Servants of the Shadowlord

The violent scene tore across his vision once more. A red sheet of slow, rippling liquid lapped at his naked feet. Before him a ruined city stood, burning and ripe with darkness – there were pieces of pure wickedness there. In the centre a sinister, impenetrable shadow hung, above the city. A pair of red, coal eyes peered from what might have been the head. The name “Mordheim” ricocheted around his mind forcefully. Halibel opened his eyes and was back in the small farm that once might have been prosperous. But now it was dormant and dead. The screams of those who once occupied it were now and forever silent. He missed them. In the distance he spied the city, a great spire of smoke still drifted from its ruined corpse. It had been nearly a month since the so named 'Judgement of Sigmar' had struck the city, it had quickly become a haven for those not wanting to be found or those serving a higher purpose. Like Halibel.

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It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.

The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.

“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.

Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.