The Eldar prince Eldritch looked out over the small town of Pasenholme. It was smaller than Stonehill, but this one had a direct link to the Alturine Capitol. He smiled slightly, allowing a small sense of satisfaction glimmer within him. He stood on one of the foothills of Alturine's northern border giving him a view of the land before him. In the distance, vast keeps dominated the countryside, supposedly protecting their people from the Vakringuardian raiders. But the people of the north had not raided Alturine in centuries, and the keeps had fallen into disrepair. Eldrikch smiled at the helpless town that now stood at his feet. His dark crown glimmered maliciously in the light of the day. No walls protected the town, and no warriors stood in its defence. It sat there, ripe for the picking.

He turned around, and looked at his army, clad in the colours of red and black, with the three lined sigil of Tiberius Reanik, a deal that he had died for. The undead within the armour stood at attention – never tiring, waiting for the order to charge. Pasenholme was not surrounded by trees as Stonehill was. Flat, open ground covered the countryside for miles around, giving the people of Pasenholme a wide view of any encroaching threat.

Eldrikch raised his hands to the sky and started chanting. A dark mist started to swirl down from the clouds, and it wrapped around Pasenholme, blinding the townsfolk, concealing them from their deaths. Eldrikch turned to his army, and dropped his hands. Serlaena stood on a hill close by with the other two Eldar, Toril and Koril, ready to unleash the wargs, and at his, command they did so.

Excited howls sounded in the mist as the wargs descended onto the town. They sprinted across the fields on all fours, charging ahead with glee. Now, Eldrikch turned away from them and back to his undead army. He clicked his fingers, and they started to march, slow at first but then into a formation run. They were silent as they ran; only the crunch of their feet could be heard, and the green glow of their skin could be seen, shining out from the enveloping mist. Eldrikch watched his fellow Eldar turn into shadows and descend upon the mayhem, thirsty for blood and revenge.

When he was confident no one could escape, he lifted his arms and dispersed the fog to show his butchery in full glory. Men, women and children ran through the streets screaming; others were dragged out of their homes by the undead.

It had taken years of planning to start his invasion. He had first bargained with Tiberius, a weak and corruptible man – easy to manipulate – and it had not taken long before he had the outfits, then all he needed was the army, which he found in Stonehill. Now, two months later, he stood upon victory, he would turn Alturine against the Vakringuardian Kingdoms and gloat in their war. Then, when they were weak and wounded, he would strike, taking revenge for his people.

He descended upon Pasenholme now, eager to be part of the bloodshed. Screams echoed around. The muddy streets had turned into a marsh, awash in blood. Townspeople ran towards the train station, some stuck in the bloody marsh, whilst others were picked off by wargs, all the while being hounded by the dark shadows of the Eldar – herded like cattle.

Eldrikch smiled at the slaughter, soaking it in. A woman ran out from a nearby shop, and fell into his embrace, trying to find some protection from the monsters that chased her. Eldrikch laughed, pulled back her head, and ripped out her throat with his teeth, savouring the taste of mortal blood.

Suddenly, out of an alley, burning arrows plastered a small detachment of his undead. Eldrikch jumped up from the streets, and landed on a roof above the alley. Wargs lay moaning in pain from arrows protruding from their necks and stomachs. Their blood pooled around, and dripped into the gutters. Eldrikch frowned, angered by the death of his pets. He looked over the alley's edge to see the townsfolk standing between a blind alley wall and a hastily built barricade. Hunters stood at the front, shooting flaming arrows at anything that moved, whilst guards stood behind, protecting them against the wargs that fell from the roof. Clearly these were better trained than the ones that had defended in Stonehill.

Eldrikch smiled as he realized this was his chance to wreak havoc. He dropped down, and landed in between both the hunters and guards. Arrows fired at him, but fizzled out and turned into shadows. Eldrikch opened his hands, and the shadows turned into two large fiery glaives. He pounced; spinning around, he sliced through three guards, causing them to fall back in screams, clutching their wounds as shadows infected their body and made their veins turn black. He smiled as he smelled the fear wreak out from their comrades. They charged at him and he charged back, decapitating a man, then kicking the head into another guard, making it explode, blowing a hole in his belly, and throwing two others flying through the air. He weaved and sliced, ripping them all apart.

He then turned, soaked in blood and gore. The glaives disappeared, and the hunters that were left could only stare helplessly at Eldrikch. He clicked his fingers, and wargs jumped upon the hunters, ripping them into shreds. Now, defenceless without their guards, the undead piled over the barricade and joined in the fray, butchering the survivors with their rusty blades.

Eldrikch jumped up onto the roof again, and watched with a bird's eye view, his destruction taking place. The arrows from the hunters had set the thatch roofs alight, and a large fire blazed through the town. Eldrikch liked fire; men had always used it to protect themselves, but with enough of it, Eldrikch could wipe out a whole kingdom.

He came to the end of the thatched roofs, and let himself fall, feeling his bare feet touch the freezing cobblestones of the locomotive station. This was why he was here; a direct line straight into the heart of the empire. People had piled aboard the train, hoping to gain a quick exit from Pasenholme, hoping to escape the carnage. The train's engineer piled up the furnace, and pulled off the brakes, making the locomotive pulse into action and make a bid for freedom. But the train did not move. Eldrikch held up his hand, preventing the locomotive from leaving. Wargs lined the platform, nipping at anyone who tried to escape, but refrained from slaughtering the passengers on board.

Eldrikch smiled at the crunching footfalls of his painted dead as they marched up behind him. They entered the train and commenced slaughter, cutting through all of the hopeful survivors. The three other Eldar appeared behind him and watched, relishing in the screams as the windows were sprayed with blood. The engineer was last, ran through by a large sword, and then with the final survivor dead, the undead aboard collapsed, becoming inanimate once more. Eldrikch dropped his hand, and the train pulsed into motion, carrying the dead – both the innocent and the damned – into the heart of the Empire.

Eldrikch moved back from the station, and regarded his fellow Eldar. He passed them, and walked through the carnage, a small smile upon his face. The other Eldar followed, eager to see what would happen next. Eldrikch walked upon the remaining wooden planks, placed there to keep pedestrians from being sucked into the sticky mud. Corpses lined the streets, mostly submerged in the bloody marsh that had been created. Weak moans could be heard as the last remaining mortal souls of Pasenholme clung to life. Some tried to struggle against the mud, but were instantly pounced upon by wargs, and their moans turned into screams. The crunching and tearing sound of bones and flesh began to echo through the town as the wargs had stopped playing with their food, and finally settled down to eat. Eldrikch came to the end of Pasenholme, and saw the remaining undead standing in files and ranks, obediently waiting for their master.

...

Myrian stood outside the wrought iron gates of the Church of Alturine. The white washed walls and shining golden roof reminded him of his chains in Doflhiem. He absently rubbed his wrists, and walked back onto the sidewalk. He had spent two days in the Capitol, plotting his revenge against the Inquisition. He had originally decided to jump in and slaughter everyone inside, but he knew that even if he succeeded with that plan, too many innocents would perish, and that thought had made him pause. He had spent the past fifteen hundred years thinking about how to destroy the Church, and now, as he stood before the gates, he found that too many people stood in his way. Myrian could be vicious, but he wasn't heartless. After all, revenge needs passion. He walked back to his room, still brooding about how he could get past the thousands of hostages the Church held.

It was said that Alturine was paved with gold, but as Myrian stalked its streets, he knew this to be untrue – in part, anyway. Alturine was certainly one of the richest cities he had ever seen, rivalling both Doflhiem and Vakringuard High Hall in its glory, and even Lornea, the ancient city of the Eldar, seemed to lack in grandeur in comparison to Alturine. The warm twisting streets sang with culture, hanging plants filled the city with a sweet scent, and the rich inhabitants, with nothing to contend with their time, mastered the arts. Songs and rhythm flowed from the open windows, and art lay stacked and framed outside doors, ready to be sold. The chink of hammers could be heard, and instead of steel and iron, they met against chisels and stone, carving out vast commissioned sculptures.

Myrian continued on his path, his black cloak and rusty red hair flaring out behind him in a dramatic manner. His arms swung at his side, occasionally brushing against his pistol, and he revelled in the feeling of the power surging at his fingertips. He arrived at his hotel, and looked up at it. Iron balconies hung outside the rooms giving a perfect view of the city. The white washed walls shone stark against the sun, beating off the hot southern heat. Myrian walked into the tiled lobby, smelling the sweet smell of white summer wine. He collected his key from the front desk, and trotted up the stone steps towards his room. He opened his door and breathed in the summer scent. A bottle of wine had been left in cool water on a small table in the corner of his room, and a washer stand stood in an alcove beside it. His tall windows stood open, allowing a slight breeze to pick at his white cotton curtains gracefully. A large bed was placed in the centre of the far wall, giving him a fine view of the city as he awoke. Myrian liked it here. He thought he may stay here once his work was done. Huldain had always loved Doflhiem, and Olaf had loved the north, but this was his place.

He walked out onto his balcony, and leant against the railing. He could see far across the city and out to the Emerin Sea. He had always loved the sea, and standing here, the slight bitter aftertaste of salt lingered in his nostrils against the flavoursome delights of the city. He smiled, a rare exercise that he had just recently become reacquainted with, but then his smile fixed in place as another smell reached him. It wasn't a smell exactly as much as it was a feeling, a presence, and sadness gripped him as he realized his brothers had arrived.

Myrian walked back inside his room, closing the windows behind him. He pulled out his blade, forged from his immortal bow, and ran the razor edge over his skin. Blood welled at the wound as he dipped a finger into it and drew a symbol on his arm. Myrian then bound the cut with a handkerchief, and sheathed his blade. He sat down at his table and poured a glass of wine, swirling it around the glass to enhance the smell, and then breathing in the scent before sifting the liquid through his lips and onto his tongue.

Taste was important to Myrian, almost as important as respect and honour. These two other things were what drove him, what fired his revenge. He knew things that others didn't; he knew secrets that few others knew, and because of these things, these secrets, he was forced to act, to destroy. It had cost him much, but he was almost there.