Codex - Harlequins 7ed (2015).pdf

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HARLEQUINS
THE ART OF DEATH
THE FALL OF THE ELDAR
Millennia have passed since the ancient Eldar fell into shadow, yet still the
memory of their glory burns bright. Like the stars in the sky they shone,
illuminating the endless void. Theirs was the power to create, and also to destroy,
for they held the secrets of the universe in their hands.
Yet with power unchecked came monstrous pride. The cessation of toil raised the spectre of
ennui, alongside the endless freedom to explore the slightest whim. Curiosity became
obsession, then excess and decadence, until eventually a rot took root in the soul of the Eldar
race.
In their arrogance, the ancient Eldar abandoned their gods, turning their backs upon the
morals and codes that guided their civilisation. Divested of their ancient pantheon, many
Eldar declared themselves divine. Pleasure cults spread through the Eldar realms, each more
twisted and perverse than the last. Against the lurid glare of now, the glories of old were spat
upon as pale, unworthy things.
In the face of this wanton madness, the old gods could do nothing. Bloody-handed Khaine
raged. Vaul the smith turned his back, while mother Isha wept oceans of tears. Even Asuryan
the creator looked on powerless. Only Cegorach seemed uncaring, for he merely laughed.
This plunge into depravity would prove the downfall of the ancient Eldar. So twisted had their
race become, so lost to hedonism and corruption, that a new god was birthed into the Warp in
their image. This was Slaanesh, the Dark Prince, known to the Eldar as She Who Thirsts, and
she would be the doom of the race who had made her.
Three fragments of the Eldar race escaped before this cataclysm occurred. First to flee were
the Exodites. Deaf to the mockery of their perverted kin, they eschewed the trappings of
power that they might save their very souls. Next went those who would become the Dark
Eldar. Unrepentant yet wary, they had committed their darkest excesses in the labyrinth
dimension of the webway, and were thus protected when Slaanesh was born. Last to escape
were the craftworld Eldar. Fashioning great interstellar arks to bear them to safety, they fled
into the void, and a denial of all they had become.
At the instant of her birth, Slaanesh opened wide her yawning maw, rending reality itself as
she gave vent to a scream of unimaginable power. All but a fraction of the ancient Eldar were
killed in that moment, their souls blasted from their bodies and greedily devoured. As the
Eldar fell, so too did their ancestral gods, consumed by She Who Thirsts.
All Eldar know the tale of the Fall. Yet not all know that, when the Eldar fled their doom, they
took with them the seeds of Cegorach’s vengeance. These individuals, the worshippers of the
Laughing God, would find bloody purpose in the years to come...
The Death Jester stepped from the soft light of the webway, into the harsh
glare of an alien world. His senses were assaulted by the clangour of battle,
the hiss of shuriken weapons melding with nerve-shredding daemonic
shrieks. The sickly-sweet stench of perfume assailed his nostrils, and behind
his mask the Death Jester’s lips curled into a mirthless grin.
His greatcoat billowed as his brothers and sisters of the Midnight Sorrow
shot past him, Troupes and jetbikes bursting from the webway to charge
straight into battle. They raced headlong through the crumbling ruin of the
shrine and out onto its steps, where the Players of the Light were already
engaged in battle.
The Death Jester crouched low, then sprang straight upward through a rent
in the shrine’s crumbled ceiling. Landing with feline grace, he swung his
shrieker cannon into its firing position and stalked to the edge of the roof.
Below him, his brothers and sisters were locked in furious battle with the
Daemons of Slaanesh. Lithe figures tumbled and weaved, the Harlequins’
holo-suits transforming them into blurs of light while their Skyweavers
streaked back and forth overhead. Blades lashed out, slicing Daemonette
heads from slender necks. Shuriken fire raked the Daemons’ ranks. Chitinous
claws snipped and stabbed in return, severing limbs and sending Eldar
bodies tumbling broken to the ground. The Troupes were carving a path
through their foes, and already the stone steps were littered with corpses and
slick with blood. However, looking out toward the jagged rocks that
surrounded the shrine, the Death Jester could see a great tide of Daemons
closing in.
Tearing his attention away from the morbid spectacle below, the Death Jester
went to work. Humming softly to himself, he singled out a Slaaneshi chariot
thundering toward the fight. His eye was drawn to the preening Herald that
stood atop it, her prideful laughter a beacon to the Death Jester’s savage
sense of humour. Taking careful aim, he fired a single shot into one of the
chariot’s steeds. The beast screamed, stumbled, and then exploded with
violent force. As the chariot lurched wildly, the Herald was flung screaming
from her platform and straight into the threshing blades of the war engine.
Gore sprayed in all directions, redolent filth splattering across the chariot’s
crew.
Chuckling to himself, the Death Jester sketched a mocking bow, basking in
the vindictive glares of the Daemons. Looking away, his gaze swept once
more across the throng in search of another unwilling participant in his
grim performance. After all, the bloody pageant of war was only just
beginning.

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