#saimarith

With adoration in his eyes, Nero gazed at the enormous horned figure in dark green armour. He contemplated the klaves resembling wings, as well as the trophies of the defeated foes that were hanging from them. Light danced inside the cracked green spirit stone on his horned helmet. A crack reminiscent of a battle scar crossed the left lens of the white mask. Nero took a drag on his Lho-stick, waiting for a response from the Dark Eldar. Yet the figure before him remained silent and motionless, like a statue. The xenos didn't even look in the Rogue Trader's direction. His eyes gazed off into the distance of the Dark City. The human's words were falling on deaf ears.

‘I will pay you enough in slaves, artefacts and provisions to satisfy you and your Shrine.’

The dark figure remained silent. Drukhari leisurely turned his back and walked away from the mon-keigh, who seemed to be wasting his time. Suddenly, the sound of a filthy human voice calling his name made him stop.

‘I don't know if Marazhai Aezyrraesh, the Dracon of the Reaving Tempest, has told you about our adventures together, but he has told me about you, Saimarith.’ Nero took another drag and noticed that the winged figure had stopped. He smiled ominously, triumphing in his success in winning the Drukhari’s attention back. Marazhai said the truth. Saimarith understood Low-Gothic. ‘I have a feeling that we both want the same thing. We both want to prove that we are the strongest among our kind. I need your impeccable skills on the battlefield to help me achieve that.’

The Drukhari moved his head slightly and looked askance at Nero. It was the first time their eyes met. The Rogue Trader and the Incubus stared at each other in silence for a while, neither moving. At last, the xenos turned his body fully around, fixing the mon-keigh with his gaze. A shift moment and Saimarith shortened the distance between them. Now he was standing uncomfortably close. He grabbed Nero’s chin with his clawed hand, harshly turning his head to the right side with a crack of the mon-keigh’s neck, revealing the Marazhai’s brand hidden under his black hair. Nero could feel the claws digging into his skin and blood running down his throat, but he didn't bat an eyelid.

‘Who am I going to make a covenant with? Is it you, plaything, or your master?’ Finally, Nero could hear the cold, deep voice coming from the pallid mask. It wasn’t the sickeningly sweet sound he was used to hearing. Unlike Marazhai’s, this voice was like an enveloping, dark, viscous swamp.

‘You make a covenant with me, a Rogue Trader of the Koronus Expanse. I can offer you far more than any Archon in Commorragh, Saimarith.’ Nero’s eyes were burning as he spoke with effort. ‘I know that you crave battles and slaughter more than torturing pathetic slaves at your disposal. I promise you gory battlegrounds and worthy opponents. Thousands of Worlds will be your arenas.’ A wide, confident smile cracked his face like another ugly scar. He felt the grip on his chin tighten. If it went on any longer, his jawbone would break, yet he didn’t resist, nor did he try to release himself from Saimarith’s grip. Adrenaline pounded through his head, and his heart raced furiously in his chest. As the moment when the pleasure of the pain flashed through Rogue Trader’s body, Saimarith growled and released his grip. Nero’s chin was burning, and his neck was aching as if a muscle tissue had been torn. The years he spent in Captain’s Chamber feasting with Marazhai paid off. No matter how intense the sensation is, he no longer flinches in pain like before. His “master” taught him to embrace and savour the agony until the last drop.

Saimarith cocked his head, appraising the human in front of him. He recalled how Marazhai had spoken about his pet as though it were his equal. That was intriguing. The Incubus still doubted whether he could trust this lowly creature and his promise. Although the mon-keigh was right, he longed for warfare and trophies from mighty warriors. The Archons in Dark City held him in low esteem, assuming that spying was the best his small Shrine could offer. Saimarith didn't remember the last time his Klaive praised Khaine’s name in a gory battle.

Centuries without battles and raids had weakened Saimarith's muscles, but not his spirit. He still remembered the time when his Shrine of the Poisoned Silence was renowned for its skilled, ruthless warriors. If he wanted to become the next Klaivex and change his Shrine for the better, he had to be stronger; otherwise, they would all perish. If a Kabal or a larger Shrine were to attack, they wouldn't survive. Most of his despicable brothers and sisters were cowards and weaklings who had forgotten how to wield a klaive. He wondered if the Dracon of the Reaving Tempest or his pet knew that.

The silence felt like an eternity. The air seemed to grow heavy. Nero gazed at Saimarith in anticipation, ignoring that the deep wounds left by the xenos' gauntlet on his chin kept bleeding. His expression turned serious. Rogue Trader couldn’t read Saimarith’s expression behind his pale mask, and it made him feel nervous.

At last, the Incubus nodded briefly. The covenant was made.