[h2][center][i]The God and the King[/i][/center][/h2]


Craftworld Ibrayesil was ablaze. The Bloody Host showed no quarter to the foul and pernicious Eldar as  they intended to avenge their father for the cruelty he suffered at their hands. Mon-Kal ensured his men were specialized in their destruction, and each recruit was pruned from the beginning to place the Eldar upon a special pedastal of hate. Ibrayesil had never seen violence in this scale since possibly before the fall, for they knew not the rage of the Bloody Host. But, far from defenseless were they. As Mon-Kal and his sons burned their way throught the craftworld its many Exarchs met together, circled around a single Aspect Warrior. The warrior was nude save for a loin cloth and th many runic symbols the Exarchs painted upon his smooth and unblemished skin in this most solemn of ceremonies.

The Exarchs finally completed their runes, and all took a step back from this Young King. With but a single deep breath, the Warrior's chest rising and falling with a shuddering exhale that he made his way to the great pair of obsidian black doors that dominated the room with their visage. Upon them were carved the exploits of one of the Eldar Gods, they were carved tales of death and destruction, war and hate and rage and slaughter. The gods face was twisted in a rictus scowl in all depictions, and his blade was always soaked in blood. The King stood before this terrible visage, and stared at the heavily detailed doors. Slowly, seemingly opened by nothing at all, the great doors parted ever so slightly before him... enough to admit a single Eldar. The prince stepped through without a moments hesitation, the blood of his ancestors urging him forth. Behind him the doors slammed shut, and for a moment all was dark... until he was drawn to the faint red glow at the back of the great room.

Bare feet padded at the cool floor in a stiff walk as he approached the glow, and laid eyes for the first and last time in his life, upon his fate. The figure from whence the glow emanated was a great iron statue, stood slouching on a massive Iron throne. In truth none of it was Iron, for the Eldar had far greater material... but this was all the Young King could think of to compare it to. One hand gripped the arm of the throne, even in the figures slouched posture the hand had crumpled the arm beneath titanic fingers. In its other, a great blade hung loosely gripped... its tipp at the center of a great pool of dried blood. The smothered red glow ambled its way throught the figures grooves and corners, until finally it found the menacing eyes. All at once its face lit up, the rictus snarl on the doors now seen again, but now it watched the Young king.

All the Exarchs heard was a single, terrified screech... and they knew the Bloody Handed one, Shaela Mensha Khaine, walked amongst them once more.

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The Bloody host fought hard, and the Eldar fought all the harder to defend their home. Street by street, garden by garden the host worked through the craftworld. In a great botanical guarden Wraithknights tangled with the Exquesor, beautiful curving blades meat great metal and chained fists in showers of sparks as the dead tangled with the living. Banshees and striking scorpions blindsided ill-prepared ttactical marines, who all the same shouted their voices hoarse and emptied the clips of their bolters into their foes even as armour was wrent and torn, lifeblood spilling to the ground as cermite sheathed behemoths crashed down to meet the earth they would die upon. Proud Predator tanks shattered the beautifully twisting towers filled with Eldar guardians into dust with powerful canon and laser, while slender Eldar Grav-Tanks returned fire, cutting apart the wide metal frames and boiling their crews within. But, never was a fury more true than at the epicentre of this battle, for it was their that strode Mon-Kal, King of Thorns. 

His sceptre broke the body of yet another Warrior, the Banshee flew across the field through the air, her head turned to red mist at the Impact of the Kings sceptre. Mon-Kal roared a challenge to the Eldar, his inbuilt plasma gun screeching to the heavens as bolts of green energy melted through armour, flesh and bone to destroy all Eldar before him. He felt no joy, sinply hate. He shouted no words, no oaths escaped his lips even as his Exquesor body guard screamed themselves hoarse around him, able to be heard even above the cacophany of war as their Father maintained his unnerving silence. It seemed as if the outcome of the battle was in no doubt, for the Eldar simply could not hold against the encroaching Host. It seemed all was lost, and Mon-Kal would soon claim the Ships corpse as trophy.

The bloodcurdling roar echoed down the streets. Its volume able to rattle bones and bring down buildings. Manny a lesser marine grasped at his helmet, wishing to turn of the sound that seemed to penetrate into their very minds, but Mon-Kal did no such thing... for now a challenger approached. The molten visage of a Dead God made its way through the carnage. The Eldar surged with him, this relic of times long past, the metallic muscles of their Avatar Writhing and undulating as he walked, body already drenched in blood. Sharp teeth were twisted into a snarl, its eyes set on new worthy prey. Kaela Mesha Khaine was a God amongst mortals, and none but one could measure to his standard. A lone figure, crown wreathed in black blood and sprouting the Antlers of one Royal enough to meet him. The Bloody Handed one roared his challenge once more, the Eldar joining in his call for war, before he waded into the melee seeking once more suitable carnage.

A literal war god waded through the Bloody Host marines the way a tidal wave rushed through a city... drowning all in its path. His blade worked like art through the air, blood flying off it as he tore armoured marines apart, they were unable to even dent his godly body with their mortal tools. Hands, blades and guns struck furiously against the spectre of death before their wielders were reduced to two halves of molten slag. Set aflame and besieged by this visage the Host broke in its path even as the Exquesor shouted threats and orders, their rage building. All at once the Thorned Kings retinue charged their new foe, their strength pitted against his. Powerful mortal fists moved to batter his hide while mortal fire poured from the maws of combi bolters, but it was no use. The Avatar screeched once more, now registering pain as knats bit at him, and he moved to bat them aside. The sergeant stood longest, his lightning claws dueled with the Bloody Blade for some moments, before he was grasped in a vice by the hand of the Avatar, who lifted him and slowly crushed his body. Terminator armor buckled and popped as the Veteran Sergeant never lost his compusure, attempting to dig gouges in fingers and free himself. It was no use as with one last squeeze a great crack was heard, and the terminator went limp as the Avatar tossed his body aside like a doll... his prey was all that stood before him now.

It was only slightly bigger than its guards, and its armour less bulky. In one hand it held a great black Sceptre, and in the other was held nothing but long claws extended from it, both tools were slick with blood. Khaine bellowed once more, and charged into honourable melee again, its great blade swing down, the intent to cleave in twain the Primarch. The sound of blade ringing against Sceptre cracked the air as Mon-Kal raised his badge of office to stop the advance of his new enemies blade. For no few moments the two stood like this, both their arms trembled with strength and exertion as they sought to overcome the strength of the other, two Kings stared hate into eachothers eyes in the sweet embrace of combat. It was Mon-Kal who broke the tie. Twisting his body he let the Bloody Handed God win the exchange, but his blade cut a great gouge in the earth raather than his opponent. As the God sought to recover the claw ripped across his midriff and it screamed, fire blood stained the Kings Claw as he drew back and the duel began in earnhest. Around these two war raged as the Eldar surged forth to push the stunned invaders from their home alongside thier God, and the Host surged back to re-take ground lost during the Inexorable advance of the Bloody Handed One.

If either true combatant knew what was happening they did not show it. They danced together, blade and sceptre, claw and fist, all met in glorious combat as they slashed and sawed at one another. The Avatar cleaved a great gouge into the Knigs pauldron who grimaced before bringing his sceptre to crack against the Gods waist causing it to bellow in anger and pain. They raged on through the streets, their melee tearing great holes in their own lines as soldiers on both sides scattered before them to avoid the vicious combat. God and King struck ringing blow after ringing blow but neither seemed to tire even as armour cracked, bent, splintered and warped; or iron flesh writhed, bled, broke and shattered. Dark lifeblood flowed like rivers form the King and from the God spewed great gouts of fiery ichor. It seemd as if they were evenly matched.

The King brought his great Sceptre hammering down on the Knee of Khaila Mensha Khaine and a great crack echoed over the sounds of battle as a God was struck lame. The Bloody Handed one screeched as its leg buckled, but sought opportunity. As Mon-Kal raised his claw to cleave the Gods head from his shoulders the God swung his blade in a great upwars arc and the King screamed in pain as he was thrown back and cast down before a God of Combat. He fell upon his back, a great scar wrent deep within his armour, and the ragged line led to his arm but a few four inches from his shoulder, where a ragged stump bled and armour sparked where it had been torn. Khaine howled in victory as his opponent lay prone before him, and souught to impale his opponent through the chest... but was not so lucky. Sceptre dropped the King grasped the burning blade and Screamed to the heavens as his fist warped and burned against it... but still he held it. he forced himself to one knee, then to his feet as he struggled against the strength of a god and the feeling of the blade destroying his flesh... but he would not be broken. With a cry he ripped the blade away from its owner, the great sword embedding itself feet away in the ground. Khaine screeched and charged, the two grappling and tumbling in the middle as fists flared and teeth flashed. It came to be again that the God had the upper hand, the King held in both his hands as he slowly crushed him, a cruel grin splitting his features. The king coughed blood and bile as his armour slowly buckled and cracked further... but it was not done. A flash of movement, the pround antlers atop his head defying sight with speed and force, as they found their place in the eyes of a God. 

Kaela Mensha Khaine screamed and dropped Mon-Kal, grasping at his eyes as firey blood spouted from them. Mon-Kal panted, and cast about for a weapon, but found only the blade of his enemy... it would do. He grasped its hilt, whincing at the pain as he hefted a blade to heavy seemingly even for him.... and yet in his it burned bright, his rage forcing it to his will. With a single wide arc he swung it, and the sound of metal flesh yielding split the air, before the royal head of a God clattered to the ground. The body sat on its knees, its hands similarly cut at the wrists as he had been holding them up. head and hands sat on the ground as the molten glow drained rapidly from its broken body, a truly dead god. In silence the King panted, leaning heavily against the massive and now cold blade. The Eldar lost then.

In droves they fled from their own home, a full retreat. The Marines of the Host did not pursue them, instead forming up around their Father in the case of a counter attack but none came. A father and his sons withdrew to their staging grounds, his wounds in need of attention...

It was then the message came as Mon-Kal drifted in and out of conciousness, the pain almost to much to bear... and in a moment of insensate rage he answere to the veil, his mind screaming loudly back at the messenger, intent on being heard, [i]"And so Father summons, and so I will come. A King has slain a God here, for he answers only to the Empror"[/i], before he dropped into the Dark.