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It's been a while since I wrote anything fluffy. This is just a story about my warband, the Sign of Ecstatic Delights.
In the corner Weston was still sobbing.
Commisar Marcus Eichmann found himself desperately wishing the boy would shut up. True, he was young, he'd only joined the PDF two months ago, but the pathetic noise was grinding against the Commisar's already flagging sense of self discipline. Every so often, he found himself shooting hateful glances, fingers twitching on imaginary triggers as he imagined silencing that infernal noise, even if it would leave him alone in this horrible darkness.
How long had it been now, in this throne-damned place. Three days? Four? The Lotus Cultists had ambushed the column as they moved to put down the outlying jungle villages of the Southern continent. Now they were in what looked like an abandoned Imperial bunker. The walls were covered in spiralling, psychedelic patterns of blood, excrement and other, less wholesome substances. Sometimes, Eichmann was sure he could hear distant moans, wails and screams from other parts of the building. But he was unsure. Was he going mad? Was his mind playing tricks on him? The Commisar had never allowed himself the luxury of such thoughts, until now.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a door slamming open. Eichmann jumped and turned around. A huge figure entered the room, and the Commisar felt his jaw drop in horror and amazement. The stranger was clad in huge armour, daubed in clashing colours of black and pink which seemed to swim and change whenever Eichmann tried to focus on them. His eyelids, split and ragged, were held open with bloodied metal hooks. The expression in those huge, vacant eyes was one the Commissar had seen before, in the faces of soldiers pushed too far by the horrors of war, when the last shred of humanity, sanity and goodness died.
The figure shambled to the door of the cage, muttering quietly before suddenly bursting into screaming, as if unable to control the volume of its voice.
'Do you see?'
Eichmann, confused and disgusted, struggled to control the hammering in his chest as he raised himself to his full height.
'Warp-damned heretic. I have no time for your games. What have you done with my men?'
The creature did not answer, but with fumbling, spasming fingers, it unlocked the cage. As the door swung open with a creak, Eichmann felt an impossibly strong hand grasp around his wrist as he was dragged out. Behind him, Weston squealed, clearly terrified to be left alone, but the Commissar's exhausted body was powerless to resist. Bodily, he was pulled from the room.
Eichmann's nostrils were filled by the scents of blood and burning flesh. Piles of mutilated bodies, some PDF soldiers, others cultists and civilians, had been gathered together into great pyres which provided light for the proceedings. The hall was long and dark. Flanking him on either side were more figures like the one which had bought him here, their tongues long and worm like, their eyes huge and vacant of any emotion save ecstatic rapture. He could hear them, a constant, subtle chorus of whines, squeals and gibbering which echoed through his brain grinding at his sanity far more effectively than Weston's sobbing had ever done.
'Welcome Commisar Eichmann..' he heard a voice from the other side of the chamber. It was a clear, melodic voice, like the choirs of the Adepta Sororitas singing in perfect harmony, sounding clearly through the background noise of the debased marines around. The Commissar rubbed his eyes, at the far end of the room, a man was seated on a makeshift throne made from spent ammunition boxes and holding crates. At first, he looked just like the others. But although the Commisar was no stranger to fear, something about the man on the throne unnerved him. A voice in his head was screaming at him to run, though he knew he would not get more than a few steps.
The figure's eyes were rolled backwards into its skull, and a strange mark had been painted in blood on its forehead. Slowly, it rose from the throne, and the other creatures in the room kneeled almost as one organism, as if compelled by some invisible puppet string. Despite his fear, Eichmann did his best to stand tall.
'So you are the leader of this so called 'lotus cult?''
The figure laughed, its body spasming and shaking unnaturally at the sound.
'How very typical of you, Marcus. Always jumping to conclusions without thought.'
'How do you know my name, wretched fiend?'
'Oh. I know much more than that..' the figure replied, its smile showing too many teeth than seemed possible to fit into a human mouth. Even the Commisar could not resist a shudder. '..But to answer your question; no, I do not lead the Lotus Cult, they merely provided sustenance and willing pawns to distract your Imperial friends. My cult is far older. It existed even as your pathetic race crawled only on the surface of its miserable homeworld. It was the Eldar who first shrieked its name and offered sacrifice to me in the temples of pleasure.. In your crude tongue, I believe you would call it the Sign of Ecstatic Delights, though that does little justice to the concept.'
At the sound of their cult's name, the background gibbering in the room intensified. It sounded almost like prayer, an insane mantra being forced through chaos warped throats.
'Why are you telling me this?' the Commisar shouted over the noise, aware that the situation was already taking its toll on his fragile sanity.
'Because, unlike the others, you have potential.' The voice answered, 'More so than any of the squealing wretches we have captured, you have the strength and understanding to better yourself, to seek perfection. You may hide it from yourself, but nothing is hidden from me. The great perverse one has a purpose for such as you. Will you join our unity; become one with our perfect church?'
The Commisar felt the clouding of his mind. Part of him felt he could do nothing but submit, but then a light seemed to shine through his consciousness, the unbreakable resolve of his faith tearing his thoughts away from temptation.
'Never..' he spat, '..Many foul heretics have sought to spin sweeter lies than you, and have failed. I am servant of the Emperor, to the last breath.'
The being on the throne sighed,
'Once again you have jumped to conclusions. I am no mere heretic..' Its skin began to ripple obscenely, blood gushing from wounds which suddenly erupted in the flesh as claws and horns burst from the marine's body. The Commisar felt his last thread of sanity slip away as the blasphemous form of the keeper of secrets reared to its full height before him. Its voice was deeper now, but clear and beautiful, like the bells of Mars all striking in perfect unison.
'I am your god, mortal, and you will kneel willingly before me, as millions have done before you.'
The Commisar could only stare, wide eyed with terror, as the monstrous thing bore down on him, to the ecstatic screams of the assembled throng.
Top-notch mantis. Well written and good grammer (hoorah!). Really enjoyed reading this, it flowed well, was well structured and was descriptive enough to do the scenes justice. I especially liked the use of words such as "orgasm" to bring forward the nature of slaanesh.
Honestly I can't think of any way to improve it - it ended at the right time and was pitched just right. I like how you left youself wide open for the next installment (if there is going to be one) by not actually mentioning what was in store for the commisar.
Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it.
I don't think I used the word orgasm, but I'm sorry if it's a bit too extreme in implications. I figured Slannesh isn't really about holding back.
I think I suffered from what I would call Cthulu syndrome.. I tried so hard to make everything horrible that it actually comes across a bit boring. What do you guys think?
hey man i think that was really really really good. it had my attention all through. really i commend you on a job well done.
Seriously, if you're an obese idiot who plays 40K every day, doesn't have anything else to do, and gets pissed at newbies, go @$%^ yourself, and jump off a tall building. Thanks.