The First Step

I remember... No more potent nor tragic words can be said by a man who has lost it all. Empty and hollow, he fights for the dead, for that is all that is left, never stopping until he joins them in the grave. Until the dream stops, there is only the memory that remains.

Asurmen, first Lord of the Phoenix, master of the Dire Avengers and Herald of the Exodus, was and is a champion of the Craftworld Eldar. An embodiment of the purest violence, his is not an existence of peace, nor even permanency, for he has died and died again.

Possessing both nobility and brutality in equal measures, he perfected battle in all its different forms, spinning through conflict like a dervish born in bloodlust. This edge, so carefully walked, would be passed down onto those who followed his path, for such certainty was required to follow carnage in its purest form.

This was not always the case however, for it was in
the fires of doubt that he was formed, the fear of the unknown catharsis to one who'd never questioned the absolute. So potent was the choice he made that its echo would haunt his people's history forever, his soul tethered by a denial of what could have been.

So stands Asurmen, prince of an empire gone, a memory of balance surrounded by war. His is the hope of an entire race...

The Damnation Of Their Very Soul...

The First of Many

Asur, their fabled home, had come under assault by the Dark Goddess of Desire. The wrath of Daemon and mortal folly fell upon its rent surface with glee as all perished in its path. Here did Asurmen arrive to bring battle once more against the Great Foe, and here did he stand alone amidst the tides.

Days turned into weeks as with blade he matched the feral hordes of madness. Thousands fell before him, their twisted spirits seperated from reality with careless ease as through mayhem and destruction did he soar.

His end was inevitable however, for Chaos never tires, and legend demands sacrifice for its blessing. The saviour of the Eldar, he who had brought fire to their fading lives, Asurmen passed from existence at long last.

Or so it seemed... History, however, must repeat, stories both past and present eternal in their dance. Another found his armour and blade upon the shattered sands, and once more was the Avenger reborn. His soul survived within the plates and psychic edge of his armaments, and those who bore them wore his memories as well.

Immortality achieved in its most cryptic form, legacy given its most literal manifestation, Asurmen would defend the Eldar wherever they were threatened. Timeless was he, and so were his deaths, for his life was lost countless times in defence of his people.

Each time would he return however, greater than before, for each demise merely added to the history, enhanced the memory and skill within. Vengeance, after all, cannot be stopped... Asurmen now just a tool for its deliverance.

These Final Nights

As the universe grows dark however, even heroes stand small against the coming quiet. It is said that for many years, Asurmen had travelled the Warp, delving into the Eye of Terror in his path of destruction.

Chaos could not hide from him, could not escape his fell gaze, and one by one did its most powerful servants fall before him. No victory could save them, for success against the Avenger bought only time with which to run.

This could not defend a dying race however, and the Avenger had long accepted his role as the final scream
of the already deceased. Such reaction then, as from
the depths of despair was born a new god, must have
been a sight like none other.

The Ynnari had come, their reaper faith bright
against the horror of countless atrocities suffered.
Change, not in the form of their slow collapse but in
the spirit of hope, was a strange friend to the Eldar, but
one Asurmen seized with joy.

Pledging himself to their cause, eager to pursue a goal
so similar to that which saved him from bleak
melancholy, he fought beneath the banner of one who had called him mentor long ago.

Jain Zar, rescued in ages past, now rescued him from despair. Battling the Thousand Sons and their lunatic Daemons throughout the Webway, the Avenger had been reborn. No hollow life in ancient mimicry of a legend ill-remembered, but a being of light, incandescent against the darkness.

Fate is uncertain however, and only one chance remains.

Salvation Must Be Paid In Blood.

The Maelstrom

The winds may break before the eagle's wrath, but the storm follows the hawk. One brief moment of quiet as he arrives, then nothing. The end has long since passed.



Baharroth is a name that strikes fear in even the most depraved hearts of Chaos. Master of the Swooping Hawks, Phoenix of the Storm, his is a soul of sudden violence and lightning devastation.

A witness to The Fall, like all those of who share his title, the Hawk sought refuge in the fires of hate more than any other. Cataclysmic in his utter malice, Baharroth is an agent of total annihilation, a soul knowing full well the future of his demise as he marches towards it without care.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the Hawk is the most vibrant of the Phoenix Lords, brilliant in his
joy of life as he soars through a thousand skies. Little pleases him more than the feeling of wind across his
back, nor brings a smile like the thrill of battle and
its fickle fate.

Combined, this relentless fervour and prophetic doom have created a hero to the Aeldari, a being of myth whose shadow cast from on high brings hope with each beat of his wings. A symbol of victory, Baharroth stands as the final guardian against extinction, his survival the last step towards Rhana Dandra...

And The End Of The World.

This Winter's Rage

One place in particular held importance to the Hawk, one land to which he felt connected beyond any other. It was where he had been raised, where his family now dwelt after their escape from the Fall, and his last tie to a mortality rapidly fading away.

Craftworld Anaen had become his bastion and fortress, and any egress against it was a crime against the Tempest Lord himself. Such horror then that befell this land would place darkness in the heart of any, stoke fires from embers into flame.

Rage had come, an anger unrefined in its totality and all too familiar to the Aeldari who had once sought such feeling without remorse. A vast incursion of World Eaters had carved through space in their bloodlust, eager to ravage without reason nor reprisal.

Upon the Eldar of this fabled land would they fall, depraved in their murder as axes flashed against ancient bone. Uncaring or unknowing of its legendary protector, they left only ash and ruin in their wake as memory was consigned to destruction.

It is unknown whether the Hawk stood as his family and home were put to the sword, but afterwards his rage against the Ruinous Powers knew no limit. No longer a defender of the Eldar, he was a weapon of bright hate and unfettered passion.

Sorrow followed the Hawk now, and no matter how fast he flew, he could not escape the flame...

Call of the Dead

Now an enemy of Chaos without equal, he hunted them wherever they went, stalking their champions across a thousand worlds before rending them apart. Wherever they threatened the Eldar, Baharroth would arrive, desperate to ensure no others could be claimed by their fell grasp.

Victory mattered above all else, for his failure was eternal and could never be redeemed. Each life lost was a crime against his kind, and only blood could pay back such folly and depravity.

Now, however, the game has changed. Old myths have once more awoken, signs of the final night burned into the sky as the Warp devours all once more. Ynnead, the God of Death, has awoken and his children rally now in hope of
salvation against the blight.

The Ynnari these followers are called, and to their banner has the Hawk now sworn his blade, for they represent the last chance of survival for the Eldar.
In their defence, deep within the Warp, did he fight
against the Thousand Sons and their lunatic Daemons. Against hell itself did he stand in defiance of the end and claim victory from the vile machinations of Ahriman.

Alas, such cannot be done without sacrifice, and none have seen him since. Vanishing during the battle as his blade took vengeance against insanity, many fear this spells the final breath of existence, for his death is foretold as the beginning of disaster and mortal demise.

But the Hawk will fly once more, his wings crescendo to the rising storm. Rhana Dandra comes closer every day, and only then will he pass. Chaos will not be unchallenged in their destiny, darkness will not transgress against the light....

The Tempest Will Not Cry Alone...

Cataclysm

With nothing left I remain penitent, broken and yet unbowed. In lyric there is my memory, in dream I am what's left. In war there stirs that fire burning, a choice I thought dismissed.


The Burning Lance, the End and Ire, Phoenix Lord of the Fire Dragons, Fuegan was a being rent from the apocalypse and given form. Possessed of a mastery over the flames, his was a temperament of finessed aggression and restrained destruction.

Herald of the End of Days, it is said that Fuegan will be the one to call together the Phoenix Lords in preparation for the final battle, his match that will set the galaxy ablaze. Fitting then, that he is a being of unmitigated disaster, unleashed and never contained.

Despite this, such total annihilation is not his only
sign, for he also possesses a great wisdom. An ardent believer in control through calamity, like the weapon
he wields so skillfully his devastation is wrought in the most precise manner, casualties of consequence a sin against his perfect balance.

Such is the binary life of the Burning Lance, his existence no different than the forest flame that brings life in the ash behind it. His war is not just against the end of his race, nor against the darkness wrought manifest in the stars...

It Is A War Against Himself.

The Flames Refined

Beginning his story at the end of another, Fuegan was but one soul caught up in the final nights of the Eldar Empire. As the skies erupted with eldritch fire, the voice of prophet proven true as their songs were silenced, the Aeldari crumbled into insanity.

Driven to excess by jaded boredom, their hedonistic pursuit of self-annihilation had produced a being of foul desire and unlimited excess. Slaanesh was its name, She Who Thirsts, and as its cries echoed throughout existence, the towering heights of Fuegan's people were brought to sunder by their own decadent bliss.

Propelled by terror, fleeing extinction given form, the Craftworlds erupted from the nightmare unleashed by their own hubris. Scattering throughout the stars, their survival seemed unlikely, such refuge found only prolonging an end inflicted by their own hand.

But one would rise amidst the ashes, driven forwards by decades of war against oblivion itself. Asurmen he was called, and to his banner did those possessed of similar endurance flock, their souls bright against the darkness ever growing.

Fuegan would be one of these, the Avenger his mentor as violence was taught to him amidst the ruins of his home. The land of Asur would be claimed, the first Aspect Shrine divined and raised upon its soil.

So were the Phoenix Lords born, and so begins our tale of the Burning Lance. War, terror and destruction would be the harbinger of his call, destruction the only sign of his passing. The Dragon had awoken, and not until the end of time would he once more rest his head.

Inferno was his Name

Eventually, as with all his kin, Fuegan would further refine his own style of war atop the lesson of the Avenger. Delighting in the hiss of flame, the ruin of total devastation, those who followed his path would be known as the Fire Dragons.

His philosophy was one of totality, abhorring the small measures as weak attempts to deny the end without resolution. Absolute destruction was his answer to war, no enemy left alive to later challenge nor threat left undiscovered to surprise.

This complete dedication to ruin was dangerous however, for it was a similar path walked by their forefathers before the end. In balance to its tempting depravity was a focussed and honed rage, a wisdom of
control amidst the carange.

He was not an inferno unleashed, but refined oblivion carefully selected. Annihilation with finesse as lunacy battled against self-preservation. These facets of his personal code would help keep his scions in check, and earned him great respect across the Craftworlds who saw reason in his words.

Alas, such victories earned would be faced with its greatest challenge, for the dark must ever hate the light. Betrayed by their own, surrendered to a capricious fate, the world of Asur would fall by the hand of the Great Enemy

Arriving to its embattled waste as his kin fought their final fight upon its surface, Fuegan would stand alone against the end...

The Dragon and the Final Flame.

Deliverance

By the gods, you've never seen anything like it. Death from the shadows, hell come like lightning storm, the soul marvels as it is severed from the mortal coil. The Reaper catches all however, no matter how quiet, no matter how fast they run.

Irillyth the Shade of Twilight, Fae Son of Defiance and the Master of the Shadow Spectres, was a soul borne upon the wings of fate and victim to its endless craft. A guardian angel for a dying race, his dedication to the survival of his kind was unmatched even by those he called brother.

A creature of secrets, of mists and grey truth, Irillyth would hide himself away from the rest of the Eldar, battling the Great Enemy alone throughout the myriad paths of the Webway. Careful in his step, he would embody the shadow, the calm before the raging storm that, without mercy, would always answer his call.

So would he be forgotten, his children but remnants of a once great mind. Abandoned by prophecy, driven by possibility, he would surrender his existence to the
bleak song of what may come, to ensure the certainty
of those he had pledged to defend.

This is the tale of the Shade of Twilight, and perhaps all his eternal kin. No story truly ends however, no legend ever really fades, they merely grow beyond the reality until they become something greater than they once were.

So does the smallest candle cast the greatest shadow, and Irillyth has always slept within...

For The Light Grows Bright Indeed.

Cast From the Light

Born during a time of ruin, of utter collapse and depraved annihilation, Irillyth would well learn his love for the shadows as his people fled from the light that burned them down. Scattered throughout space, the end seemed imminent for the Eldar, oblivion merely delayed in its final success.

Until, that is, Asurmen arrived from the relic worlds they once claimed. Burdened from decades of brutal violence, focussed now only on war and its myriad tools, the Avenger brought hope and a last chance against the end.

Many would flock to his banner, eager to learn from this herald of war, and Irillyth would be amongst the first to join. A quick study and lethal with any weapon, the Shade of Twilight would soon become one of his most proficient students, revenant as he brought death from the fade.

Soon after would Asurmen leave to spread his knowledge across all the Craftworlds, and in his absence did those he taught perfect their own means of battle. For Irillyth, this led to a mastery of subterfuge, of a complete domination of those arts psychological and destructive.

Born again completely, he would found the Shrine of the Shadow Spectres, and though they would never spread far, the legend of both would be known to all Eldar who found deliverance come from the darkness.

At the Edge of Sight

When the fall of Asur came however, when the world upon which the Avenger had raised his shrine fell, Irillyth was not to be seen. Perhaps he fought from the shadows, as was his way, or perhaps he saw something else, something darker that drew his presence away from his kin.

For the Shade of Twilight was unique amongst the Phoenix Lords, possessed as he was of a second sight that glimpsed the future in all its terrible light. Witnessing the destruction of the Mymeara Craftworld at the hands of a race still new to existence, he set out in search of its elusive wake, vowing to allow no further Eldar to fall.

For many years would he travel through the Webway, imparting his knowledge upon those whose path he crossed. For many years he found no success in his hunt, but like a wraith did he haunt the tunnels within the Warp, besting countless Daemons as he purged all filth from its domain.

Finally, however, it appeared his end had come. A
terrible servant of Slaanesh had found entrance to
the Webway and sought to bring her minions through
to wreak havoc upon the Aeldari. Setting his ground
for this final fight, he rent apart damnation itself as the Warp screamed with rage.

The Darkness Could Not Hide From The Shadow.

The Watchful Eye

Despite the odds arrayed against him, the endless tides of Chaos and its Prince of Sin, Irillyth would prove triumphant. Besting the Greater Daemon, banishing the beast and its servants from the hallowed halls of the Webway, he would stand alone, exhausted beyond understanding.

Passing off into slumber, the body incapable of function after such brutal conflict, his mind would be assailed by the whispers that lurked out of sight. The knowledge of what he sought would be granted to him, a final piece of strength imbued to allow him access to this most hidden portal.

With this sudden burst would he emerge on Mymeara, and it would be here that he would call home. Quickly accepted by those who dwelt in its soaring towers, the Shade of Twilight would set about training its warriors in mimicry of himself.

Eventually, however, he approached the Council of Seers that governed this world and told them truly of what he had seen. A terrible fate raced towards this world, and though fear took hold in their hearts, he promised to stand against whatever nightmare would come.

For many more days would he continue in his pledge, but the visions grew dark and feral in nature, plaguing him through waking day as well as the night. Seeing no other option, he marshalled a vast host of Eldar warriors from the Craftworld, fully half their army, and set off into the Webway to meet damnation head on.

Setting off into the Webway, through the very gate that had brought him here, he strode forth with a heavy heart. His visions had changed, the future of Mymeara no longer certain. One option stood before the Shade of Twilight, and with no other choice, he followed destinies decree.

Into the labyrinth they went and, Irillyth kept quiet a secret he now knew. None of them would survive, the safety of the Craftworld brought by their demise as they sought battle with destruction itself.

The future beyond that point was unknown, and the Shade of Twlight feared that such casulties would
doom the Craftworld anyway. Chance, however,
was better taken than certain destruction and
from this journey they would
never return.

Back home they waited
for many years, but soon
their memory
was lost, the
shadow claiming all
in the end.

The Dark Returns

But a myth cannot die, a legend cannot fall, and the Phoenix stood eternal in its fight. His soul was trapped within the plates of his armour, and though his dream soon vanished, his defiance would never fade.

To the world of Bethalmae had he travelled with his army, blades flashing against the reptilian race that dwelt there. Faced against such odds as to devour all, they succeeded in their task, even as the last of them fell to the foe.

Deep beneath the ice would he remain, his body and armour buried by time's ravaging touch. As his Shrines collapsed across the galaxy, one by one, it appeared the end for the Phoenix Lord...

But fortune favours the bold, and once more was his armour found. The last of his sons, in allegiance with a Farseer from Mymeara, found him lost beneath the tempest climate. Through arcane ritual and terrible battle they restored him once more to life, his wings burning again as the shadows answer his call.

No better time could this have happened, for the end has been signalled, the God of Dead stirring in the deep. His children answer the call to arms as the light begins to fade. The shadows are few but they must suffice. Rhana Dandra comes...

The Last Battle Before The End Of Time.

The Rage Inside

Ah, such sorrow sweet prince, such despair and nothing else. Anger without focus turns upon the bearer, devours within until nothing is left. Follow then the words of the Banshee, and unleash that flame upon the world. Draw now only your rage for existence without end.

Jain Zar, the Storm of Silence, the Siren Demented, and the Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, is a soul of cacophonous destruction and graceful demise. Wrought from her youth as a murderer of the highest calibre, such bloodlust knows no limits and is tempered only by the strict teachings of her mentor.

This passion for existence, the sheer "life" of her very being, pushes her to the brink of damnation, but a single step away from the tragedy of before. Such has also brought hope however, for one cannot dream without desire, and in Ynnead has Jain Zar been reborn once more.

Not just a guardian for the Eldar now, but a weapon against extinction, she wages war unending against the Great Enemy and those who would bring her people
low. A banner for those still willing to fight, the Storm
of Silence has led the Aeldari into battle a thousand
times, her wail resolute against disaster.

Now however, monsters awake to fight these legends, and the Siren has little strength left to give. The Tyrant Night comes forth once more and hope may not be enough to stave off its shadow. Regardless, her path will not end until the End of Days itself, blade drawn and blood burning...

The Banshee Cries Again.

Dread Incarnate

Amidst the rain-soaked surface had they clashed for many hours, ancient rage from different suns playing out in full amidst the music of blade and bullet. Wounds on both to slay a lesser soul, the Seer would accept his fate at the very end.

Talos was his name, and with a sword through the heart would he detonate his grenades, claiming both of them in the fury of flame and engineered destruction. Such mattered little to Jain Zar however, for death was inevitable and life had been restored to the lands of Ulthwé, damnation delayed for now.

The Banshee would eventually be restored, such sacrifice simple for a being that lived on memory and not flesh. Her armour was recovered and once more did another take up the role she had held.

Annihilation, however, waits always at the edge of sight, watching for that moment to strike. Each year that passed grew closer to the end and when Biel-Tan came under assault from the blades of Dark Gods, once more did she march towards war.

Against the Masque of Slaanesh and Skarbrand himself did she dance into battle, each step laden with promise as tortured souls were split before her. Such carnage would once have been wrought into song, but the night had grown dark, and such torments and danger had become common in the blighted lands around them.

Victory would be hers, but such cost paid could never be recovered. Resplendent in her prowess, she realised that one soul cannot stand against the end alone.

The Dead Awaken

With the birth of Ynnead however, there came a new chance for the Aeldari. A weapon against the Great Enemy, a strength to stand and fight one last time, Jain Zar saw little choice for her people but to kneel before this divine darkness and swear fealty.

Desperation perhaps, obsession driven to the point of no other option, it mattered not. Accepting of his power, zealous in her belief, Jain Zar would be reborn once more, a true avatar of her deities will. Manifest now in form, she championed the cause of the Ynnari across a hundred worlds and more as she sought to make her people ready for the end.

Recognising the danger this new god presented, or merely spiteful that another would take dominion within the Warp, the Chaos Gods would not rest easy against his ascent. The force of Ynnari who sought refuge in the Webway came under assault by Ahriman, Sorcerer-Lord of the Thousand Sons.

Facing destruction, salvation against their oldest myth came from the legends they had hailed for so very long. The Phoenix Lords emerged into the labyrinth, weapons drawn and eager for battle.

Banshee howl and sibilant death would be her message to this ancient foe, murder a companion since she had been born. With speed and grace she held strong against the tides of madness, and through her rage did the Eldar escape once more into the shadows of their home.

Alas, it appeared that such would be the end for Jain Zar, for she had disappeared alongside her kin. The tunnels in which they had fought had devoured the Phoenix Lords, and removed one more light from the galaxy...

Or So It Seemed.

What Could Have Been

Vanished without a trace, the Eldar continued on their fight without her, their battles quiet now without the Banshee's cry. When Saim-Hann was attacked however, when the Ynnari once more faced destruction at the hands of their twisted brothers, Jain Zar returned to the fray.

Out of a forgotten Webway Gate held in the heart of the world, Drazhar emerged at the head of a host of warriors. Death was their only goal, the murder of Yvraine at the behest of the fell Archon who ruled in Commorragh, and with the fabled skill for which he was known, he set about his task without pause.

The edge of his blade span endless through the air, its aim upon his target. Quicker than lightning, faster than thought, the glaive descended towards Yvraine's neck...

As it clashed against metal as ancient as he. Jain Zar had come, and they began a dance unlike any other, each step one of lethality, each strike measured and precise.

Faced with a Phoenix Lord of old, Drazhar began his retreat through the Webway, followed and harassed by the Banshee wherever he went. Across the span of the Eldar Empire did they travel, every breath measured by the beat of blade against blade.

Finally would they face in the ruined city of Aelindrach, a broken realm within Commorragh once home to the mighty Shaa-Dom. Here in its Daemonic filth did the Drukhari ambush Jain Zar, matching her fabled skill with ease as he split in her twain.

Cut down within these haunted towers, Drazhar believed her truly dead, for her soul could not leave its barren walls. Death, however, was ruled by another now, and Ynnead would not see his champion slain so easily.

Bringing her back from the twilight void, he imbued within the Banshee a portion of his own power and a call for death against the Incubi Champion who had brought her low. Such challenge would not wait long, for Drazhar could not abide his victim's escape from darkness, and hunted the Siren down to finish what he had begun.

Once more did the two meet, once more did battle take place as motion matched grace without pause. Unable to best the Drukari in skill, such blessings by the God of Death had brought her power unmatched by her kind.

For the first time in his life, the Incubi was
defeated, and without celebration nor applause did
his soul flee his broken form, the dread master
slain at last...

This Final Night

This would not be the last battle of the Phoenix
Lord however, for the enemies of the Ynnari were
legion. Chaos, Eldar, Imperial and Xenos, all wished
darkness upon their journey and the greatest
champions of their foes strode forth to meet them.

Slaanesh hungers eternal for their soul, desires and demands their total destruction. On the world of Iathglas were they assaulted again by Shalaxi Helbane, and this figment illusion proved almost too much to bear for the Swords of the Dead.

What hope then is there, against the darkness that comes? None perhaps, but fight on they will, for too long have they fled. The Eldar will once more claim their glory, once more remind all that their power cannot be ignored.

They Will Burn Bright In This Final Night.

Mask of Jain Zar

The original device worn by the Howling Banshees, this piece amplifies the wearers cry into a sonic assault capable of slaying those who hear it. Those lucky enough to survive know fear however, for death has come for them at last.

Zhai Morenn

Known also as "The Blade of Destruction", this
long-hafted weapon is amongst the most potent Eldar
blade to exist. Forged long ago, its power remains still,
and with debilitating speed can it rend armour and flesh alike.

Jainas Mor

Known as "The Silent Death", this unusual throwing weapon was forged in the strange fires of the Warp, tempered by science not real or understood. Black rage dances endless along its edge as each throw returns it to its bearers hands.

Of Shadow Made

Raised in the crucible of war, tutored by shadow and sin. What more could we expect from our scorpion, than that he would turn upon his own. Watch now, and wait, for he was poisoned the first time he stepped forth to do battle against the night.


Karandras, the Shadow Hunter, the Ever-Venom, and the Master of the Striking Scorpions, is the darkness behind much of the Eldar's might. Grim and relentless, his history is plagued with doubt and tragedy, wrought with kin-strife and rebellion.

Forced to battle with his aspect's rage and need for violence, Karandras is a figure caught between damnation and salvation, promising hope even as he teaches the very hell they seek to escape. Such has earned him a fell reputation, salvaged only by his loyalty to Asurmen, but one that is forever examined for fear the student does not stray far from the master.

Such dichotomy perhaps best reflects the dangers of the Eldar's existence, for though feared for his talents, none would ever turn his help away. A legendary killer, a
ruthless assassin, from the dark does he arrive without celebration or love, only to vanish once the war is over.

Such is the life of the Scorpion, betwixt murder and survival, hope and destruction. A necessary evil perhaps, a monster called upon for the darkest of days.

Or perhaps he is the end of a dying race...

A Venom for the Soul.

From Whence They Came

The origins of Karandras are murky at best, containing mostly myth and legend rather than fact, perhaps unsurprising for the Prince of a Shrine devoted to shadows and their work. Raised during the Fall of the Eldar, that grim time when their once galaxy-spanning empire fell upon itself in a glut of sensation and self-destruction, the Scorpion emerged from a Craftworld unknown, lost now perhaps or hidden far from the eyes of the enemy.

He joined Asurmen later than most, serving beneath a figure most terrible. Ahrha he was called, founder of the Striking Scorpions, and even during this terrible time was he considered a bleak soul, dark and destructive in nature.

Here did Karandras learn the art of stealth and murder, proving himself an exemplary student in the feral works of battle. An Exarch in short order, his skill was sublime but not unusual amongst his kind, and though destiny had chosen him, no sign could be seen that he would rise above all others and claim the throne of his father.

Time would pass however, and though it seemed like the Aeldari would be safe from extinction, at least for now, the Striking Scorpions began to sink further into the very lunacy they sought to escape. Murderous rage and all-consuming violence began to devour the Shrine, as Ahrha furthered his path into madness and annihilation.

Eventually, as the stories say, the curtains opened and the Dark Father would reveal himself. The Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions turned upon his brethren, summoning forth a vast army of Daemons to bring ruin to the Aeldari, sundering the First Shrine so carefully constructed by Asurmen.

Though the battle was terrible, and many legends were made, the sickness thick within the Striking Scorpions proved too strong to resist, and their work shattered the legacy of the Phoenix Lords. Ahrhra himself disappeared however, vanishing into the Webway with his followers, leaving only the ashes of a once singular hope behind.

Shattered they Stand

Few of those benighted Aspect Warriors remained, who had once pledged loyalty to the Fallen Phoenix. Amongst them was Karandras, and though he was not the most skilled in battle, nor the most talented in the arts of stealth, he arose as a new leader for the broken Shrine.

Espousing restraint and discipline amidst the carnage, desperately trying to cleave back control from the inferno, he rebuilt the Striking Scorpions from the ground up, diverging from the brutal path lay down by his forefather.

Across the Craftworlds would he travel, bringing warning of the shadow, standing as a living symbol of the darkness that still waited to claim the refugees amidst the stars. Temple by temple, Shrine by Shrine, Karandras brought revelation and sanctuary to those battling the sickness in their hearts, undoing the harm caused by one who had fallen further than any.

Recognised for his work, though still feared for the legacy of his kind, Karandras was named the new Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions, for the Path he taught was far different than the lessons of old. Though named hero and saviour by a dying race, the damage had already been done. No longer would the shadows bring comfort to the Eldar, no longer would the darkness be free of the terrors of old.

As the Night Calls

Time would pass however, and so would Karandras earn his title. Battle after battle, war after war, the Striking Scorpions would appear as though mist, leaving behind only bloody murder and brutal death in their wake.

Quiet and restrained, a thousand years, and a thousand more, silently would they watch from the night. History, however, is often want to repeat, and as the galaxy spiralled towards its own annihilation, so too would the Aeldari find themselves on the precipice once more.

Amidst the ruins of an ancient Craftworld named Zandros would Arhra finally emerge. Hunted down by those he had abandoned, a terrible battle ensued between the Fallen Phoenix and Karandras, their blades clashing amidst a world forgotten and abandoned.

No pitched war was this, no grand conflict of gleaming armour and swirling pennant, but instead a brutal and violent struggle, dancing between ambush and murder. No crevice could be ignored, no doorway dismissed, as the two faces of destruction sought the others end without mercy.

Darkness is often strongest, however, with nothing to lose. The Striking Scorpions were skilled, their master legendary, but the prowess of the Incubi and their father was without equal. Each body dropped, each tear of blood spilt, and their rage grew onwards like a furnace flame fed.

Realising success would not be his, Karandras turned instead to those tactics that had earned him fame. Ordering his soldiers to depart, he baited Ahrha into chasing him, leading him onwards for seventeen day and seventeen nights.

Frustrated at every turn by this master of shadow, Ahrha followed relentlessly, falling further into madness each step that he took. Finally, however, he cornered his former apprentice, and struck out a killing blow to end this rivalry forevermore.

And yet, there was nothing, no sound, no feeling, just metal against dying bone. Melting into the shadows, Karandras escaped the clutches of his foe, a final taunt that drove the fallen Phoenix into madness. There had been only silence on Zandros for so very long, and once more would their be silence again, as Ahrha turned on his followers in frenzy beyond control or restraint.

The Foe Within

So successful, one would perhaps be safe to assume
that the Striking Scorpions had at long last paid for
their crimes. The darkness talks however, the night
stirs... A God of the Dead has come forth into life, and
the Aeldari now face a new struggle... One from within.

Pledging himself to the newly formed Ynnari, Karandras would disappear along with his kin, battling against She Who Thirsts within the Webway for one final chance at salvation. The darkness fades fast, the shadows retreat as a new dawn approaches.

None know now where the Scorpion rests, but at this final hour amidst the end of days, it is certain he will return. The Great Foe marshalls its strength once more, never looking behind it in certainty that it shall succeed. Such ego, however, is how the greatest shall fall, such ignorance where the truth can be found... Without knowing do they tread towards the Scorpion...

Without Knowing they Tread Towards their Doom.

The Danse Macabre

F ear... That lingering doubt so often accompanied by the silence before war. No sound but the heartbeat, no movement but the nervous stare. You wait, and wait, and wait, but there is no warning... The scream the last thing you hear.

The Harvester of Souls he is called, and well earned is this name, for Maugan Ra is the fell shadow of the Eldar's spite. A mocking figure of merciless death, the Reaper stalks the Webway without caution, bringing annihilation to those who do not see his shadow pass.

Always an outsider, Maugan Ra would teach those who followed his path the art of murder from afar. Bewitched by the occult, enchanted by designs of a terrible nature, he was the mirror darkly to the noble knights of Asurmen, a revenant reflection of their hopeful ideals cast in terror and blood.

His bleak mien hides a loyalty to the Eldar beyond reproach however, for though he wears malice as another would wear a cloak, he has stood against the darkest of foes without concern for his soul. The brother of Baharroth, the Cry of the Wind, these two have held the line against extinction time and time again.

No thanks are needed by the Reaper, no adulation or worship. He arrives to the storm of battle, relishing each crack of fire, every scream of pain, an incarnate figure of destruction without equal. As soon as the silence falls however, so too does Maugan Ra depart, once more into the Webway in search of the thunder he craves eternal.

So Walks Tragedy, Content to be Alone.

The Smiling Knight

Maugan Ra would proceed to appear in all manner of conflicts throughout the years, even those that bore little relevance to the Eldar race. On Stormvald would he arrive, holding off the combined force of Hive Fleet Leviathan as he brought calamity to the Tyranid threat. For what reason he appeared is unknown, perhaps prophecy or mere delight in the slaughter, but his actions brought salvation against the enemy, their corpses piled high before the unending hail of devastation he so casually wrought.

Later still would the Reaper clash against the Tyranids, defending Craftworld Iyanden from the Devourer as he fought amidst the shade-haunted towers of the Wraith-World. To the tune and shrieks of the haunted dead, Maugan Ra appeared and vanished amidst the sweeping halls, decimating those caught in his eldritch sight, leaving only a smiling mask as memory to his work.

Relentless was he, and Iyanden was saved, as were countless others by his bloody craft. All that fought beneath his gaze however, did so at a bloody cost, none free from the tragedy that was the Reaper's past.

Even Alaitoc, one of the most powerful Craftworlds, was not free from the horror he brought. Besieged by the Imperium of Mankind, blamed for the actions of their dark kin in Commorragh, the Craftworld struggled beneath a storm of retributive fire.

Once more haunting the arcane lands of his people, Maugan Ra would prove to be a devastating force of nature, obliterating those who dared step into the open, rending vehicle and marine apart with gleeful ease.

Such violence could not be the answer however, for the Eldar were a dying race and though led by the Phoenix Lords into a glut of frenzy and delightful battle, humanity knew no end nor regret in its search of war.

Though the Reaper took his toll upon the foe, eventually it was words that eased this violent outbreak, leaving both sides ruined beyond repair, both sides broken before the spectre of death.

A Shadowed Return

Hope, however, is a fickle thing, as eager to lure the hollow as break the virtuous. So long alone and abandoned, Maugan Ra had never once turned from his search for his home. When the Eye of Terror awoke, when the Warmaster marshalled the armies of Chaos to battle once more, the Reaper saw his chance. To the clarion calls of the 13th Black Crusade, Maugan Ra dived into the Eye of Terror, vacant now as it was before the war unending before it.

It cannot be known how long he spent wandering the endless depths of madness, how many battles he fought against ancient beasts and lingering insanity. Countless adventures were had as the galaxy burned in flames, all in search of solace, of an end to a grief held for a thousand years and more.

Eventually he would find it, the cradle of his birth, the remnant of his past long abandoned into the sickening womb of creation. Their survival, however, was not to be expected, for somehow they had endured within the halls of these terrible gods, endured and prospered amidst storms of primordial might.

Plunging their Craftworld out of the storm, he led them into battle once more, tearing into the forces of Chaos and securing victory for the Eldar of Ulthwé.

A Homecoming Eclipsed

As Chaos wrought havoc upon the material plane, the return of Altansar was met not with joy as some would expect, but with concern and doubt. Though instrumental in the plight of the Aeldari against the Great Enemy, there was much about these survivors that could not be explained.

The Seer Councils met and talked, their debate echoing back and forth without change. They were different, they saw, hollow hearted and armoured, never once removing their helmets even outside of battle. Every word they spoke was whispered, a quite murmur that sent shivers down the spine, and they spoke of strange things from stranger times.

None, the Council argued, could spend so long within the darkness and return unscathed. Such complaints fell on deaf ears however, for Maugan Ra was not one to be denied. His people had returned once more to the living,
his home resurrected from the myths of time.

With his hope restored, Maugan Ra continued
the battle against Chaos, aided now by his
grim family who stalk from the shadows in
silence, relentless in their implacable
advance.

The Final Sigh

But such delight would be short-lived. From the midst of such brutal bloodletting would be born a god of nought and nothing, a master of death above even the Reaper himself. Sworn to him would be the Ynnari, and to them would Maugan Ra lend his aid, seeing at last a single light for a race hollow from suffering.

Into the Webway would he vanish, along with many of his kin, battling against Slaanesh to buy but a moments time for one last chance at salvation. Dead he cannot be however...

For Death Catches Not The
Reaper.

Maugetar

A titanic Shruiken Cannon designed carefully with a powerful blade along its barrel, its legacy is one of death. Forged by Kaeleth-Tul after a terrible battle with a Keeper of Secrets, it is an engine of destruction capable of rending flesh, armour and machine with equal ease.

A Shade to Eyes

So sweet, the sorrow drawn like blades of battle. No rust to mark the metal, no mar to harm the steel, each step like music before the last. I saw him truly however, coiled deep beneath the skin. A serpent screaming without rhyme nor reason, a master of the end alone.

The Fallen Phoenix of Disregard, the Drought of Hope, the Master of Blades, each and all a title worn by a single being, hated and pitied in equal measure. Arhra, Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions and bearer of the Dark Flame of Chaos.

Once one of a bare few who stood between the Aeldari and total ruination, his is a legend of betrayal and treason, though of whom, and what, only the gods truly know. A hero in the eyes of the bleak scions of murder and spite, a bastard foe to those clinging to their desperate path of control, all that remains is the battle, and few can claim equal to this warrior born.

Described only in the most sinister light, Arhra stood between the dawn and dusk, holding court with both discipline and the wild violence running thick through
his veins. Desperate times however, called for desperate measures, and as the tides of extinction pulled close upon this ancient race, few would deny help, even from this most fell of friends.

Such could not remain however, and arguments kept quiet would scream to the fore. Rejecting of the cynical path his kindred would take, Ahrha clove to unity through destruction and allegiance through war. His path was one of totality, to live as one needed to live, to survive no matter the cost...

To Die in Ruin and Ash.

Follows Disaster...

The world ended, the skies filled with ash and smoke, the very coils of existence unravelled. The Fall of the Eldar was one of sudden momentum and riotous applause, as the universe itself collapsed inwards in a scream of anguish and torment, the compiled sins of a single race imploded upon them with fury and rage.

Those few who escaped upon the errant Craftworlds soared free into a galaxy uncaring of their being, hunted down by their creation through the tides of madness and laughter. Their Doom, fast as it approached, appeared inevitable, and despair clung heavy to each breath taken.

This was not to be, however, for one would rise to the challenge. Asurmen he was called, and from his teachings did the Eldar learn a new way to wage war, to ensure the survival of their physical form without sacrificing their soul.

Many flocked to his banner, sat in tutelage before him, and learned all that they could from his ways. Such was the beginning of the Aspect Warriors, and those amongst them who proved greatest would go on to found their own Shrines, each a master of battle in their particular way.

These became known as the Asurya, and each became known as a legend. Perhaps greatest amongst their number was Ahrha, The Father of Scorpions, whose skill with the blade was near unmatched, and whose arts of stealth and cunning subterfuge were peerless amidst the lightless worlds that surrounded them.

Alas, to spend so long in the shadow is to eventually fear the light, and Ahrha became bitter. A broken soul of sinister tastes, his brutality escalated with each battle fought, the joy of murder exciting far past the need to kill. It would not be long, it seemed, before he fell too far.

Between Life and Death

This sickness slowly infesting the Fallen Phoenix soon began to infect those he taught. The Striking Scorpions as they were known soon became relentless in their search for battle, delighting in the mayhem caused by their bloody work.

Many began to see parallels between the Dark Father and the Aeldari of old, those whose actions had led to the Fall and whose needless search for ever crueller sensation had doomed them all. Known to those on the Craftworlds as the "Path of Damnation", his continuance towards such nihilistic bliss began to cause greater and greater concern.

Eventually, spurned too long, despised for his nature and loathed for his views, Ahrha turned upon his family. Aided by his followers, he called upon a great storm in the Warp and pulled forth those Daemons who had hounded them for centuries.

Unleashed in full, he launched an invasion against the First Shrine, that bastion of Asurmen that stood as a testament to survival against the end of their line. Here he did battle with the Phoenix Lords and their servants, rent blade and broken heart in conflict unending upon the last hope of a dying race.

None could stand before him, a pinnacle of murderous art whose strength grew with each corpse added to the blood-slick ground. Elegant in form, a dancer amidst his ruined stage, the brutality unleashed could not be chained and the First Shrine was devoured by Chaos, the Aeldari shattered and forced to flee from their mirror darkly. So victorious, Arhra fled into the Webway, The Fallen Phoenix of Chaos, a champion of darkness unequalled...

Or So They Say.

An Honourable Treason

The Eldar of the Fallen City, the Drukhari, scions of Commorragh, have a very different story to tell. They speak of one who saw danger in the path Asurmen tread, his blind view of how things should be, his willingness to abandon those who did not agree with his path, nothing but treachery and ignorance destined to doom them further.

They claim that Arhra sought an alliance between the various Aeldari, demanded a balance between the disciplined nature of the Crafworlds and the excess emblazoned within the hearts of their fell cousins.

Such words of caution were ill-met by his kin however, his advice shunned and himself banished from their sight. So scorned, he began to teach his followers the true path, one of self-control, but not of denial. He allowed only the strongest to serve him, revelling in the riot of battle while never losing himself to the rage within.

Balance he called it, traitor they called him, and when the stars of Chaos awoke once more, he strode to battle alone and abandoned. Chaos, he saw, was collapse, and no greater foe against the Laughing Gods had there ever been.

For days he fought the Daemons, wrought havoc against them as each day he lost ground before their advance. A poet in motion, an avatar of war, hell itself broke against his blade a thousand times and a thousand times again.

The battle, however, had only one result. No heroes came to aid him, no allies stood beside the Fallen Phoenix, and each wound suffered merely hastened the end inevitable. The First Shrine fell, Arhra wounded beyond repair, his body aflame with the light of Chaos that sought to devour him. With no other choice, he fled into the Webway, turning his back upon those he had once called family.

Arriving in Commorragh, he founded the Incubi and taught them all he could, never once removing the mask that hid his ever-burning gaze. He became the first Hierarch of the Temple of Blades, and when his children had learned all that they could, he bid they prove their worth.

In battle he fought them, and in the callous conflict did many fall, but eventually Arhra was slain, his soul shattered and absorbed by those who remained. A last sacrifice, so that his lessons would never be forgotten.

A Truth Unknown

It is difficult to parse the truth from fiction, for so long ago did it occur that none may ever know. Those few who bore witness to the day of reckoning remain tight-lipped and silent, their judgement kept to themselves alone.

But all is not as it seems, for many claim Arhra still lives. Some whisper that the Dark Father was never slain, that he leads still the Incubi Temples from the shadows as the Hierarch above all.

Others talk still of a silent warrior who emerged from the shadows. Drazhar is his name, a blade without match, who slew all who challenged him without pause nor break of sweat. His title but a lie, his origin unknown, he appears relaxed in his role, an executioner of the highest order, content to kill and kill without mercy or respite.

Like all Phoenix Lords his legacy remains intact however, his story incomplete until they exist no more. The God of the Dead calls now to all who would serve him...

And Perhaps his Shadow Answers.

Art

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3: Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan Cover
4: Dire Avenger Exarch by Alexandr Elichev
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6: Harlequin Cover
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8: Iron Hands Space Marines vs Alaitoc Eldar by Jose Daniel Cabrera Peña
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13: Swooping Hawks Fanart by MarekDolata
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15: Eldar Fire Dragon by David AP
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17: Fire Dragons by SLIMEfaces
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19: Shadow Spectres by Vincent Devault
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21: Eldar Iybraesil Shadow Specter Exarch by Nictanova
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23: Eldar Shadow Spectres by Arhicks
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25: Blood of the Phoenix Cover
26: Jain Zar vs Succubus by Alex Cristi
27: Storm of Silence Cover
28: Eldar by Maewix
29: Banshee by OptionalTypo
30: Unknown
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32: Eldar Codex (5th Edition) by Games Workshop
33: Striking Scorpion by Jorge Momparler
34: Stalking the Prey by RazydaArt
35: Striking Scorpion by Mikhail Savier
36: Phoenix Lord Maugan Ra by DarkCrusader40
37: Unknown
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41: Eldar Faction Splash by DiegoGisbertLlorens
42: Incubi 2 by Beckjann
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Afterword

Please enjoy this complete installment of the Phoenix Lord Lore Posts by Jackeyblob. If you have any suggestions on where to go next, please don't hesitate to message me your idea.