Let us consider the Eldar. Let us raise them up and look at them.
How gaudy they are, how beautiful, how slender and nice. What pretty little children. They live on pretty little worlds making pretty little things. How pleasant. How sweet. How grand.
What do the Eldar do? Nothing. What do they make? Pathetic trinkets that only another Eldar would find of value. What can the Eldar tell you? About themselves. How they excel at self- absorption, self-pity and self-loathing. The poor little Eldar. Such a tragedy. Such a shame.
The Strong know for certain that War is the greatest thing that one can make. Do the Eldar wage war? They have no idea of war. All is another dance to them, another pavane, another ridiculous succession of steps and twirls. They leap and play, they pirouette and pout. Will an Eldar stand and face an enemy in battle? No, the Eldar run away. They fear to get blood upon their oh-so-pretty clothes. They fear to see and smell death. It turns their delicate stomachs. Name me one great Eldar victory. There are none. Name me one great Eldar hero. There are none. I have been breaking their soft and puny bodies across my knee for ten thousand years, and I tell you that they have no spine.
Do the Eldar conquer worlds? No, but my brothers of Khorne do. Do the Eldar alter the substance of creation? No, but my brothers of Tzeentch do. Do the Eldar evolve beyond their base flesh? No, but I and my brothers of Nurgle do. Then what do the Eldar do? They dance, ah yes, they dance and play, as do my brothers of Slaanesh.
For Slaanesh is the Eldar's crowning glory, their greatest work, their one achievement, their only contribution to the vast tapestry that is Life. Slaanesh is the ultimate realization of the true selves of the Eldar. Slaanesh is indolence and introspection. Slaanesh is music and glamour, colours and sounds, screams and sighs. Slaanesh is the Eldar.
Yet the Eldar hate their child! Their own flesh and blood. The babe that they have spawned. What poor parents they are. How they tremble and quiver to think what they have done. How they whisper and cringe behind the skirts of their farseers. How terrible it is for them to see their own reflection. We have all known for aeons that the Eldar are hollow and worthless. How sad that this knowledge is new to them.
The Eldar are nothing. I have wasted my time in speaking of them. They bore me. Soon they will crumble to dust. Rose-scented dust, perhaps, but dust all the same. They will cease to be. The galaxy will not notice their passing. The galaxy will not remember that they ever were.
Captain Morbus Vilissimus Death Guard Legion