The Rogue Trader had a plan. A plan within a plan. Emberlyn Driftwood hired her favourite Mercenary, Rak’Thar Starhowl and his Kinband of Kroot, to deliver invitations to Warlords across the sector. You see, as part of her Rogue Trader duties, she was supposed to be offering protection to worlds within her dynasty.

After sending the invitations via the Kroot, the Rogue Trader participated in her own battles. Eventually the dime of her Secret Dinner Party (™) arrived. On a hidden away moon in System 3VI-C-Delta, she sat inside the palace she had inherited decades ago.

Greg, her loyal-totally-not-Necron- servitor stood as the doorman, crossing off names when they arrived… If they arrived. As it turned out, she’d forgotten to put the coordinates of said dinner party in the invitation. It would require some research and underworld contacts to actually find the place.

Inside the palace, Emberlyn tapped her Household Pistol on the long table, looking at the caged Krootox beasts, which could be released in the event of a fight breaking out with her non-existent guests.

The great hall was buzzing with servants, servitors, Kroot bodyguards, and noble representatives from the worlds she protected. But it may as well have been empty. Exactly zero of the VIP Voidbound warlords had arrived yet.

“Greg?”

The Rogue Trader’s loyal servitor temporarily left door duty and approached, holding a list of names: every warlord in the sector, none crossed off. “Yes, Lord Captain?,” Greg replied. 

“Where are all my guests?” Emberlyn asked.

Greg shrugged, lost for words. At that moment, one of Rak’Thar’s Kroot warriors hanaded Emberlyn an envelope. The Kroot were here to ensure that no fights broke out this night,  under Rak’That’s orders. They were also here to ensure no harm came to the Rogue Trader. Not all of them were happy about this job, but they were fiercely loyal.

Emberlyn frowned politely at the Kroot warrior and opened the envelope.

“A letter? Wait – this is my invitation. You don’t need to invite me, I’m the one hosting it,” she said.

The Kroot shrugged, she was just following orders. Emberlyn shook her head disapprovingly.

“Did you even invite anyone? I -” Emberlyn paused as she read her own invitation.

The words [insert coordinates here] jumped out at her. They were not filled in. It remained a placeholder. Nobody knew where this dinner party even was.

“Rak’Thar, take a look at this,” Emberlyn said, flapping the letter. She liked to keep her friends close and her frenemys closer.

The Kroot Warlord sat down next to her, chewing on the leg of… someone or something. Emberlyn didn’t ask, no harm no foul.

“Yes, Emberlyns,” Rak’Thar answered, putting a foot on the table. “We sent out invitations as instructed.”

“Well, look at this! Where are the coordinates? You could have let me know they were missing,” Emberlyn complained. “Now I look like a fool.”

“Not our pact to proof-read. Our pact was to delivers invitation,” Rak’Thar replied, sipping on Emberlyn’s rare 39th Millenium wine which had an estimated value of 96,000 Throne Gelt (that’s a lot). “Warlord’s smart. They turns up – you see.”

“Alright, well, back to the guard duty you go,“ Emberlyn said disappointed, resuming her practice of pistol spinning in her hand. She hoped the Kroot and planetary governors were hungry – the long dining table was filled to the brim with delicacies from across the sector and beyond.

Back at the door, Greg was greeted by a troupe of five mysterious Harlequins. They performed a frenzied and intricate dance, becoming a whirling riot of colours. At the height of the dance a figure appeared in their midst, the Fallen Angel (he was on the list) from the Band of Leering Fools. The chipped halo behind his head framed the mocking smile spread across his mask. The Harlequin sneered at Greg, flicking his invitation at the “servitor’s” face, before walking past him.

Before Greg could recover, a hulking monstrosity of flesh and machinery climbed the steps, making the stone groan under her weight. This was Magos Explorator Velrix Nox of the Explorator Fleet Venebris-Lambda 831 (on the list), followed by a buzzing swarm of servo skulls.

Cold, blunt and indifferent to her surroundings, she reached Greg with a calculating glint in her eye lenses. “Open the door,” she said in a robotic voice.

Were he still alive, Greg would be in love. But he was a cold-dead machine. Shame. Greg crossed the name off the list and opened the large doors. Magos Explorator Velrix Nox entered, subtly looking for hidden threats and escape plans if necessary.

Captain Raelyn Castivar of the Daemonbane Blood Angels (on the list) appeared minutes later, walking past Greg with confidence, fangs bared. Greg dared not say anything as the Space Marine walked past. 

Greg wondered how long it would take for the Dinner Party to become a bloodbath. However, quiet contemplation was not on the table as the Orks arrived. 

Kaptin Krakkjaw’s Trukk (on the list), identified as Da Bonerattla, crashed through the garden wall, flattening statues and scattering Gretchin like confetti. The Ork Warlord stomped up the steps, chewing on a servo skull.

 “Krakkjaw. I’z on da list,” Krakkjaw growled

Without waiting for confirmation, he barged inside, laughing, mega-armour whirring, leaving the Boyz outside with strict orders to krump something decorative while he finds the food. A statue suddenly exploded behind him. No subtlety. No manners. Just WAAAGH.

Greg stood, speechless, with half a dozen Boys. Greg looked at them unapologetically – if there was one thing he had learned, it was to be more like his Rogue Trader.

“May I drive your Trukk?,” Greg asked. 

The Boyz motioned for Greg to come over. Then grinned and cracked their knuckles. Grand Theft Auto could be their krumping alibi here…

*

Inside the palace, was the Grand Hall, a sight to behold. Huge gothic pillars stretch up into a painted ceiling  lit by candle chandeliers. Below this is a dinner table twenty feet long, filled to the brim with delicacies from across the sector. 

At the end of the table sat Rogue Trader Emberlyn Driftwood, in her plum-coloured voidcoat, spinning a Household Pistol in her cybernetic hand, while sipping a neon blue wine with the other. 

At the other end of the table was a pile of trinkets, drinkets and plinkets from guests. As is often customary to bring a Rogue Trader a gift. It seemed that the Warlords who managed to locate the Dinner Party had done their research. In the gift pile already was an ornate void suit – Superior to standard void suits of the Imperial Navy, allowing for greater mobility compared to normal without compromising defence. Next to it was a crystal flower, imitating a long extinct bloom once cultivated by the Aeldari. 

Already on the table was a fine vintage bottle Karesh (blood wine) from Baal. But not for long. Krakkjaw stormed into the hall, loud and reeking of oil and gunpowder. The Ork swiped the wine and gulped it down. The Magos, Troupe Master and Space Marine Captain watched in awe as this faux pas of dinner table manners went down.

Rogue Trader Emberlyn Driftwood eyed him coolly, pistol spinning slower now. An awkward pause hung in the air. Krakkjaw snorted, looking at the other gifts. He then yanked a cracked Blood Angels helmet from his boss pole, and slammed it down on the table. “’Ere. ‘E was a tough engine’ git. I ain’t fightin’ on an empty belly.”

As this happened, something slipped through the party like a shark through water. Its predatory gaze searching for its next victim. Nobody saw it coming in and not many noticed it for more than a few seconds. Those that did could not quite make out what it was. Some saw a dignified nobleman, others an elegant lady flitting among the crowd, others still a mysterious affluent figger. It spotted its prey and started to circle. Invading the mind and isolating it from the herd. Never long in the memories of those around it, just long enough to deliver a special gift. One that they would never remember but never forget: The genestealers kiss. It disappeared like it arrived into the shadows of the ship. No one sure if it had ever been there, a figment of their imagination or of their nightmares

Emberlyn Driftwood finally stood up and walked over to her actual important guests – her fellow warlords. It was go time.

“Welcome, my fellow Void Captains of the Hope-Nyx passage. Thank you for attending, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you on neutral ground, a place outside of a burning battlefield or stale voidship. You know me as the Illustrious Rogue Trader, Emberlyn Driftwood. By the rights of my Warrant of Trade, I have claimed this sector of space under my banner and jurisdiction. The Administratum has logged it in my Dynasty’s name, feel free to check. 

“Now for those of you not under Imperium law, I have a request. Please leave a mere six worlds out of our conflict, for I have offered them peace in this time of infinite war. You may visit my worlds, but only peacefully. Should you not abide by these terms, I will have to bring the full might of the Driftwood Dynasty to bear. That is all I have to request this evening.”

It did not matter that her floatilla was seven months away – but the other warlords didn’t need to know that.

Velrix studied Emberlyn before speaking in a robotic voice with steady cadence. “The Mechanicus Explorator Fleets will require unimpeded access to both the passage and star system to continue the Quest for Knowledge. This is non-negotiable. Any attempts to impede this mission will be met with force.”

Emberlyn nodded. “Works for me.”

Someone she didn’t recognise, said: “Agreed, but you must let me know who the planetary governors are and if they will take an ambassador as an act of good faith.

Emberlyn nodded. “A strangely compelling argument. Agreed.”

The Fallen Angel let off a delighted cackle of mocking laughter.

Emberlyn nodded. “I’m glad you’re having a good time. Next?”

Captain Raelyn Castivar stood up straight. “So long as you keep your pet Inquisitor under leash, then there will be no interference from us.”

Emberlyn nodded. “Kinky, I like it. Agreed.”

Kaptain Krakkjaw squinted as the Rogue Trader talked, jaw working like he was chewing the words. 

“Jur-ris-dik-shun? Peaceful visits? What in Mork’s green name is the point of dat?” he growled, clearly not understanding these radical concepts which didn’t involve krumping..

“What a load o’ zoggin’ rubbish. Who d’ya fink you are, tellin’ me where I can an’ can’t bash skulls?!”

“Oh, I love Orks…” Emberlyn let out as a whisper. “I mean, you can Krump, just not on my worlds. Just think about how sad your Boyz will be if they have no challenge. These worlds are not made for Krumpin’. I can give you a list of other worlds for that.”

Nobody was happy to hear this, but nobody objected.

“Now enjoy the Dinner Party. I hope you all know how to dance.”

The Dinner Party™ was delightful, for those accustomed to Imperium Dinner Party customs. During the evening, Emebrlyn made sure to catch a dance with every Warlord she could find in the crowd. 

Velrix had no interest in music or food, only knowledge regarding lost archeotech, of which she obtained some clues. She planted several surveillance bugs, not only Emberlyn, but on all of the other guests, to find what secrets they were hiding. Velrix remembered how Emberlyn assaulted her fleet and denied her information from the Inquisitor. For that breach of the Treaty of Olympus Mons, Velrix would never truly trust Emberlyn’s word.

The Fallen Angel joined in with the dancing, taking the opportunity to pickpocket as many trinkets as possible and secrete them on other warlords’ persons, in the hope of getting the warlords to think they’ve been robbed by other warlords and start picking fights. It would have worked if not for the hungry eyes of the Kroot bodyguards.

Just as several fights were about to break out, Kroot bodyguards managed to diffuse the situation. Denied fighting the Xenos, Captain Raelyn Castivar left quietly. 

On the polar opposite side of the room, with no one to Krump, Krakkjaw decided to leave, but not quietly. He swiped a roast grox leg clean off the banquet table, gnawin’ on it as he stomped out with greasy boots and no manners. He pauses by a priceless statue on the way, gives it a curious shove to see if it’ll fall over, then chuckles to himself when it doesn’t. As he pushed open the grand doors, he bellowed over his shoulder.

“Right! I’ll be back fer yer planets. Hope yer ready to fight fer ‘em proper next time!”

Emberlyn pushed through the crowd to react. “Krakkjaw, you insolent – hey!”

But the Ork was already gone, leaving crumbs, grease, and the faint smell of squig brew behind. Outside, the sound of his Trukk roared into the distance.

After the evening was spent, the rest of the Warlords departed, Emberlyn wishing them the best on their Crusade. There were no killings* and the Dinner party was successful.

*There were in fact several murders that night, but nothing you should concern yourself with.

Later that night, Inquisitor Stella arrived, after her call with fellow Inquisitor, Solomon Alonzo Morpheous. 

Her final leg of the journey had been spent staying well clear of a Daemon Prince matching Marduk the Beast’s description, who was demolishing the Rogue Trader’s Holiday home. It was lucky he didn’t arrive at the Dinner Party – she had the Grey Knight’s wardings to thank for that. Regardless, Marduk was a problem for another day – the moon would be evacuated.

Afterwards, Inquisitor Stella had an uneasy feeling as she negotiated with Captain Furos and his Blood Angels as her shuttle landed. They may or may not have been succumbing, but she wouldn’t report it. It turned out that working with a reckless Rogue Trader who had an impressive collection of heretical relics (for safe-keeping) was the perfect blackmail material. Captain Furos and her had come to an… understanding.

Once the Inquisitor finally arrived at her destination, one of the cleaners meekly asked for a moment of her time on the steps of the Secret Dinner Party Palace.

The cleaners and Kroot bodyguards had discovered 210 spying devices in total, along with the krumped chassis of Greg on the steps outside. Stella lit a cigarette.

“Greg,” Stella said to the maimed Servitor between puffs.

“Inquisitor,” Greg replied, as his detached arm slowly crawled back to him.

“Looks like it was a good party. Need a ride?”

Greg looked at his kompletely krumped legs. “Yes.”