narcotic that Drukhari raiders rapaciously consume.
Well, this is exterminationist rhetoric. We are not demons. Some of us are killers—such as myself—and our culture is invested in pain, but there is a good reason we have Wyches. We want to be here. We want to test ourselves, to experience each other's excitement, pain, and bloodlust. We also enjoy our sadism in the form of theatre, public demonstrations, and the like. I promise you,
most Drukhari have better things to do than sample the less-than-ethical and entirely boring sensation of yet another screaming human. Besides, is there not some beauty in the embrace of pain? It is inevitable, so why shouldn't suffering be beautiful rather than ugly?
The Drukhari are tall, slender, and graceful in form, with natural athleticism, lithe strength, and perceptive senses. Their long lines are artificially extended by gruesome means, enabling them to devote their piercing intellect across entire epochs to the mastering of singularly depraved obsessions.
Other than the value judgments, this is all surprisingly complimentary. We, as a species, are artists. Not raiders, not torturers, not monsters, not devils, but artists. Pain is not the only art form of ours, but it is common and appreciated. Still, a Terran Sister of Battle is far more likely to enact unwanted pain outside of war than the vast majority of our kind. One might call it pain with a prayer.
Once brought to Commorragh [our Dark City], these unfortunates [captives] are hunted in vast arenas watched by thousands, experimented upon with vile surgeries and drugs, or are used fulfil any of the countless roles by which the Drukhari can profit off of their suffering.
Some captives are, those taken in war, and notably we give them the chance to win their freedom. It's more merciful than an Exterminatus. As for "vile surgeries and drugs", while that is not unheard of most of the time those who come to Commorragh
want to be experimented on. Our biosurgery is second to none, and for every unethical Kabal leader testing some sick project there are tens of thousands of Terrans who come to the Dark City to be sculpted into forms befitting them. Some want to be Amazons, others Thors, and many simply wish to be puppygirls or kittenboys taken care of by a loving Drukhari. The pain of the scalpel too can be beautiful, and I mean that for all involved.
All Drukhari desire to sate a gnawing need at their heart to inflict pain whenever possible. If not against the other races of the galaxy, then readily upon other Drukhari within Commorragh.
We can heal as much as we can hurt. Many long to—for a short time—embrace the beauty of being given the blood eagle, only to be patched up later and praised for their sacrifice. Oh, and not all. There are a few of us who are uninterested in misery and pain. They are fine and generally happy, much as you or I might not be interested in sculpture or art. If humanity is so inept at altering the human body, shouldn't they improve rather than assume everyone else must be evil?
As for our ferocity against the Imperium, well, if you back any animal into a corner it will bite rather than flee.
Commorragh is unlike any city of the Imperium. It is a twisted, fractured connection o fsub-dimensions and satellite realms within the shifting webway oflegend. Human captives brought into its environs cannot comprehend even the fraction they can see of the dark and shadowy landscape. A labyrinth of dark spires, crowded slums, starship docks and vast arenas — threaded through with streams of screaming captives and snarling beasts — overlays layers of hidden donjons, oubliettes and secret abodes. The temporal and spatial irregularities within the webway have allowed Commorragh to spread and branch like a tainted, crystalline fungus that reflects the society within. Cunning and powerful factions vie for prominence in a realm where piracy, murder, scheming, and betrayal are facts of everyday life. Only the strong survive in Commorragh, and the Drukhari have had millennia to winnow out the weak.
Even in their daydreams, they can't help but think of a hive city when they imagine a city of sin and murder. Where is the description of the shining temples, the theatres, the houses of craft and the spires of satisfaction? Where is the beauty in this description? Every city has its corpses, but my Commorragh is not some Terran termite's nest.
As for the "Only the strong survive" bit, well, I will admit that strength is valued. However, there is a place for weakness. The strong might be great painters, but no painter is worth anything without his muse. We protect our muses, in most cases. We are no angels, but we Drukhari are no demons either.
Any knowledge of xenos is brutally suppressed within the Imperium. Thus, only a fraction of Mankind's teeming trillions knows anything of the Aeldari's supposed history. Of these, most are high-ranking agents within the shadowy Ordo Xenos of the Inquisition. Some within this group are entrusted by Aeldari contacts with tales that claim to tell of the Fall of their race, yet the natural suspicion of Inquisitors leads them to view such data as disinformation, myth or, at best, apocalyptic metaphor. Nevertheless, they are tales that al Aeldari learn and that different strands of their race treat variously as cautionary tales of hubris, stories of ultimate betrayal and even accounts of the excision of weakness.
The ancient Aeldari empire existed as the most advanced and dominant race in the galaxy many millions of years ago. Through their science they created worlds and extinguished stars, while the unlimited potential of their psychic arts ensured that there was no force that could deny their authority. The technologies at their fingertips meant the Aeldari could livea life of leisure free from concepts of manual labour, able to pursue any diversions their powerful emotions and soaring intellect could conceive. Using the webway, they travelled between the stars of the galaxy in a heartbeat, delving into esoteric studies and unusual passions.
The long lifespan of the Aeldari led many to seek ever more extreme avenues of exploration as they tested the limits of their own psyches. The thoughts and emotions of their race can rise to heights of bliss or plumb dark nadirs of anguish that are unknown to Mankind. These extremes were reached for by many of an arrogant race that increasingly saw itself as far beyond any boundaries of morality.
We will find as we read that the Terrans are often quite critical of their masters. The Emperor cannot see everything. However, Terran supremacy as a narrative is not necessarily based on the Imperium being good, so much as every other species and race being somehow worse. It is true that we as a species were once gods, and that we have fallen far since then. We had, in a phrase, a truly liberated society. How long ago! How foolish we were! Slaanesh was created out of our hubris, not our decadence.
Mankind preaches that She Who Thirsts was born out of some deviance or liberation. It keeps their subjects in line. Rather, Slaanesh was born out of
joy. Slaanesh was the final grin of a civilization that had begun to lose itself in joy. There is nothing wrong with joy, but it must come with self-understanding and self-mastery, or simple joy may bind us to its service. We had to step back. We had to turn from that final laughter. We had to know our joy and make it with our skill, not simply to give ourselves to it. That is why we hide in the Dark City, because we do not want to trade self-mastery and self-love for someone else's.
...Or, if you ask the Terrans, it was because we didn't have conventional sexual interactions. I suppose it's up to the individual.
Yet with lax regulation, Commorragh grew ever larger and became a home for every illicit and reprehensible pastime within the empire. The dilettante lords and ladies who headed many of the pleasure cults grew more powerful and, with both their influence and Commorragh's vast flows of shipping and connections, countless shadowy creeds spread to world after world.
It is a large city. All of them are like this.
There were those in the Aeldari empire, among the spiralling insanities and obsessions pervading their people, who foresaw calamity. Some of the first to act were the Exodites, who left the decadent centres of civilisation behind to begin again on wilderness worlds far from
the trappings of indulgence and excess. Much later, after incalculable efforts of psychic engineering, amovement of ascetic puritans departed on delicate planet-sized ships, bearing huge colonies through the void and into the depths of empty space. These were the craftworlds, and among those who fled upon them were many with the seer sight. They prophesied a terrifying and tragic horror ahead that echoed through time. Their warnings were scoffed at or ignored, and some of their number fell foul of the influential pleasure cults before they had chance to escape.
Freed of the appalled and doubting elements that had barely kept it in check, Aeldari society plunged deeper into lascivious decay. Towards the end, the streets of their ancient cities ran with blood. Star-spanning orgies of pleasure and unbridled violence accompanied clashing rhythms, dazzling sights and depraved crimes as the Aeldari tore one another apart in heady displays of cruelty. In truth, their race's decline had taken many millennia to congeal into this grotesque abomination of reality. When the end came, it was ina single, horrifying instant.
...The Imperium, as usual, can't even propagandize for the Exodites and Craftworlders without barely-hidden contempt. The narrative of a "sane, traditional countryside against a decadent and mad city" is also extremely common in Terran rhetoric and has been for quite some time. The word "fascist" has lost all meaning, but the Imperium is a textbook fascist state. Next, the idea our very happiness was a "grotesque abomination of reality" is both sickening and perverse. They would turn our peak and re-examination of ourselves into some simple morality play to justify their genocidal rule.
In their supreme arrogance, they did not cease their quest for excess and selfish fulfilment, not even for a moment. Repentance, atonement, or shame for what they surely must have understood could be traced, in part, to their own actions were unknown concepts to a people who acknowledged no limits on their ambition or power...They had not escaped the Fall of their race, though it was a long time before they realized it. Rather than having their sentient essence consumed by the Chaos God in one great draught, their souls were slowly draining away, drip by drip, into the warp. There, they were swallowed by Slaanesh, the abhorrent warp entity that haunts every Aeldari, and they all know as She Who Thirsts.
...The person who wrote this is a fool and too "arrogant" for their own good. This is a complete misunderstanding of the situation with Slaanesh, and one that only legitimizes Imperial brutality. Our race never Fell, it simply peaked, and our souls are our own. The Terran wants to portray every empire as in decline but their own. Slaanesh's souls aren't being eaten, there are simply those who would abandon life to embrace eternal joy. They aren't souls being siphoned, simply defectors to ouside of the Webway. The passage continues on to describe a species that realized that others could suffer in their stead. This is not why we appreciate the art forms of misery and pain. We appreciate those things because they are reminders that the world is real and that there is beauty and warmth in more than endless joy.
Trust an Imperial to come up with wild justifications for the inherent evil of their "foes".
The most powerful individual in al of Drukhari society has countless epithets: The Lord of Darkness; the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh; the Living Muse; the Upstart Filthling. Asdrubael Vect's is the hand that moves the pieces in the insane geometries of conspiracies, favours and contracts that dominate Commorragh. He is feared, despised, fawned on - and perhaps even revered ~ by the shifting forces that control the city of horrors as he sits at the peak of this hierarchy.
Lord Vect is every single thing described in this passage. He is mighty, brave, brilliant, creative, passionate, and at times ruthless. He commands respect and fear in equal measure. He is not a good man, but he is a great one. He is not the Caligula imagined by some, he is thoroughly a Justinian.
It is said he was merely a warrior-slave when Slaanesh tore its way into being. Once a low-born nothing sold to the pleasure cults for some abominable degradation, now he rules with both an iron fist and a hidden blade — one his detractors only realise is at their throats too late.
Despite Vect's self-asserted position of absolute power, Commorrite society is far from centralised. The Supreme Overlord reigns overa splintered civilisation of self-serving interests. These range from coordinated organisations to warring gangs that roam the fringes of society, and derelicts seeking survival at the Dark City's desolate outskirts. Commorragh remains an incomprehensibly vast webway hub, and within its environs are renegades, criminals and mercenaries from many cultures, not to mention the masses of captives from every corner of the galaxy. All of this writhes under the boot of Vect.
It is true that Vect was a warrior-slave. Slavery, a shameful practice, was practiced out of desperation after the Birth of Slaanesh. The situation was post-apocalyptic, but I will make no excuses for it. It is a practice that is firmly relegated to history. The rest of this is more or less true. Vect has less power than he would like people to think, and our society isn't particularly authoritarian.
Amongst the most powerful institutions of Commorragh are the Kabals, each a kind of militaristic cartel or private army, — such as Vect's own Kabal of the Black Heart. These gang-like societies maintain their power via the realspace raids their ruling Archons launch. The Wych Cults, meanwhile, stage incredible displays of gladiatorial debaucheries within immense arenas, feeding Commorrite society with gory spectacles. In the bowels of the Dark City's pitch-black underworld, the Haemonculi Covens practice their arts of flesh sculpting, soul syphoning and vile regeneration, their costly services always in high demand. Surrounding these three pillarsofCommorragh aremercenaries fulfilling subtler requirements. Through the striking of contracts between these factions, realspace raids often contain uneasy allies — such pacts evaporating once the spoils are divided.
The Kabals are not private armies, they are hosts held by the lords of our city, each Kabal mustered in the name of the defense of the Dark City. One may be confused as to phrases like the Black Heart and Dark City. We are what we are. This is an entirely accurate description of the Wych Cults, though it omits the consenting nature of the warriors and the elements of dance and theatre that are involved in the battles. The fact that most of the pain can be undone medically also evades our author's notice. As for that final sentence, I am insulted by the implication that the Drukhari are anything but trustworthy and respectable people.
In the murderous society of Commorragh, Drukhari with aspirations for enormous power — which is the overwhelming majority — will easily make enemies and draw unwanted attention. This makes them vulnerable, and makes reaching the heights they wish to achieve almost impossible. Thus, most Drukhari wish to join a Kabal, though competition is fierce and the initiation rites extremely bloody. Within a Kabal there is the safety of numbers anda ladder of hierarchy they can climb. An attack on a Warrior of a Kabalite is seen as an attack on them all, and so a modicum of order is maintained — Kabals will not make dangerous enemies unless they see their own position as being strong enough to withstand the potential fallout. This does not mean, however, that particular individuals in a rival Kabal cannot, or should not, be eliminated, i tjust means that the way in which they are removed has to be more subtle. So does this power structure incentivise murder by subterfuge and careful scheming.
All authority comes from force, but no functional society is built on naked force. Kabalites have strict codes of honor and laws they adhere to. They are brave knights, serving their Lord and their people. They are not gangsters, thugs, or pirates. The intrigue within Kabals is also often overstated, typically Kabalites are less interested in the dance of power than most. It attracts Drukhari who prefer rules and discipline. This reminds me of something like the Imperial Infantryman's Primer. It's complete propaganda. I will not dignify the claim that most Drukhari seek only power.
The inherent poise, grace and athleticism of the Drukhari is raised to a high art in the numerous Wych Cults throughout Commorragh. In fearless displays of sublime craft, these gladiatorial institutions entertain the powerful and influential denizens of the Dark City with lurid spectacles, providing a feast of agonies for their hungry-eyed audiences.
Finally, some sense! We
are artists, and frankly I'm glad even the servants of the God-Emperor can admit that!
To compare even the least of these arenas to the greatest of Mankind's stadia is to compare a glittering palace to a mud hut.
Even I wouldn't go that far. I do hope someday I find the author of this Codex, I would quite like to teach them how we
really do things. I'm sure they'd be a
quick learner.
Too far? Perhaps, my apologies. I got excited.
Their terrifyingly graceful warriors typically revolve around a single, extremely deadly Succubus - a star of the arenas celebrated for her murderous skill. Beneath her are lesser Succubi that may lead Circles of several dozen Wyches. Almost every Wych Cult enjoys the patronage of a powerful Archon. This arrangement ensures the Cult rarely runs short of slaves or exotic elixirs, and that the Archon gains the usually reliable allegiance of exceptional blademasters for their raids. When a Wych Cult with a strong reputation stages its own realspace raid, other factions will pay handsomely for the privilege of fighting alongside them.
Yours truly is a Succubus, and many would say a very skilled one. Oh, and the name is not ill-chosen, Succubi as a rule tend to be flirtatious, confident, and desired. It comes from playing to a crowd, and truthfully there are other leadership roles for those not interested in temptation. As for slaves, we have established that accusation as thoroughly untrue.
Haemonculi are wizened monsters, geniuses of insane and unnatural technologies and are universally feared by the rest of Commorragh. Though each pursues their own, dark avenues of unspeakable science, every Haemonculus is a master artisan who offers a wealth of unpleasant services to those who can afford them. They deal in body modification, the distillation of potions and elixirs, and the extraction of screams from their victims and patients alike.
I suppose I should avoid criticism without providing a model for how I might improve this work, so allow me to rephrase this. "Haemonculi are ancient geniuses skilled with modern technology and respected for their ugly but necessary work. They specialize in a variety of fields generally based on personal interest, and are master artisans who offer a wealth of useful and necessary services to both their clients and to those who request their aid but cannot pay. They deal in body modification and the distillation of potions and elixirs."
Now, that is far more accurate. There is a lot of whining about "oubliettes of pain" as well, and that is frankly just silly. So, I've chosen to spare the reader that nonsense.
The Kabal of the Black Heart employs an army of spies and agents to serve at Vect's behest —itsinformers dwelling within every stratum of Commorrite society. Archons claiming to be acting independently have formed agreements with competing Haemonculi to provide the Kabal with information that can be compared and correlated for veracity. From the secrets of excruciated prisoners, to details of the pacts different covens have made and even knowledge of the latest works, there are some ancient Haemonculi who privately worry Vect's minions seek to render their arcane brotherhoods irrelevant.
My, what a fool to think that any organization can be so omnipresent as this fictionalized version of the Kabal of the Black Heart. It must be much easier to make an enemy threatening to those at home when one lies about them. Of course, the readers of this Codex must be far more well-informed about the "xenos" than many of their countrymen.
The Black Heart has even secreted agents intothewiderAeldarirace-aboard craftworlds of the Asuryani, amongst the Ynnari and on Exodite worlds, and some have successfully infiltrated Harlequin masques. Thus, Vect and his Kabalites are always multiple steps ahead of their rivals, and no action against the Black Heart is too small for him to take notice. The Supreme Overlord underestimates no-one, and knows a threat can come from any corner. This colossal spy network also means that any raids carried out in Vect's name by his Archons are done under his scrutiny. Every Archon knows their actions are being judged, and that the Supreme Overlord will have devised contingency plans for every eventuality. On the other hand, should they fail in any way, they will undoubtedly incur his wrath. Knowing that Vect could be displeased is a very powerful motivator for the Archons of the Black Heart. As a result, they carry out their devastating raids with lethal precision and bring back vast numbers of slaves to appease the Supreme Overlord.
This imaginary Lord Vect is omnipotent. The real one is simply a man. They want a target, a singular enemy they can fight. That is fascism in a nutshell.
Asdrubael Vect is what is known in Drukhari society as 'half-born'. Due to the Aeldari race's long gestation period, artificially grown Drukhari are far more commonplace. This process is done by implanting a fertilised egg into one of the amniotic tubes that honeycomb the breeding-walls of the Haemonculi's lairs. Using a repulsive, insectile science developed many millennia ago, the embryo's growth can be hyperaccelerated within these tubes, each newly grown specimen wriggling from its chrysalis-sac in a drizzle of fluids before being taken away by Wrack attendants. These 'half-born' are viewed with contempt by the rarer Trueborn Drukhari, who believe them to be inherently inferior.
Regrettably, we do have prejudice against the half-born. We Drukhari are not perfect, and other than the use of terms like "repulsive" this is essentially accurate. However, we are making progress.
Lady Aurelia Malys leads the Kabal, an intellectual titan whose ability to predict her enemies' manoeuvres borders on the supernatural. She has been at the heart of many of the Dark City's most deadly intrigues, and safely steered her Kabal through the greatest of treacheries. When Vect was 'murdered; his jubilant enemies gathered in a Great Wake to gloat, but Malys saw through the ploy and disappeared into the webway with her Kabal, thereby avoiding Vect's vengeful massacre.
This is mostly true. The Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue are fundamentally, comically untrustworthy liars, and Malys has been good at the kind of politicking required at the highest echelons of our nobility. She, however, is not an "intellectual titan". Perhaps the writer was fooled by her, and was trying to excuse themself. Her intellect is passable at best.
The Drukhari of the Kabal of the Last Hatred are obsessed with forbidden arts. Many observers speculate about their motives, wondering whether they wish to transcend mortality entirely or destroy the Aeldari race, enslaving whatever entity isborn from the remains. Regardless of the truth, their ambition is undeniable, and they will carry out any depraved act to see it realised...The Kabal is famous for its pain-farms and its incredible talent for keeping captives alive far longer than should be possible. Its members strap the still-living bodies of victims to their raiding craft in battle...
Incredibly, our Imperium tale-spinner is utterly and completely correct on the Last Hatred. The Last Hatred is a
death cult that needs to be excised from the body politic as soon as possible. It is a group of gangsters, sociopaths, and cultists to strange gods that likely do not exist. They are a disgrace to our kind.
Preferring to raid at sunset, they strike out from their stronghold called the Pinnacle of Disdain, a nigh on impenetrable mountain. Their Overlord, Vorl-Xoelanth, is obsessed with | turning light and hope to darkness and despair. What few — if any — outside the Kabal know, is that the Drukhari of the Dying Son possess ancient fragments of forbidden arcana from the old Aeldari Empire, though the members themselves poorly understand these psychically charged artefacts. With the power to snuff out suns, exterminate sentient races and suck the life force from worlds, the Kabal uses them only as a last resort. Anything could go wrong, and such an act would inevitably draw much unwanted attention.
Conversely, this is entirely incorrect. There is no Kabal of the Dying Sun, or more to the point it has not existed for almost a millennia. It's a scary story, a myth, something to tell to unsettle someone.There isn't "forbidden arcana", the very idea is absurd. As for psychic artifacts, surely we would know if such a Kabal had those. None of this makes sense. It seems far more logical that the Dying Sun simply does not exist, rather than it being so secretive as to be unknown by a notoriously inquisitive species.
Masters of the savagely violent opening act that grips the jaded interest of even its most long-standing detractors, the Cult of Strife is envied and despised across Commorragh for its peerless and agonisingly beauteous performances. The circles of the Cult of Strife are each led by a lesser Succubus, ever watchful of the poise and grace of their mistress, Her Excellence, Lelith Hesperax. Her nigh on supernatural combat skills, incredible sense of occasion and ability to mould her audience's wild emotions with teases and raptures of agony, make Lelith a subject of devotion and ambition. With such a sublime exemplar of the Wych Cults' diverse arts at their head, the Hekatarii of the Cult strive to push themselves to achieve the perfection Lady Hesperax embodies. Lelith cares not that they do so for purely selfish reasons — namely their own advancement. She makes quick and brutal examples of any of the Cult who displease her.
This is character assassination. Lady Hesperax is a showwoman, a true talent, and the idea that she is some sort of imperious bitch is beneath her. Lady Hesperax is intelligent, charming, and at times even caring. She knows how to play to a crowd, how to impress, and she is certainly not some stone-faced killer. She is Puck, not Titus Andronicus.
Lelith has despatched numerous forces of skilled arena fighters to take up arms alongside Yvraine's disciples, the Ynnari. Some see this as the end of her long- standing protection by Vect, for the Supreme Overlord is thought toview the Ynnari with cold contempt. While Lelith's rivals probe the alliance for weaknesses, others wonder whether her apparent support for the Ynnari is all it tseems. Is she truly endorsing what she sees as a way to defeat She Who Thirsts once and for all, as the Ynnari claim? Is she seeking a self-centred route to immortality without the cost of the soul debt? Or could it simply be that she seeks another confrontation with Yvraine, to test herself against the divine power of a god?
This is an open question, and I do hope that Lady Hesperax has a genuine interest in promoting Ynnead, who might defend us from the Mindless Joy. I must point out that the Mindless Joy is not cruel. In fact, it is hard to call hir anything but giving. It is simply an unwanted perspective. We sampled from that plate and found the taste lacking.
In the ancient myths of the Aeldari, the Seventh Woe refers to the destruction of the maiden-god Lileath's hearth-moon at the hands of Kaela Mensha Khaine —a legend resonant with the loss of innocence. Ruled over by a competing triumvirate of Succubi, members of the Cult of the Seventh Woe are mutilators and enders of purity and virtue. Just as its rulers teach those born into their ranks to wield a blade before they can talk, so the Cult sees itself as a teacher to the entire galaxy, of the despair that lies at the heart of al existence.
One might wonder why all of our names are so sanguine and dark, but the truth is that we are simply a melodramatic people. Similarly, we like to tell tall tales, and I assure my readership that the Seventh Woe cult describes itself as a "mutilator of virtue" as one of those tales. It is a legend, a grand story to associate with these furies on the battlefield. It is not some sort of absurd, brooding manifesto. We simply like our legends, especially ones that promote us as fearsome.
Like a bloated, black cyst buried within Commorragh's strata of physical, social and political tissue, the Prophets of Flesh is a Coven with a level of influence that rightly worries many of the most powerful Archons, its anchoring tendrils of infection spreading. This Coven now seems impossible to cut out of the Dark City without repercussions that few are willing to risk. The Prophets of Flesh is led by the Sculptor of Torments himself, Urien Rakarth, and basks in the long-standing patronage of Asdrubael Vect — alongside a clutch of other powerful Overlords. The Coven maintains its seemingly unassailable position through the quality of its breadth of services, supplying Archons, Succubi, fallen nobles, criminal parvenus and anyone who can afford their price. Yet its power is also strengthened through ruthless recoupment of payment, and an infinitely creative menu of excruciating fines to apply to those who attempt to renege. Many of Commorragh's elite also hold inescapable treaties of resurrection with the Prophets of Flesh, and would never dare risk the Coven's ire.
The Prophets of Flesh is amongst the largest of its kind. Though outstripped by some of the Kabals in size, the Coven maintains hundreds of Haemonculi. Each one delves into the horrors of their craft in often solitary pursuits, while suckling at the hub of genius represented by Urien Rakarth, hunched like a spider at the Coven's centre of power. Every Haemonculus surrounds itself with several cells, each comprising dozens of their favoured creations and the twisted servants and apprentices known in some circles as Haemacolytes, but far more often as Wracks — for the changes wrought upon them by their masters. Wracks assist the Haemonculi in the brutal subdual of experimental subjects, and in some of the dissection and flesh modification that their masters consider beneath their rarefied talents. Considered the apogee of the Dark City's underspire hierarchy, the Coven receives more Wrack supplicants than any other. To be a Prophet of Flesh is to be fearfully respected, yet the road to such power is a painful one indeed.
The Prophets of Flesh are very obviously a myth perpetuated by Lord Vect. He created an all-powerful false Coven of Haemonculi with which to threaten his enemies during his rise to power, it worked, and now the elites pretend there really are Prophets of Flesh. No conspiracy lasts forever, and no conspiracy this convoluted exists at all. I suppose I can't blame the Imperials, they are so misinformed. As for Wracks, they are servants of pain and grotesqueries. Is there anything more beautiful than to be a living object of art? I think not.
The wrinkled, unhealthy skin stretched taut across Urien Rakarth's spare frame hides an even fouler soul, one twisted and ripened over millennia of abhorrent practices. Rumour within the Dark City tells of this ancient Haemonculus existing since before the days of the Fall. Rakarth has died and risen countless times, so often in fact that he savours death like a fine wine, and though he no longer returns to beauteous perfection, his toughened flesh heals at a ferocious rate. Rakarth's processes are a carefully concealed secret, but his skill and discretion in the arts of resurrection are beyond question, and his abilities are routinely courted by the most powerful in Commorragh. He is a master fleshcrafter, gene- splicer and a brewer of the most exquisite poisons. His hunch-backed, multi-limbed form is pumped full of the vilest toxins, and he wields dreadful tools with scalpel precision in a potent display of his expertise. Compound spines sprout from Rakarth's back, a leering face — selected from an extensive collection — is pinned to his skull and half-formed limbs poke from a fleshy mass, swaying with semi-sentient purpose. Some rivals think these are corruptions that have crept into his cycles of regrowth, yet in truth, they may merely be insane self- experiments by a mind so jaded that little piques its interest.
There have likely been many Urian Rakarths. I find it unlikely such an infamous man might survive since before the days of the Fall, and while Drukhari can rise from the dead the fact that the Rakarths seem so different in modus operandi (One a fleshcrafter, aanother a brewer of potions, the third a creatore of alleged monsters, and so on) makes me suspect that it is merely a mask.
Among some of these fleshworks and biofoundries, the Prophets' adepts dabble in hormone enrichment, muscle stimulation and hyperactive bone growth.
This is likely an Imperial addition, probably a dig at our methods of gender transition and bone reinforcement.
After this is a long list of various Covens, various nefarious acts, and general rambling about the dangers and vileness of the Dark City. It is not worth any of your time, and I am quite unsure how to respond to it in ways that aren't just "This is all transparent nonsense, and I'm offended you think Imperials will believe this."
The Incubi, dwelling in sacred shrines, dedicate their entire existence to war alone. They are sublimely skilled warriors who spend countless hours perfecting the art of the killing strike. Despite their puritanical and austere way of life, this produces no virtue in them. At the core of their bloodstained souls they desire to kill as many enemies as possible, as often as possible.
The Incubi are the masculine-identifying equivalent of Succubi. Those of some third gender or those lacking a gender identity entirely typically choose whichever school they prefer, though some have succeeded under the name Cubi. Incubi are not Terran Space Marines. The cult of violence is everywhere in Imperial writing.
Such is the importance of klaives [bladed swords]to the Incubi that their leaders — the Klaivex — are named for them. To earn this rank and to be a champion of the elite requires an Incubus to achieve immense mastery of the klaive, regardless of which shrine a Klaivex belongs to. For example, in the Shrine of Naked Hatred, a potential leader must defeat the incumbent in single combat, and then flay the defeated with only four strokes of the blade.
This is an objectifying and simplistic view. The Incubi do not have leaders. They are soldiers only secondarily, they are merely showpeople most of the time. There are "Klaivexes", but that is a construct for the audience, and the gory trials to become one are so much set-dressing for the show. Klaivexes have as much power as a "High Succubus", which is to say they have none at all. That said, some Incubi and Succubi do make a great show of a wild hunt, facing against Space Marines or massive Tyranids for the sake of the art and the display.
Next is the introduction to the Rules section. This is a game, after all.
Welcome to the rules section of Codex: Drukhari. On the following pages you will find al the rules content you need to bring the multifarious Drukhari to life on the tabletop, whether it is the cruel and haughty Kabalites, athletic but murderous Wych Cults, sinister and bizarre Haemonculus Covens or a raiding force of al three. Maybe you're inspired to dive straight into some.open play games, maybe you want to forge your own tales of glory and infamy with narrative play, or perhaps you can't wait to pit yourself against your opponents in nail-biting matched play contests. Whichever appeals to you — even if it's a bit of al three — this section of your Codex provides a modular toolbox that allows you to get the most out of your collection. Of course, there's no need to take it al in at once! Some of the content on the following pages — things like your army's datasheets and the rules for its weapons -will be useful no matter what kind of game youre playing. Others, such as your army's Stratagems, Warlord Traits and Relics, will become relevant once you start playing games with Battle-forged armies.
Then there's content like Lords of Commorragh and Favoured Retinues, which you will unlock by including particular models in your tabletop army. In each case, you can include these new elements at your own pace; whether you're a brand new hobbyist playing your first few games or a veteran general ready to cause carnage, there's plenty here to provide you with countless hours of fresh and exciting gameplay. On top of this, the Drukhari are the only faction in Warhammer 40,000 with access to Power From Pain, which allows your sadistic murderers to draw power and enhance their abilities by feeding on the terror of their victims.
More objectifying and loaded language such as "cruel and haughty" and "athletic but muderous". There is also a lot of self-promotion for whatever Imperial game designer created this nonsense, so I'll skim that. It seems to be selling a simplistic fantasy of being a murderous sadist, which I can't necessarily argue against but wish that that fantasy could be explored in a manner that doesn't demean any other cultures.
Finally, the back of the Codex:
The Drukhari are a decadent race of alien tormentors and raiders. Once part of a galaxy-spanning empire, the Drukhari now indulge in every macabre passion their supreme intelligence can conceive. They consider themselves superior to the galaxy's other races, and suffer a gnawing sickness of the soul which only the suffering of others can fill. The ranks of the Drukhari are filled with fleet and agile warriors, each armed with weaponry designed to inflict maximum pain, and through their innate poise they raise their torturous form of war into a gruesome artform. Launching raids from their vast transdimensional realm of Commorragh, they strike throughout the galaxy, flotillas of anti-grav craft using hidden portals to conduct rapid hit-and-run attacks and procure fresh captives. These raids draw upon- Commorragh's multitudinous factions — cartel-like Kabals, gladiatorial Wych Cults, nightmarish Haemonculus Covens and a host of mercenary gangs that prey upon the galaxy, sowing terror and anguish before them.
...I suppose that speaks for itself.
