A Dance Among the Shadows.

	Artemis Vyttre, Dracon of the Unspoken Curse Kabal, slipped through the midnight black streets of Commorragh, periodically glancing back over her shoulder in search of her pursuers. She had no idea where her allies – if any self-respecting Dark Eldar would seriously consider using the term – had fled to, and she didn't much care. Saving her own skin was the only thing that mattered now.
	Plotting against your superiors was a way of life in Commorragh, but it was a death sentence if you were caught. Doubt filled Vyttre's mind as she hurried through the bustling street. Had she been betrayed by one of her fellow conspirators? Perhaps Archon Draztri had simply been better informed than she had expected. Either way, she was forced to flight, with the Archon's attack dogs snapping at her heels.
	The streets were crowded enough to hide her from an idle search, but Vyttre knew she was leaving a trail of witnesses with every step she took. In the Dark City, even the most innocuous looking slave or craftsman could be an informant, if the price was right. She would need to take drastic measures if she wanted to lie low for a while.
	Ducking into a narrow side street, Vyttre vanished from sight, merging with the dense shadows around her. There were always risks involved with these black alleys, but Vyttre knew when to take a risk. At least, she had always thought so, but the recent discovery of her schemes cast a certain doubt on that.
	Worrying about past mistakes was futile. Vyttre was a creature of the moment, content to feed her hunger on the here and now. Once she was safe, she could call in a few favours and lie low until Draztri had forgotten all about her, no matter how long it took. Draztri had a long memory, but it wouldn't be long before a new scandal stole his attention away.
	A sudden clattering sound, shockingly loud in the enclosed alleyway, snapped Vyttre out of her thoughts. A long knife, carved out of bone, had been thrown from some blind corner, landing neatly at her feet. Vyttre picked the weapon up as a sinking feeling rose in her breast. This was a Mandrake weapon, and she could recognise the significance. She had stumbled into their territory, and they were giving her a warning.
	Vyttre slowly unbuckled her weapon belt, dropping it and her pistol to the ground. Mandrakes were known to demand tribute from anyone who entered their territory. Hopefully, Vyttre would be able to pacify them with a promise of slaves or some other luxury. The last thing she needed was to be sent looking for some arcane concept to pacify a gang of lowly half-breeds.
	“This is dangerous territory, Highborn,” the voice seemed to hiss from the very air around Vyttre, mocking her with the flippant use of her status. “Perhaps one of us should see you home. There must be someone waiting for you there, surely?”
	Vyttre growled quietly. The unseen Mandrake was trying to get a rise out of her, but she refused to show weakness or desperation. Even the implication that they might hand her over to Draztri was nothing more than a threat, something to strike fear into her heart. At least, that was what Vyttre told herself.
	A pocket of shadows seemed to thicken for a moment before vanishing, revealing the Mandrake. Tall and thin, even by Eldar standards, it was a feral creature, without any of the sophistication that Vyttre associated with their shared race. Then again, the Mandrake wasn't entirely of her race. Some other entity had polluted it's bloodline at some ancient point, cursing the Mandrake to a hybrid existence.
	Patterns of glowing glyphs and sigils crawled across the Mandrake's inky skin, never quite repeating themselves. The Mandrake's facial features shifted as well; sometimes sneering out at her from behind a ragged white fringe, sometimes as blank and expressionless as an obsidian slate. Even at a distance, Vyttre could feel the aura of cold that surrounded the Mandrake.
	“I wish to pass through your territory, and I am prepared to offer tribute,” Vyttre declared, in as haughty a tone as she could manage, “State your terms.”
	“Tribute,” the Mandrake laughed softly. The word was repeated by a chorus of other voices around the alley. There were other Mandrakes hidden around them, watching the exchange with curious eyes. “Tribute...” the Mandrake hissed again, contemplating the word.
	“Yes, tribute,” Vyttre frowned, growing less confident. Dealing with Mandrakes wasn't always simple, especially when they were being deliberately enigmatic. “Name your price, or let me leave!”
	“The price will be paid in flesh,” the Mandrake hissed, licking his lips with a long tongue, “Take off your clothes, Highborn. Tonight, you lie with Kuedra, the master of this shadowed street!”
	Vyttre's eyes narrowed as she considered the price. Sex was common among the Kabals, either as a bartering tool or as a way to pass the time, but she had never lowered herself to lie with a half-breed. If she refused, however, she would end up in Draztri's clutches before the end of the week. Compared with the tender mercies of the Archon's Chief Haemonculus, the Mandrake would seem like a gentle and considerate lover.
	“I accept,” she announced, pulling her cloak off and throwing it to the ground. She wore a suit of tight fitting body armour underneath, already cut to reveal much of her body. The Mandrake grinned broadly, his teeth glimmering in the reflected glow of his markings as he approached the Highborn Eldar. Vyttre shivered slightly as Kuedra pulled her armour off, piece by piece, until she stood naked in the dark alley.
	Like all Eldar, Vyttre's body was lithe and toned, with the barest minimum of body fat. Jagged tattoos decorated much of her body, and each nipple was pierced with elaborate silver pins. A sparse triangle of pubic hair, the same jet black as her hair, was the only sign of hair below her neck. Kuedra pulled off the filthy plastic sheeting he wore as a robe and embraced Vyttre, although there was nothing loving about his touch.
	Still holding her close to his chest, Kuedra sank to the ground, oblivious to the puddles of filthy liquid he was lying in. Vyttre allowed herself a single shudder as Kuedra gripped her muscled thighs, spreading them apart and moving her into position above his rapidly stiffening penis. He pushed into Vyttre harshly, obviously unconcerned with either her comfort or pleasure. The Mandrake pounded Vyttre's slit with unrelenting force, grinning with feral satisfaction whenever her delicate features twisted with pain.
	Vyttre, fists clenched hard against the indignity she was forced to endure, closed her eyes and thought hard about other things. When she was Archon of the Unspoken Curse, she would return to the alleyway and slaughter every single Mandrake she could find. As always, the thought of carnage and destruction was a balm to her spirit.
	No matter how much she tried, however, she couldn't distance herself from her ordeal completely. The sheer strangeness of the experience kept capturing her attention. For one thing, the Mandrake's erection was as freezing cold as the rest of his body. There were precious few signs of life either, no pulsating or twitching. In a way, it was like lying with an obsidian statue, albeit one that seemed intent on pulverising the bones in her hips.
	As she lay on top of Kuedra, Vyttre felt a hand caress her back. At first, she thought it was just the Mandrake letting his hands wander, but both of his hands were gripping her hips, holding her in place as he thrust into her. Vyttre gasped, but before she could say anything, a cold hand seized her from behind, tightening around her throat. Kuedra laughed harshly and forced Vyttre down, pushing his cock deeper into her and pinning her in place. Without any other option, Vyttre grimaced as the second Mandrake began to grope her.
	The second Mandrake continued to fondle her for a moment before sliding closer to her, pressing his stiffness against her back. The Mandrake's breath hissed in her ear, assaulting her with the stink of rotten meat. Tightening his grip on her throat when Vyttre tried to protest, the second Mandrake shifted, pressing the tip of his erection against her anus.
	“What's wrong, Highborn?” Kuedra sneered, his voice steady despite the strain of his feral thrusts. Vyttre refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply, gritting her teeth as the second, nameless Mandrake's erection drilled deeper into her from behind. Without any time to prepare herself for the second penetration, Vyttre couldn't stop herself from growling. She had endured far worse pain in her time, but she had never been so humiliated.
	Soon, the second Mandrake was fucking her just as hard as Kuedra, the two organs punching into her again and again. Whenever she struggled or tried to assert herself, the nameless Mandrake choked her until she gave up. The two Mandrakes wanted her as a helpless victim, nothing more than a receptacle for their lust and cruelty. All Vyttre could do was wait until they were spent and let her leave.
	It wasn't long before the nameless Mandrake's thrusts increased in force and speed, a sure sign that his climax was approaching. He orgasmed silently, without any display of passion, but Vyttre could definitely feel him ejaculate. The liquid pulsing inside her seemed somehow unclean, like something extracted from a recent corpse. Vyttre tried not to think about it, but the slimy sensation of the liquid leaking from her loosened anus was impossible to ignore.
	As if agreeing with his fellow half-breed, Kuedra hastened his thrusts not long afterwards, forcing Vyttre's spread legs a few inches wider so he could reach deeper into the warmth of her body. His seed, when he ejaculated, exploded inside her with terrific force, flooding her insides and dripping out from around his invading organ. Like his companion, Kuedra reached orgasm without ceremony, merely narrowing his eyes and hissing quietly.
	When she was sure he was finished, Vyttre pulled herself off of him and climbed to her feet. Although she tried to act dignified, the effort was spoiled somewhat by the rivers of seed leaking from both orifices. Vyttre swept her cloak around her shoulders, covering her naked body, and gathered her cast off armour.
	“Was the tribute to your satisfaction?” she asked, her voice hollow and expressionless. Beneath the surface, rage boiled in her heart. The Mandrakes around her laughed quietly, like a chorus of whispers. She had no way of knowing which one of the voices belonged to her other “partner”, but it mattered little. Vyttre crossed her arms and allowed herself a scowl, waiting for Kuedra to answer her.
	“Satisfaction? Yes,” Kuedra drew the words out to an absurd length, hissing them to himself, “Return to your ivory tower, Highborn, but never forget this night. No power you can gain will change what we reduced you to.”
	Burning with shame, Vyttre forced herself to nod. Even now, with the tribute paid, the Mandrakes would not suffer disrespect on their territory. If she made anything more than a token show of defiance, the entire pack would fall upon her. If she was lucky, they would tear her apart in an instant. If not, she would be passed around like a piece of meat until every member of the pack had taken their turn with her.
	Kuedra blocked the alley exit for a moment longer before standing aside, letting Vyttre leave. Tightening her cloak around her, she hurried away from the alleyway, glancing back a moment later. When she looked back, the Mandrakes had vanished, melting back into the shadows that shrouded the alleyway.