[@Wraithblade6][@DepressedSoviet][@Zelosse][@DracoLunaris][@Andreyich]


Too much time had been spent debating the whys and wherefores of morality and the cost of human life, not that the Kill-team would have known this, but when the slave pens began to get colder – so cold that even the formerly pawing slaves, if they still had any sense of mental faculties at all – moved away from the doors of the cells and backed away into corners; it had given the Dark Eldar, not known for slow mental calculations, to work out where the Astartes had impacted upon the vessel and now to devise a counter to this boarding.

What happened next was but a taste...

It began when the darkness around them got only [i]darker[/i], not possible by natural means but certainly so when the light was sucked from the room by something entirely unnatural; they came from the shadows [b]as[/b] shadows, bearing curved blades and with oil-black bodies illuminated only by flowing sigils of Eldar script, their bone-white hair loose and flowing and their hands and jaws possessed of talon-tipped fingers and pointed teeth.

From everywhere they seemed to come, from the ceiling above the group, from the dark corners of the slave chambers, even from within some of the slave pens – these latter forms pausing only long enough to consume the terror and fear of the shuddering flesh-bags, leaving only empty husks behind them.

[i]Mandrakes[/i], the semi-daemonic denizens of the webway, their origins unknown but their fighting abilities not to be trifled with.

How many were there? No-one could be sure, their forms shifting and melding with the shadows even as they moved. Were they a threat? Most certainly. Would the Kill-team be whittled down before they could clear the chambers? Very likely.