Mourning's Story

It was sensed from afar, the mourning.

It appeared in the mists of chaos, dark ebbing at the edges of the vestibule in the Shrine of Shrines. Crumpling to the ground it shook, throwing back it's cloaked head and keening to the night. It wailed for the Crawling Chaos, sliced it's arms through for Sirad, and in a final sob called to Taima for a God to help them. As the figure faded from the cloak, leaving nothing but a blood-soaked rag behind, it couldn't help but wonder why.

Maria followed the child's footsteps up the shrine with a perpetual scowl upon her face. The tension in her shoulders didn't abate as she climbed the steps, carefully avoiding the bloody footsteps along the way. Upon reaching the height of the building she looked the north where the footsteps had stopped.

She could see nearly the whole of the Hollow from up here, a thought that did little to ease her ire. This whole place reeked of Vampire and worse.

At first she saw nothing of note laying before her, and she turned to return downstairs, about fed up with this whole foray. Something caught the corner of her eye though and she looked back. There in the town square was a woman and child. She might have overlooked them entirely had she not taken note of the child putting what appeared to be a rock into his mouth.

She looked closer as it became apparent that something was very wrong. The child was in a clear amount of physical distress and had fallen to his knees retching blood and rocks before slumping to the ground. The woman simply walked away, disappearing into one of the nearby buildings.

Maria wasn't quite sure what she had just witnessed, and truth be told, she loathed this place. These weren't her people to look after, nor were most of them even human. Even Maria's hardened ire towards this place could not easily overlook the murder of a child though. Her instincts told her she should leave this place and not look back, but the humanity within her had her descending back down the steps once more without a word to Biohazard.

The man in the the dark hoodie, which concealed his features, looked around the shrine for a moment, switching through modes again. Maria wanted to come here, for some reason...but why?

His eyes kept on the ground, and he followed something that stood out. More...blood. Footsteps. He knelt down to examine them more closely. He followed them, changing the settings. Something was making them. He switched to the thermal tracker, looking for anything-

"-Maria." he said, looking towards the woman. It was then that he caught the heat trace of the child, and the one of the person walking away from him. Maria was going down the steps, as well. "Wait!" he said, following after her. "What happened out there? Did you see that?"

A deep gong reverberated the walls of the Shrine of Shrines, awakening the city with the storm. Change was brewing in Verinotte Hollow. The spirits whispered of it, whipping through the crevices of the Shrine of Shrines.

Hood up, protective paints and satchels on, Mourning stepped from his sleeping chamber. It was time.

A sealed envelope appeared on the doorstep of The Shrine of Shrines, a formal invitation for those currently at worship or on retreat to attend the second Ball of Chaos, to be held in Verinotte Hall. A secondary letter was included for the resident monks in the shrine, advising them to don millennial pink robes, an aesthetics request by Daemala Tauvyr, current leader of theVankoryth Detente.

Mourning read the secondary letter and scoffed. Millennial pink. There was no such color in all of his conjurings. What did such a color even look like? He turned the envelope over in his hands. Supposedly this color?

Barely even a silent breeze was ruffled in the still air of this dead place as a new presence entered it. Perhaps entered was not the correct term to use, more appeared or rather existed within. It was as though the figure had always been there, but had simply been waiting for the correct moment for it to reveal itself... Or maybe it had never existed before and finally at last it had gestated enough to find itself fully formed. And perhaps the truth of the matter meant little compared to the simple fact that the matter itself existed in the first place.

As though it were the most casual thing in all the world a gloved hand reached over a robed figures shoulder and plucked the pink letter from their grasp, as though it were the actions of a gentlemen kindly picking the head of a rose for his lady love. The figure the arm belonged to strode away a few paces, twisting the letter over in its hand as it held it up to the light, what it was looking for none could truly say but it seemed satisfied soon enough as it turned about to look at the robed figure.

From afar the two would seem almost copies of each other, this strange newcomer was dressed in a long cloak and hood that covered its body well. Every inch of the strangers body was covered in some black material, from their arms to their feet and even their face was covered in a plain black mask which seemed almost to faintly draw in the light around it. Slight locks of hair, silver as moonlight of a summers moon just barely peaked out from under its hood and within the mask, where only eye holes laid a pair of amber eyes, almost golden, looked back at the figure it had taken the letter from, seeming almost to look both at and into the figure before them.

"My apologies." He spoke, for indeed it was a mans voice though certainly not with an accent that seemed to be entirely place-able, it was almost alien to the ears the longer he spoke. "I believe that this is yours is it not? It was awfully rude of me to take it so but I had not realised that you were not a statue, such was your lack of... Presence." He spoke almost with a smile, though if he were smiling it would be impossible to say, as his gloved hand reached out to give the pink letter back.

Mourning recognized strong spiritual presences when they came. It was part of his job. The black robed figure immediately threw himself down to one knee, head bent toward the ground. Mourning murmered a formal greeting, sprinkled some ash and herb salt, and looked up to the figure.

"It would be our honor to have a being such as you as a guest, to such an event as the Ball of Chaos."

What the masked man made of the spectacle of respect wasn't entirely clear, he made no sign of his thoughts as he stood there with his hand outstretched, pink letter lightly held between two fingers. The all but golden orbs seemed to to appraise the figure with a cold indifference, lacking in contempt but lacking too in joy as they bored into the kneeling figure before him.

"It would be our honor to have a being such as you as a guest, to such an event as the Ball of Chaos." There was a pause that stretched on into silence, it grew quiet enough that one could hear the ruffling noise of the masked mans thumb across the paper of the pink letter before he slowly withdrew his arm and pocketed the letter somewhere on his person, his cloak fluttering open for a moment to reveal some form of black shirt covered in pockets, it was puffy as though made of silk and yet still seemed to be form fitting at the same time. If he cared for the paradoxical clothing the masked man made no sign.

"Hmm, I should think this." He made a sign of patting apparently where he had placed the letter. "Would serve enough as an invitation. Now come, stand and tell me who this Detente is, and why is it I should be so privileged to be attending their 'Ball of Chaos' as you put it." He turned side on, his gaze drifting along the halls of the Shrine of Shrines. He was silent for a moment before adding. "And you can also tell me where I could find them I am sure? It wouldn't do to have a mysterious stranger appearing at their annual gathering when there is already so much risk to the concept."

"The Detente," Mourning whispered, for he cared little for the politics of the Cursed Wood and more for it's overall spiritual health. For this, he was internally torn on how to feel of the group of vampires who reigned over the Cursed Wood.

The Vankoryth Detente brought much chaos, but also much mirth, to the Cursed Wood. They had built Verinotte Hollow, haven for the supernatural and the undead. They were solid investors in the Shrine of Shrines, as well as other economic pursuits about the Cursed Wood. This was all well and good. They brought peace and protection to the various creatures. The Ball of Chaos alone was meant to unite the people, and make welcome Verinotte Hollow to the people of Terra far and wide.

However, once could not discount the wars they had fought. True, the one had been as much the wolve's fault as the bloodsuckers. Escalation in these trees proved harmful for them. Mourning was most concerned with the wood in it's entirety. The Vankoryth Detente had killed nearly as much as it had created.

"Castle Vankoryth," Mourning waved a hand south, "Deep in the Forbidden Thick. There is where you will find the Vankoryth Detente."

Mourning gestured again around the Shrine of Shrines. There were many rooms, furnished and not, available for beings of all denominations to find rest and make prayer. Many a God had stopped in for tea and to refresh themselves.

"Make yourself at home."

The masked man listened intently as the robed figure described this strange Detente in some small manor. What his thoughts on the matter were were not entirely clear, his head hardly moved as he listened to where they could be found. Even his eyes seemed to burn steadily in their sockets, blinking slowly as he observed the robed figures directions on where to find the hosts of this Ball.

"Make yourself at home."

There was a pause, followed swiftly by a soft chuckle that sounded almost as if it were the closest to a smile the masked man could manage to bring himself to display. He turned away from the robed figure, if only to look out across the Shrine of Shrines, appraising it as an architect would a ruin, with a clear sense of disconnect and disdane for the state it had fallen into. Eventually he turned back to the robed figure, looking side on at him.

"An... Interesting phrase that. One might take it to be literal and decide that this realm does not conform to their idea of physics. It may be wise to refrain from offering such to every passing being, it would not do you a service to be the one responsible for inviting in the coming storm." He turned front onwards to appraise the robed figure. "I'm sure you and your kind have many questions and I am feeling amiable. Tell me, what plagues your mind of late?"

"The slipping of the shadow from over the Cursed Wood, it does not bode well for those of us who reside inside..."

Atop a spire, five monks stood in a circle. In the center, the carcass of a creature unrecognizable due to it's condition of heavy rot. Their shadows stretched inward towards the rotting creature. The Monks synchronized on a single note as the shadows made contact with the rotted creature, and suddenly it burst into black flame. The Monks were transfixed, chanting without relent, until there was nothing but a charred mark on the stone floor in a peculiar shape, with three circles, and perhaps some arrows. Smoke rose up towards the hole in the ceiling, black wisps escaping towards the waning moon.

"I find it interesting, you know.." The disembodied voice shattered the intervening silence in the wake of such an offering. A horrible, haunting mix of ephemeral, and hate incarnate it echoed from wall to wall inside the Monk's spire, reverberating off stone, and bone alike. "For a great while now have I watched, every chant, every sacrifice, every illustrious foul deed!" It pitched with a fever not unlike that of a preacher, growing ever louder until each syllable pounded the very soul. "Like maggots in puterence you've writhed, and clamored. I've seen your struggles each, and every time you've attempted to claw your ways out of the muck.."

The heavy, but wistful column began to churn, and consolidate. Instead of rising up, and out the foul-smelling smoke was descending into a pool around the monks.

"So hard you've tried; worked to cast aside the yoke of lies, and yet.." The shroud of pitch black smoke started to swirl, at first so slowly it was barely visable. But the voice seemed to stir it into malicious life. "You grew so, so sickeningly complacent. So depressingly content to cease your quest for The Truth once you attained a scrap!" The speaker made no effort to hide his contempt, the supernatural smoke responding in kind, ripping and tearing at the very fabric of the monk's souls whenever it came into contact. "And now! When an opportunity to set your errors aright presents itself you bury your heads back in the filth of ignorance!"



The entire spire shook, the force of the wrathful scream hitting the room like a detonation, and sending the smoke out in all directions like a tsunami. All lights were violently snuffed, all the breathable air was tainted with the foulest of stink, and all but the strongest would likely struggle to maintain their footing. Even the feeble, pale rays of the moon were swallowed on black. All was quiet for a moment afterwards, but again the voice intruded, although now it rang with the strength of flesh, and nearby flesh at that. Whoever, or whatever possessed it had been made manifest in the darkness. "My disappointment is quite sincere.."

The monks, one by one, dropped to their hands and knees in the dark stench of the spire. Fester raised his head at the change in the voice. Something, someone, was here. It's power was tangible in the air, and there was a chaos about the energy in the room that would strike fear into the hearts of most. Fester reveled in it.

Fester spoke up, "We seek your guidance in our times of ignorance."

The sudden supplication of the monks' surprised Erebus a great a deal, although it was indeed a most welcome one. He could feel both of his twisted, gnarled hearts swell with pride as his void-black eyes took in the sight. Still shrouded by what was left if the smoke, The Hand of Destiny allowed himself a wicked grin. There might be some hope for them after all, and his grand scheme hinged on what it always seemed to - a need for fanatical devotion.

"Well now.." snickered the Dark Apostle, the volume, and wrath of his tone dropping a little. "Perhaps you are not so foolish as I thought, to see your ignorance for what it is, is no small feat."

He paused, debating his next step carefully, and mulling over the question presented to him. Time was most assuredly of the essence, but the power of theatrics, symbolism, and ritual were absolute. A most careful balance would need to be struck here. Finally, after a solid minute of silence, he addressed the monks once more, again working himself towards a fever-pitch. "You seek guidance, do you? Simplistic instruction? Do you not already have a bevy of false, weak 'Gods' for such a paultry end? DO NOT WASTE MY TIME!"



Erebus slammed his Power Maul against the nearest wall with more than enough force to dent a Rhino tank. The shock wave it generated tore through the room, seemingly growing with force as it whisked away the smoke, and reverberated along the entire spire. In seconds the monks would finally be able to witness that which they summoned. Towering over mortals at a full ten feet, and easily half that shoulder-to-shoulder, The Dark Apostle stood motionless. His ancient, bright red Artificer Armour added greatly to his bulk, and constrasted quite nicely against the deeper, crimson skin of his horned visage. The various skulls, and still-fleshed heads integrated into its various support systems, or idly hanging from chains told a clear story, as did the blood writ scripture on either shoulder.

Part of the wall crumbled upon impact, a large piece of stone falling one one of the monks. Erebus's words drowned out the cries of the monk as he slowly perished, his life being taken by the weight of the debris.

Fester dared to let his eyes feast upon the glory before him.

"Give us our task," Fester all but choked out, trying to keep his body from quivering apart.
"What shall we do to prove to you, our dedication, our devotion, to The Truth?"

"Much is what you shall do to prove your worth," spat the Apostle. His glowing daemonic eyes gravitating towards the monk being crushed. His pitiable mewling was such a pleasing sound, but to let the simmpering mortal die now, before even knowing of the glory of the Dark Gods was not a sin Erebus sought to commit. "But first, allow me to impart a vital lesson to all of you. The Dark Gods are harsh master indeed.."

He raised his power maul, the slab of fallen stone rising in time. With a great ease it levitated up for the man, despite not being a psyker himself. His powers were much more grand, miracles straight from his wicked patrons.

"Failure, disobedience, disloyalty, and disrespect shall be met with ends most foul, but loyalty!" Without warning a massive bolt of Warp energy crashed down from the ceiling like lightning, vaporizing the derbies on contact. And striking the monk's corpse. "Loyalty, and praise are rewarded - behold!"

An ominous purple maelstrom consumed the immediate area of the slain man, flooding the shrine with the ebb, and flow of the Immaterium. Reality within its sphere was a mere child's notion, and with a simple snap of Erebus' fingers the man was forcibly ressurected. As so much more.

"Now, much work is to be done, and quickly. But first, you! Fester!" Knowledge of the man's name was little more than a parlour trick, but one Erebus found useful. The more omniscient he, and by extension his Gods seemed, the better. "Approach, and claim your due! If your vile heart is half as genuine as your groveling you need not fear."

Fester, holding himself with a newness that felt like the boiling of every aspect of his being, slowly stepped forth. The other monks had descended to their knees, some sputtering out coughs, some silently weeping, some quaking with fear, and the minority holding themselves still to listen.

"Fear," Fester hissed, "I discard such a thing! One has no fear in their heart when the truth is to be delivered!"

Erebus' vile grin contorted into a horrifying mix of contempt, and bemusement. Such bluster, and bravado was exactly the sort of folly he needed. The Dark Gods were to be feared, and rightly so, but they had no place for weakness, no room for doubts. Fester would be a serviceable pawn, and as the man approached the Dark Apostle raised his staff above his head, it's Undivided sigil bursting into Warp-flames.

"Nurgle, Slaneesh, Tzneetch, and Khorne! Dread fathers of the Empyrean, of man, of life, and truth! Hear your serva-"

The adlibbed ritual was interrupted by a blinding flash of Warp Energy. A veritable flood of chaotic, purple miasma swept the room, quickly followed by an unholy stench. A pillar of green smoke coalesced in the center, slowly revealing the bloated form of Bulbic.

Erebus was not amused, and though his exterior remained collected the rage beneath the surface was palpable.

"What is the meaning of this, Maggotmancer!? I gave you strict instructions!" He strode forward, malicious energy crackling at his finger tips.

"I'm aware, Dark Apostle! Things have changed, and quickly, ya know? See for yourself! This is an emergency!"

The green silhouette shot forward before Erebus had time to protest, crashing directly into the much larger man's chest. The psychic force sent him staggering back, but he remained upright. His eyes burning green as he was granted control of the sorcerer's physical form. His head swept from side to side, surveying the distant field of battle with a scowl. Whatever he was seeing was clearly vexing in the extreme.

"By Lorgar," he scowled, seemingly to himself. "You've really driven this situation into ruin, haven't you? Your failings will be rectified. Swiftly. But for now, yes. Yes. That will do adequately, and you may yet save your filth-bloated hide, Bulbic."

He raised his sacred staff once more, this time it errupting in blood-red fire.



A wave of sheer power pulsed through the room, emminanting directly from Erebus. Unlike the previous it would hit any, and all like the stroke of a mighty axe. Any monks weak enough to lose their footing would be instantly eviscerated in a shower of gore, and viscera. The sign of Khorne's acquiescence.

The Son's of Cain would soon arrive.