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The rain spattered off the sharp edges of Sarxal's armor as he sat in wait. Across the shattered wastes of Iloth VI, flashes and booms and screams rise into the night, mingling with the sulfuric rains. They were ruining his armor, the warrior lamented; the acids were slowly compromising the bone-white color of his helm. The warrior sat with his back to a burnt out husk, a shattered hulk of what had, once upon a time, been a Predator battle tank, of the Sons of Orar Space Marines. Presumably, a leftover from the war that those gene-boosted watchdogs of humanity had waged against a Tyranid splinter fleet. Not that it had won them much; the Great Devourer had been pushed away from verdant agriworlds to the galactic south, but the planet itself was nothing but a burnt out husk; what the Tyranid swarms hadn't devoured, the oafish humans had glassed. Never again would this world bear life.

Looking out on the battlefield, Sarxal continued his reverie. He had fought the children of the Corpse Emperor, and had culled their wards to the galactic south; both were enjoyable sport, but it was a more monumentus prize that had drawn this force out of Commorragh. Their untainted kin were out and about, and as his dear sister had always said, little sport can compare to a taste of your own.

Sarxal chuckled at his internal joke. Her deltoids, he had found, had been particularly lean, yet did not lack flavor if basted properly.

There was a little tickle behind his ear, and he accepted the communications request with a deft manipulation of the eye-motion-control suite that ran his HUD. "Where are they, Sarxal?" an impatient voice demanded. "My blade isn't getting any sharper."

"Jaan, did nobody ever teach you to enjoy the universe for what it is?" He retorted. Speaking on the matter, a particularly bloodcurdling scream echoed out over the war-torn wastes. It was quite distinctive; starting as one of sheer unadulterated agony, the product of any number of his people's nefarious arms, but the way it progressed betrayed its source. The way it took a strangled, wheezing character as it tapered off told it as caused by a huskblade, the preferred weapon of his latest paramour, a Wych by the name of Alia. Lovely little minx, that one. It'd be a sad day when he ate her.

"There's a time and place," Jaan said. "Now is the time and place for blood."

Sarxal snorted. "Don't play me for a fool you twit. Your impatience stems from your long string of recent and disappointing operations. Your hands have not drawn blood for far too long, and for your incompetence, She Who Thirsts draws near. And if you think, for a moment, that you'll get any help from me in staving her off, you're sorely mistaken. I have watch. When they come, I shall alert you. Pester me no more."

With that, Sarxal closed the link and locked it. How that fool Jaan had ever become an Incubi, he would never know, but he decided then that if the other warrior bothered him again, he would make a light snack for the wait.

One did well to ware Sarxal the Cannibal.

It was actually at that moment then that the watchman did spot movement; down below, in a deep crater caused by munitions from the last war, a single Eldar helm lay. This helm had been expertly rigged with a looping distress signal, which spoke of a Warlock in dire need of assistance. Of course, said Warlock had died hours ago, but the forces it was meant to draw needn't know that.

The helm, however, wasn't what caught the Incubi's eye. Rather, it was the dark shapes moving through the acidic rains that stirred him.

"Movement," he intoned into the unit-wide channel. A moment later, he grinned wickedly under his helm as a further identification was made. "Striking Scorpions."

Dearest sister always said, there's no greater sport than a taste of your own. And Sarxal the Cannibal thought that the shared parenthood of the two forces was a delicious irony. It would go well with their hearts.

After a short moment to silently amass themselves along the lip of the crater, the Incubi descended on their prey. Sarxal was the fourth of their party to engage, also claiming first blood as he brought his Klaive down on one of the Aspect Warriors as the Eldar fighter tangled with another of the Incubi. The power sword carved the warrior from shoulder to hip, and Sarxal spun away to his next opponent. This one was somewhat more ready an opponent, and raised a shiruken pistol to fire on the charging Incubus as he closed. This threat was quickly neutralized by a short chop powered by the Klaive's tertiary grip that sheared the barrel of the weapon clean off. The chainsword came down next, appearing to come vertically, but then shifting angles for a vicious hip-height stroke. Sarxal caught it on his own weapon expertly, trapping it in one of the Klaive's serrations and pinning it there. The incubus threw a frighteningly fast backhand, just in time to divert a mandiblaster attack, before bringing his Klaive up and around, beheading his stunned opponent.

Sarxal took a moment to bathe in the arterial spray, before dancing off to find new sport.

Shiruken rounds bounced off his Warsuit as he closed with his next target. Cackling, he activated his Tormentor, and the target went to its knees, screaming in agony as the nefarious psychic device set fire to the Eldar's nervous system. Sarxal took another executioner's swing, and was rewarded with another cardiac fountain. 'I think, when I have my helm repainted, the skull shall be red,' he contemplated.

"That's the last of them," Jaan said, coming up behind him to rest a gauntlet on his shoulder. By the more chipper tone to the other warrior's voice, the Cannibal guessed that his foolish comrade had gotten at least some of the kills he had required.

Sarxal took his kneecaps anyways.

"Oops."

And there you have it folks! My, that one was quite the bloodbath. Next time on 40K DEATHMATCH, Dreadnaugh Vs Carnifex in a clash of gargantuan proportions!

You made the incubi perfectly creepy, though I found the fight a little too one sided to enjoy.