Psychostimulants, synthesized from the adrenal glands of gene-spliced predators and catalyzed with psychotropic compounds of Homunculus manufacture, were pumped into Kalus' foul cell. They sheared his senses, skimming over focus like hot oil over a steel blade. The veteran Night Lord fought through it, suppressed it, accelerating his metabolism through sheer force of will to minimize their effect. He despised the unbidden application of sensory altering drugs, as if their use betrayed the integrity of untarnished agony. Pain had been the traitor marine's medium of experience for the better part of ten, unforgiving millennia; he would not have it sullied or perverted. Perhaps that was the only difference between Kalus and his hellish host.
Like cables of adamantium fiber, Kalus' genehanced muscles twitched beneath the pallid scar tissue that he passed for flesh. Spiderwebs of long-healed mutilations spindled their way along his hands, biceps and shoulders. Such vicious wounds were laid bare as the the midnight-blue plates of his patchwork Mark IV power armor had been stripped to the barest essentials: a scarred breastplate and worn boots. Reliefs of tempestuous thunderstorms, though faded, still stretched across the flecked ceramite carapace. Since the death of his genefather, the ivory deathmask of the Night Lord's helmet had become his face; cracked, ruby lens sunk into its eye ports and a singular, crimson wing remained were once two had proudly unfurled along the helmet's sides.
He was not a demigod twice fallen, captured by a people who's savage disregard for human life overshadowed even that of the Night Lords.
"Ah, Mon-keigh," a dulcet voice crooned from some unseen corner, high pitched yet soft spoken, "my pet." Like a razor against virgin flesh, it beckoned from the blackness that surrounded the traitor space marine, whispering dissonantly from all places and nowhere at once; Kralus knew its owner intimately.
The corrupted Eldar's movements were fluid as she moved through the void, serpentine and wreathed in liquid silk. Her exposed flesh was like glittery dark glass, partially concealed by serrated plates of alien metal and strips of living synth-leather. A singular ponytail of silvery strands coaxed its way from her crown like the tendril of a Nostroman gutter-beast. She wore nothing but darkness, briefly caught in the sickly green glow of bio-luminescent overheads, and even in the crudest light was enchanting beyond all human measure: Matriarchal Wych of the Poison Tongues cabal, Mistress of The Pit, Lilathel.
"Your spirit remains unbroken, or perhaps," she spoke in mocking fashion, almost coy, "your spirit has long been shattered." Her words slithered along the walls like scuttling insects, testing the fortitude of Kalus' deadened mind. The Drukhari were ravenous for the tawdry, performative butchery of life during gladiatorial contests in Commorragh's many arenas. They found incomparable pleasure watching lesser races destroy themselves against other species, only achieving greater heights of perverted pleasure from the grisly performances of their most elegant murderesses: The Hekatarii. Few in the known galaxy could match their elegant displays of carnage...few outside of those whose lives had already fallen to dust and shadow.
"I have good news, Mon-keigh," she purred.
Kalus said nothing; his face remained a mask.
Lilathel continued without pause, "Tonight, I shall honor my people with your screams, indignant animal. For all your turgid displays of butchery, you've earned a final death, and what a shame; the Homunculi will be disappointed." A sharp laugh spilled through the void, the Drukhari's lips curled up into a cruel sneer. "You will scream for me, won't you?" Had Kalus been a lesser man, or lesser astartes for that matter, he would have buckled beneath the weight of her poisonous wit, but it left him unmoved. Kalus had been born into the deepest darkness of Nostromo's fetid underbelly, a blind empath stolen by child-slavers and victimized without relief. The viciousness required for such a pitiful creature to survive those conditions, even if for a short time, was far more than any mere Eldar wych was capable of mustering. Or so he thought.
***
Thousands of Drukhari lined either side of The Pit, an arena vast enough to fit hundreds of gladiatorial games at once. Tens of thousands stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the sides of this coliseum as they roared their bloodlust and excitement for the main event of the evening: the final battle between the traitor Night Lord and the infamous Matriarchal Wych, Lilathel of the Hekatarii; Queen of Poisons and mistress of The Pit; a place where no one escaped.
A faint flicker from overheads lit a small section of the towering crowd, like a spark flaring from a bonfire on a cold night. Within the glare of light, a cloaked figure stared down upon the chaos, entranced with the spectacle before her eyes. She'd arrived early, just moments after the great doors had been flung open. The thick metal slabs had groaned with the weight of tens-of-thousands of angry, roiling mobs. Anxious spectators shoved against the front lines in desperate bids for position while others clawed and fought for the best view. Blood would flow, and all in attendance knew it. As the cacophony swelled in anticipation, the baying and howling began to die out and all that remained was silence. Then, all eyes turned skyward, captivated by the sleek descent of Lilathel as she made landfall over The Pit, landing feet first on its center platform.
An introduction was unnecessary, all of Commorragh knew of the wych's dark accolades, and all were envious or adoring. For her they remained quiet, but as Kalus was released of his bonds, they exploded into a raucous clamor that shook the very foundations of The Pit itself; chanting the nickname bestowed upon his with rapacious delight. "Nox! Nox! Nox!"
It was a half mockery of his legion's battle cry, 'Ave Dominus Nox!', which he so proudly proclaimed after each bloodletting victory. The ravenous crowd did not cheer for his success, but for the splendid slaughter of this arrogant mon'keigh. They hoped it to be long and protracted for their sake and for Lilathel's especially. Kalus strode into the arena with a coolness that belied his savage nature. A tapestry of scars told the story of a thousand crusades, of atrocities made manifest in the sacking of a hundred loyalist worlds. His crimson eyes gleamed like glowing coals from an unlit hearth at night, cutting through the dim light like a lance tip piercing flesh, drawing out the lifeblood from those who looked upon him. Though clad only in his armor and weapons, there was nothing modest about Kalus Bane: He was the epitome of strength and martial prowess wrapped in adamantium and leather and painted in death's paint-pot.
The wych landed her feet lightly and stood tall as her adversary emerged from the darkness. The traitor marine's head hung low and glinted like silver-white stars amidst black storm clouds above dark ocean waters. He carried a sword alone, its maleficent machine spirit burning white-hot with the electric hate of corruption and taint; serrated incisors lined it's adamantine edge. Its ebony handle was formed into a crudely crafted human face with mouth agape to reveal rows of viciously sharp fangs that served no purpose other than to terrify the opponent.
"You are simply beautiful, Kalus, my pet," she whispered, running her fingers across the hilt of her own weapon. It was slender, bluer, and forged of an alien material unfamiliar to even the veteran Night Lord. Like the wych, it possessed no weight and dragged slightly on the air as he swept it before him. The blade shimmered like a mirage under the piercing gaze of his dead eyes.
The crowd raged against him, yet Kalus paid them no heed. He dispassionately surveyed the arena for traps and ticks. Though he would fight the matriarchal wych alone, Kalus knew she would take her time and play dirty in every seen and unseen way possible.