In orbit over the world of Byzantium, the lumbering vessels of the Navis Nobilis floated, towering like Gothic cathedrals in the night sky. The Imperial Navy stood watch over the world below, ever vigilant for any sign of a threat to the planet. Yet unnoticed passed an inky shadow, invisible against the black velvet of the void. The only trace of its passage was the twinkling and dimming of stars in its wake, a strictly visual phenomenon unnoticed by the technological sensors of the Imperial Navy.
The shadow descended into the atmosphere of Byzantium, flying high over the outlying towns around the capital. Though unseen and unheard, the folk below felt a chill shiver up their spine as though a spectral wraith had passed over them. They looked up into the night, some muttering a protective charm against evil, some making the sign of the Aquila. Dogs cowered and whined, sensing something ill upon the wind.
Young Brutus Vaelum was playing by the southern cistern, as he was wont to do anytime he could steal away from his childhood of drudgery. A plebian boy of twelve he was forced to work in the households of wealthy Patricians to earn coin so his family could eat. He swept chimneys and chased rats through crawlspaces and attics where his small, lithe body could squeeze into and adults could not. But he dreamed of one day joining the Legions and becoming a soldier, earning the rank of citizen upon his retirement. His pragmatic father discouraged such daydreaming, but at night Brutus would slink off into the sewers that ran under the city. He knew where the southern drains poured from the walls into the river, and he would leap among the rocks of the bank, wielding a stick like a mighty power sword, dueling phantasmal enemies and earning the glory and praise of the Emperor himself.
That night a shiver passed through him as though ghostly hand had reached out and clutched his heart in its icy grip. Freezing in place, he saw a large shadow smoothly gliding between the hills whose valley the river flowed. As it grew closer, its shape became more distinct, graceful wings sweeping forward in compound arcs. Its fuselage was narrow with two prongs at the nose like the pinching mandibles of an insect. It was slender as a knife, sharp edges and deadly, at once beautiful and terrifying. It made little noise, only a faint hum he could only hear when it came close. Too close.
Brutus scrambled behind a large rock, his back pressed against it, his breath coming quick in time with his hammering heart. The throbbing hum of the ship slowed, coming to hover over the bank of the river. Though terrified of this mysterious vessel, he could not quell his curiosity. He poked his head around the corner, his mouth agape. From the craft leapt dark figures, vaguely man-shaped, but twisted and disfigured. He had heard tales of these beasts, the Grotesques of the Dark Eldar. Victims of torture so foul they were now hideous, warped things little more than beasts that felt no pain. With them came Eldar women in provocative light armor and bizarre hairstyles…the Wyches. A score of Dark Eldar warriors dropped from the vessel to the shore, fanning out around the wide pipes where the sewers of the city dumped its waste water.
He had heard tales of the Dark Eldar of course, though they were rarely seen on Byzantium. Occasionally a report was heard of Dark Eldar pirates and raiders attacking an isolated settlement, killing wantonly. Those who died were said to be fortunate, because the others would be taken alive to their city that lay somewhere outside of space-time, where they would be slowly tortured to death. It was said the Dark Eldar did not eat food as humans do, but somehow fed off the fear and pain of those they put to agonizing death…
His eyes opened wide as the last of them emerged, stricken with the vision of her. Her skin shone white like the moon on a cloudless night, eyes of amber backlit by flame. Her dark hair fanned out from her head in a tall Mohawk. Her clothes, if such a term applied, were ribbons of iridescent black material more draped about her than worn. It seemed as though every motion she made threatened to make them slide from her, revealing what little of her that was left to the imagination. She was beautiful…in a cold, distant way…something to be worshipped from afar…unattainable. She moved among the rocks with preternatural grace, as though the mundanities of gravity and inertia could take no hold of her. With a gesture, she commanded the pilot of the craft to leave. The vessel pitched up, pointing its nose at the stars, then shot up into the sky with the bass throbbing of its anti-gravity drives. Her voice was smooth but low-pitched like a man's, "Get into the tunnels and assemble the warpgate, we must bring in the rest of our forces before the light of dawn."
