The Wrath of the Forge

A dread pact.

Slitherclaw lurched forwards into the hail of fire, a feeling of exhilaration pulsing through him. He blade-like digits scissored open and shut, snipping involuntary with the wrack's desire to cause pain. The enemy were tall and bulky, encased in powered armour and firing explosive bolts. To his left, Needletongue was struck in the chest with one of these shots, detonating a second later. Slitherclaw giggled as he was painted with Needletongue's vitae, his tongue lapping at the salty droplets that had sprayed through his rusty mask. Death had given him not a second's pause, for so long as he had done his duty this ruined flesh could be regrown.

As the Wrack and his twisted kin grew closer to the enemy, the towering human warriors redoubled their efforts. The Prophets of Flesh were attacking out of the gloom, having burst from their webway portals onto the steel of the forge world to suprise their foes. Yet these space marines, with their armour and banners of blue and gold, did not show the slightest fear. They stood their ground and took a step backward. Slitherclaw was glad; if the enemy weren't running away, then they would feel his embrace much sooner.

Slitherclaw's cell were almost upon the foe now, lidless eyes wide and eager, lungs wheezing like broken bellows. The enemy were pumping shots into them as they waded through oily terrain. Perhaps half the Wracks had already fallen, their ruptured corpses twitching weakly on the manufactorum floor. It would not be enough to stop them though, and a rasping chorus of howls rose from the survivors as they hurled themselves into the fray.

As the Wracks charged, Muttergasp's liquifier gun spat its payload across the foe. The Wrack's bloated torso shrivelled as its noxious contents were vomited out through the gun in an oily spray.  Where the filthy fluid struck home it sizzled furiously, paint bubbling and armour dissolving at a fantastic rate. One Space Marine had been struck full in the face, and the giant fell to his knees as he wrenched frantically at the dissolving lump that had been his helmet. The warrior dragged the smoldering helm free, roaring in pain as it tore skin and muscle away with it. Slitherclaw had been waiting for this moment, and as his victim's bubbling face was exposed the Wrack lunged. Six-inch long scissorfingers slid through melting eyes and plunged into the brain behind. The Wrack drank in the agony of his victim's demise, then shoved the corpse into the mud and scrambled over it in search of another opponent.

All around Slitherclaw, his kin were hacking at the Space Marines. The giants were resilient and they were quick, but the Wracks fought with the unrestrained glee of the truly insane. Even as Slitherclaw watched, Filthtongue was smashed from his feet, a Space Marine's energised fist obliterating the Wrack in a blizzard of flesh and ichor. Yet another two Wracks hurled themselves at the Space Marine, ebon clubs and foot-long knives striking sparks from his armour as they clung to him like lovers. The Space Marine was borne to the ground, still roaring as his tormentors carved him open. Slitherclaw spotted another foe, emptying his clip into the chest of a fallen - and still writhing - Wrack, and he charged once more. Such agonies would please his master immensely he thought, before launching himself apon his victim with claws snapping...

~~~~~

The cruel aristocracy of the Lords of Iron Kabal was lead by Archon Khadyas Abrahak, a cold and bitter leader who cared little for the lives of others. He was waiting in his dining hall in his Kabal Spire. He sipped his goblet of souls as he waited for his guest. Urien Rackarth; the grand hæmonculus himself and the founder of The Prophets of Flesh. The thought of having such a respectable character in his presence was nerving, but he calmed himself. His heavily armoured incubi were stationed around the room, double-handed knaves at the ready. Abrahak was dressed in an intricately woven purple tunic, and had his long black hair pulled up into a topknot. His pale skin was cut by thin, elegant features and the tatoo of a black scar carved its way through one of his eyes. His two pointed ears, belonging to all Eldar, twitched as he heard the metal chains of a slave enter the room. As was heard, a small, hunched figure with red, flayed skin entred the room. He was barly recognizable as a human, he was covered in open wounds and bruises, only covered by a tattered, grey loin cloth. His hands and ankles were fastened with a thick ornated chain. Such was the ways of the Dark Eldar. Abrahak observed as the slave limped over to the large arching door, made of rare metals and pulsing with purple energy. The door opened as the slave yanked on it, his poor muscle mass barely able to stand up straight, let alone open a door of this size.

On the other side of door lay Urien Rackarth. He floated ominously above the ground, his elongated spine curling against the floor. A small pack of 1 meter long bloodworms fought at his bare feet, biting and aggressively playing. Urien wore the standard uniform of a Hæmonculus. A black robe with a blooded apron over. He also had a gnarlskin cloak, a long cloak stiched up of skin of his own pervious incarnations. His six long gangly arms hung down, and he looked like an murderous spider ready to pounce. The face he was wearing was chalk white and had been stretched over the muscles on his head with metal hooks. His tattered grey hair hung loosely. Urien didnt respect the archons of the kabals, living the high life and not having to get their hands dirty. That was his job. As a Hæmonculus, he tortured and experimented, sculpted flesh and created horrors that no sane person could bare to witness. Both warlords had powerful armies, but what was doing to be accomplished today was unheard of.

Abrahak stood up when Urien entered the room, as was customary. Urien floated over gracefully, like a deadly cloud. Apon making formal introductions, they sat down and discussed what was about to happen. Abrahak's voice was more comparable to a knife than an actual method of communication, and Urien spoke without his lips even moving. After a short period of time, the same slave as before entered the room again, holding a massive silver tray with a large cover over it. He was trying to a great degree to keep it upright. The slaves of Commoragh were ment to be seen and not heard, and ideally not even seen. They were the laughingstock of the city, taken from their homes during raids, now made to suffer an elongated life of suffering and experimentation. The slave put the tray on the table and as he was backing off, made the lethal mistake of looking Abrahak in the eyes. He would pay for that later. Abrahak forbayed anyone lower than himself to gaze apon his divinity. Abrahak scowled at the slave, holding him in place, but eventually letting him go.

"But before we talk, let us dine!" Said Abrahak with a voice like ice. With a smile on his face he lifted up the cover one the tray with ease. Underneath was a naked eldar prisoner, her body bent over and her hands tied behind her back. There was an apple in her mouth and she was frantically moaning and sqirming but to no avail. She had been crying, and the red on her cheeks stood out against her milky white skin. Her long red hair had been put into a tight ponytail and her legs were tied together.

"Comical.." muttered Urien as he picked up a brutish knife and a fork and dived into his living meal.