The chapel was dark, the only light coming from the flickering torches carried by several members of the robed congregation. Others waved censors, moaning prayers to Slaanesh. There were six hundred and sixty six of them, all dressed in robes of black, blue, purple, gold and silver embroidered with elegant patterns.
The room was totally plain with no glow-globes, decoration or even flooring panels. Every surface was red tissue that was slightly soft, and near the very heart of the Slaaneshi daemonic flagship. It required sacrifice to appease the ship's spirit before the journey could begin, for blood to pulse in the heart of the warp drive and give it the strength only death could provide.
Launcelot Akturris was one of six men standing on a fleshy dais, upon which a mobile altar has been placed. Five of the men were centurions like himself, the last the sorcerer who would lead the ceremony.
Launcelot wore shining electrum plate armour and a simple, rounded helm with a halo of golden spikes, the symbol of all centurions in the First Legion. A silken cloak with elegant patterns and golden thread trailed behind him. Akturris's face was pale, and marked with devotional scars shaped into the arcane symbols of his deity. His eyes were glittering orbs of gold, his teeth exquisite fangs, his tongue forked. His nose had long ago receded into his face, leaving two ragged slits for nostrils. Launcelot carried a slightly curved sword and a large shield emblazoned with the symbol of Slaanesh hung on his back. He refused firearms, he preferred to feel the pain and deaths of his victims from up close. His hidden body was a mass of self-inflicted scars, many of which were fresh.
The sorcerer was a tall man, who looked like he died a long time ago. He probably had. His eyes were deep-set and milky, his dry skin hanging to a wasted frame. Golden lips split into a smile, revealing bloodied teeth. The Dark Tongue spilled from his lips, praising Slaanesh. Launcelot's eyes lazily surveyed the audience.
Two of the centurions marched out and returned with a writhing captive. He was naked, scarred and muscular, with wild eyes and hair. A large burn on his chest showed were his devotional tattoo had been removed by his captors, who considered it an affront. His tongue had been cut out, and he was gagged. The man still roared inarticulately, trying to headbutt the centurions who restrained him.
A champion of the Blood God. Not a man anymore, a wild beast. It was a tragedy that any creature could give their humanity so, to give up the joys of sensation!
He would be taught. Unwillingly, he would be anointed with pain. His mind was too small to comprehend the honour done to him.
He was placed in the altar, and the powerful straps were attached to his arms and legs in two places, to his chest and abdomen and finally to his forehead. They were tight, digging his skin, but still he struggled in vain.
The sorcerer raised a hand, and barbed, hooked chains burst from the walls, cutting into the Khornate sacrifice. It was not a fast death. They tore slowly at flesh, peeling back skin, teasing as much pain as possible from him, guided by the sorcerer. One gouged out an eyeball, and the chant continued, growing faster and louder. The chains writhed as though dancing around the sacrifice.
To die like this! Dishonour! Such dishonour! He had to redeem himself, to break free, and slaughter every living thing and cleanse himself in blood... To die like this! Not in battle, but as a broken captive, ripped apart by weakling whelps of the Flesh God!
Finally, hooked chains snaked towards him, digging into his sides and pulling his ribcage open with a sound like cracking wood. The bloody sorcerer reached inside and pulled out the man's heart, holding it aloft before if burst into cold flame in his gnarled hand.
Every drop of blood that touched the floor was sopped by the thirsty daemonship. It demanded more.
The sorcerer's grin widened, suddenly thousands more chains burst from the walls, killing the congregation. They screamed as chains burst through them, tore off faces, strangled them and drove barbs into their pale flesh. The centurions grinned as one, the chains avoiding the six chosen men of Slaanesh upon the dais.
Within a minute it was over, and the daemonship slipped into the warp with a contented scream.
The fleet was underway.