20-10-2003, 10:50
((The Inevitable Disclaimer: This thread is violent, gratuitous, and contains gratuitous violence. It contains detailed accounts of people being ripped to shreds. If you have moral problems with this, then go away. You don't have to read it. You don't have to flame me.))
(("Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."- Sign at the entrance of Hell, Dante's Inferno))
Day One
The fetid, stuffy air of the cramped chamber makes the Haemonculus vaguely uncomfortable as the screaming slave's glistening entrails are funneled into neatly into a basin beneath the floor, leaving an angry red smear upon the black decking.
The man's hair is surprisingly lustrous, the alien notes, soft and shiny with health that had not be broken by years in Hide. This thought flickers through the fractured mind of the master torturer as he does his work with cold precision.
"Yank the head up, pierce the ear with a glowing-hot needle. Be careful to strike the nerve. Pierce the other ear. Where's the thread, where's the thread? Ah." His groping hand finds the spool of monofilament wire and absently threads a third needle with the substance.
Through and back and through again, the Haemonculus sews the lips of the man shut. He coos soothingly, warning the man that he'd best not move his lips, "if you know what's good for you." The statement makes the alien bark a harsh laugh, wrenching a start from the terrified, agonised human.
The door of the chamber swings open almost silently, permitting the entrance of eleven of the dread Incubi, the lead wearing the piping of a Master, and the silver that denotes rank within the Kabal.
The master incubus is imposing, though he stands shorter than any of the others. His helm is a terrifying mask, a human face dried and stretched over the metal. He speaks rapidly in the fluid tongue of the Eldar, his words audible in English after a moment or two.
"This is being recorded? Excellent." His head shifts ever-so-slightly, towards the back of the chamber. "I want the mon-keigh to know that we are not gone. They lost a billion souls to the terrors of the Warp. Impress that upon this one, and the others." A swift kick to the slave's side draws forth a long-suffering scream from his ragged throat, ripping his lips to shreds as the monofilament wire slides through his flesh.
The Haemonculus tsks softly and scolds the man for his lack of dignified restraint. A slash across the shoulder renders his dominant arm forever useless; another opens the vein in his elbow, spilling his gushing blood upon the floor. His eyes begin to glaze a little, but the Haemonculus jabs at something installed at the base of his spine. A cocktail of drugs flood his system, raising his heart rate, exciting the nerve endings. The agony passes into a white light quite simply beyond his comprehension, even as artificial adrenaline surges into his body to stave off shock.
With the barest flicker of a finger, the Master stops the Haemonculus. A nod sends one of the dread Incubi forward. His blade grows active with a sound something like a distant screech of stressed metal.
The man's death comes fast: a flick of the hellish glaive splits his head at eye level, sending him crashing to the floor and spilling jiggling gelating-like matter into the growing pool of blood. All present defer to the Master, who drinks in the dim black fog that rises from the corpse.
The chamber goes black.
(("Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."- Sign at the entrance of Hell, Dante's Inferno))
Day One
The fetid, stuffy air of the cramped chamber makes the Haemonculus vaguely uncomfortable as the screaming slave's glistening entrails are funneled into neatly into a basin beneath the floor, leaving an angry red smear upon the black decking.
The man's hair is surprisingly lustrous, the alien notes, soft and shiny with health that had not be broken by years in Hide. This thought flickers through the fractured mind of the master torturer as he does his work with cold precision.
"Yank the head up, pierce the ear with a glowing-hot needle. Be careful to strike the nerve. Pierce the other ear. Where's the thread, where's the thread? Ah." His groping hand finds the spool of monofilament wire and absently threads a third needle with the substance.
Through and back and through again, the Haemonculus sews the lips of the man shut. He coos soothingly, warning the man that he'd best not move his lips, "if you know what's good for you." The statement makes the alien bark a harsh laugh, wrenching a start from the terrified, agonised human.
The door of the chamber swings open almost silently, permitting the entrance of eleven of the dread Incubi, the lead wearing the piping of a Master, and the silver that denotes rank within the Kabal.
The master incubus is imposing, though he stands shorter than any of the others. His helm is a terrifying mask, a human face dried and stretched over the metal. He speaks rapidly in the fluid tongue of the Eldar, his words audible in English after a moment or two.
"This is being recorded? Excellent." His head shifts ever-so-slightly, towards the back of the chamber. "I want the mon-keigh to know that we are not gone. They lost a billion souls to the terrors of the Warp. Impress that upon this one, and the others." A swift kick to the slave's side draws forth a long-suffering scream from his ragged throat, ripping his lips to shreds as the monofilament wire slides through his flesh.
The Haemonculus tsks softly and scolds the man for his lack of dignified restraint. A slash across the shoulder renders his dominant arm forever useless; another opens the vein in his elbow, spilling his gushing blood upon the floor. His eyes begin to glaze a little, but the Haemonculus jabs at something installed at the base of his spine. A cocktail of drugs flood his system, raising his heart rate, exciting the nerve endings. The agony passes into a white light quite simply beyond his comprehension, even as artificial adrenaline surges into his body to stave off shock.
With the barest flicker of a finger, the Master stops the Haemonculus. A nod sends one of the dread Incubi forward. His blade grows active with a sound something like a distant screech of stressed metal.
The man's death comes fast: a flick of the hellish glaive splits his head at eye level, sending him crashing to the floor and spilling jiggling gelating-like matter into the growing pool of blood. All present defer to the Master, who drinks in the dim black fog that rises from the corpse.
The chamber goes black.