lordsofmedrengard answered:

It should be noted that the descriptions etc are from Sal’din’s POW, and subject to bias. He’s pretty good at being neutral in appraising things, but he has quite a lot of pride in his Legion, and this shines through in some of the descriptions. I tried to convey that a small measure of nobility still lives in him, as well.

Per Aestra’s idea, some goofiness from Khromys. I’ve tried to keep her true to canon Dark Eldar as well as how she’s RP’d, so she’s perhaps a bit too open to working with her lesser and finding common ground with them, which may be her undoing.

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The Xenos assault had come without warning, darkening the skies with skimmers and flyers. Less paranoid precautions could not have held them back; as it was even the siege-craft of the Iron Warriors was being pushed to the very limit.

Located just beyond the Maelstrom, Despot III was an unassuming rock barely capable of sustaining its own atmosphere. It’s only value lay in anonymity – it was a convenient and isolated place to store supplies necessary for the invasions of Imperial space. It had no real industrial capability of its own, and if not for the scheduled inspection, would have been largely absent of Iron Warriors.

As it was, even Sal’din’s veterans were being pushed back, one fortification at a time. Somehow the Eldar Xenos had increased their physical speed and dexterity beyond even that enjoyed by most Legionnaires; each squad leader had reported an unorthodox aggression and sadism as well. Their alien savagery was more than enough to overcome the Legion auxilia, though grounded in piracy as it was it could not compete with the individual hatred of an Iron Warrior.

It was not enough to defeat, or even contain them. The truth of it made him clench his fingers; the threatening whirr of servo-motors causing indentured soldiers to glance at him warily, before their overseers managed to force some semblance of discipline back into their worthless minds.

As he was considering ordering a withdrawal to the inner defences, a nearby foe-skimmer came apart under anti-air fury. Straining his eyes, he could just about pick out a slender figure made broader by bladed armour and expansive furs leaping from the wreck an instant before it kissed the rockcrete. As the flames provided better light, he saw the alien war-queen in her terrible glory, if but for a moment.

The Iron Warriors had quite rightly been famed as a Legion lacking in the unsightly desire to beautify armour into art; even so the beauty of her armour was startling. Obsidian tresses tied into a topknot framed a handsome face of pure alabaster, with sharp cheeks, a noble nose and pointed jaw. In her hands were death given shape, in the form of a bone or tooth carved into a curved sword and a curious device that looked like nothing so much as a lightning claw made out of miscoloured glass.

While her leap could only be described as regal, the landing was inelegant. She came in at a bad angle, and, fumbling with a syringe in her off-hand, managed to leap from the ground into a wall with a thud audible even over the sound of the exploding Xenos skimmers in the air. The conscripts hesitated, brutal training overcome by the comedy of life.

This was their undoing.

As the alien peeled herself of the wall and set her nose straight, a storm of poison-shards savaged the barricade, killing all but the Warsmith and the handful of bodyguards that were not needed to stiffen the spines elsewhere. In truth, such a deluge was highly wasteful, for the poison would have done away with the conscripts in little time. As it was, most had been reduced to tatters of gore, bubbling unpleasantly.

Worse, a single Iron Warrior had been reduced to kneeling, gurgling feebly as he slunk lower still. Shards were stuck in the armour of his helmets, breastplate and left arm, and others had managed to penetrate the armour seals and the eye lenses.

Seizing the initiative, a pair of sky-chariots landed behind the alien leader, disembarking two small squadrons of horned Xenos armed with great klaives. Belatedly, the nine Commorrites activated hidden generators, clouding their shapes with shadows. With an elegant gesture and a haughty sneer, the lady of war commanded her servants to kill, and Sal’din rose. With him rose four of the finest Iron Warriors left to the Legion, and the stink of ozone was the herald of Terminator support to come.

As the Xenos drew nearer to the barricade, explosives hidden under-ground tore through them, paying little heed to their shifting forms, slaying none but leaving three with vulnerable injuries. Of these, one was slain by combi-flamer, another by a volley of bolts aimed by two of the veterans. Then the aliens were among them, and brutal confusion reigned. Distracted as he was by two of the aliens working in tandem, instincts honed over millennia allowed him to take heed of the death of two of his warriors, even as Eldar technology interfered with Astartes auto-senses.

There, the Eldar warlord’s voice. The remaining xenos pulled away with startling speed, and Sal’din saw why: twenty Cataphractii had teleported to the battle, and though their heavy plate should have left them vulnerable to Eldar attack the narrow confines of the Iron Warriors battlements gave them the advantage.

He gestured to them to stand down. Then, he stepped forward to confront the enemy.

“Who would be so bold as to enter my kingdom uninvited? This-“

The alien’s laughter and mocking gestures interrupted him, as she mimicked the movements of some great, musclebound ape-creature while moaning, slack-jawed.

Sal’din allowed himself a moment to feel burning rage. Then, he composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice could have been confused with that of a low-quality servitor.

“Identify yourself at once, pitiful Xenos whore. Despot III belongs to the IV Legions Astartes, and-“ with a smooth motion, he paused to shoot the remaining wounded klaive-wielder, which finally brought her undivided attention, “-and you are trespassing. Identify yourself, and I will allow you a quick death. Defy me further, and I shall break you – mind, body and soul. Only then will I allow the Dark Prince to consume you.”

The alien’s eyes had narrowed. By now, bright red Legion blood stained her. When she spoke, defiling the human languages with her unworthy tongue, the words were somewhat hesitant and marked by a strange accent.

“That one was a favourite of mine, and of my daughter. I believe I shall decline your most gracious offer; however, as it would appear that I am gaining the upper hand in this combat, skirmish or… struggle?”, she glanced at one of her remaining guards, who nodded, almost too quick for the eye to catch. She nodded back, another lightning movement of the chin, and then turned back.

“As I said: I am but a few minor delights away from achieving victory, and my heart desires your death to be one of them,” she smiled, alien musculature and burning hatred in her eyes making a mockery of the expression, and struck a majestic pose: “I am Aestra Khromys, Queen of Splinters and Archon of the Kabal of the Obsidian Rose – and I challenge you to a duel. Consider yourself fortunate, grotesque, for few Mon’keigh are so fortunate as to die by my hands, to the edge of my huskblade”.

Sal’din hesitated, nodded, and waved his Legionnaires off. He had barely had time to take a step forward before she was upon him, quicksilver speed and grace combining with Xeno technosorcery to give her movements akin to liquid shadow.

Her blade was everywhere, weaving a web around him, and it was all he could do to hold her away, occasionally striking at her with his volkite charger in an attempt to hold off the strange-looking lightning claw.

Often, her blows would slide through his guard, and only his experience allowed him to slide them across his warplate instead of suffering a mortal wound. She’d shriek in frustration at this delaying tactic, this denied gratification, this insult, but she was driving him back – a baffling experience for any Warsmith, made worse by her inhuman nature.

What strikes and lunges he managed to counter with were easily dodged; at one point she mockingly kissed his power sword before twirling away with a grimace, lips badly burned. Scarcely had he taken this development in, then she was upon him again, pushing him back. His body began to burn from the exertion, Astartes physiology and Legion combat drugs being pushed past their limits. She was a whirlwind, her attacks were everywhere and often came from strange angles.

The world had narrowed to nothing; only the duelling pair existed. Dimly, he was aware of one of the Xenos transport-gunners slicing a Terminator apart with a beam that hurt his peripheral vision, and of battle being joined – but such trifles were not enough to distract from the humiliating dominance of the Xenos scum. Adding insult to injury, Aestra twirled away with flawless grace, slicing away the leg of a Terminator while stabbing at the armour seals of another with her glove – the action seemed to give her new strength, for she gave a terrible, shrill laughter, and when she returned Sal’din was disarmed in a handful of savage sword-blows, priceless paragon blade flying away to stick quivering in a rockcrete wall.

Time seemed to slow, as she prepared a series of killing thrusts. Had she not picked her target poorly, this would have been the end of Sal’din – she started by impaling her blade in the Warsmith’s bionic leg, where it became stuck. Both combatants froze, for a moment, eyes meeting, as if unsure what to make of this new development. Hesitantly, she began to smile. A desperate surge of hatred gave Sal’din the speed he needed to kick out, tearing the alien sword out of her hands. A piston-like movement from Sal’din’s servo-arm smashed her across the face, reducing her fine features to a splintered ruin.

As she recoiled, strained laughter began bubbling its way out of her throat. “Well done, Mon-keigh! It is most rare for one of rarefied skill such as myself to experience such a wondrous physicality, the grinding of bone, the heat of a shattered eye! For your reward, I shall not only allow this world to remain in grotesque hands, I shall grant you the gift of life. You are most welcome, Monkeigh.”

There was a stunned silence as the surviving Iron Warriors took this in. Striking with serpent-like speed, Aestra lunged forward with her claws, only for her ruined depth perception to foul the blow.

A storm of bolt shells made sure she did not strike another one.