Keleath, Lord Protektor of Ecstatica Inseln, was adjusting his armor in front of an obsidian mirror when the Great Tormentor entered.
“ - How many, Thekron?
- They all came, Keleath. All fifteen hundred of them. And that’s just the guest list. If I had to count the ones we had to refuse, the ones who would not take “no” for an answer... we even had to sink one ship. They survived. We’ll play with them later.
- They all came. For the Dark Prince. For the Pain. For the Pleasure.
- Whose pain? Whose pleasure? They are about to find out.”
They smiled to each other and stepped through the Gate of Excess, down the massive staircase towards the undercity.
The gigantic cave housing WendThing’s lower levels was entirely lit with purple flames. Its Cathedral of Suffering had never been so full. Inside, the nobles of l’Ost were seated in high-backed chairs, on an ebony balcony overlooking the nave. Even Knut and Ulrik, more used to patrolling the grounds with their troops, had agreed to follow protocol and sit. Quil’as, priest of Aqua had joined them, his face relaxed but his tentacles squirming, abstent-mindedly exploring neighboring bodies. The Tzeentchites were oddly discrete, all gathered on a side balcony. Except for Neskak, Consul von Logr, who was bound by diplomatic duty and had to seat surrounded by Slaaneshii and their guests of honor. The crowd below was lying on a sea of carpets covering the black stone floor, rolling hills of cushions spotted with low tables. The haze from water pipes and incense made it hard to recognize faces. A few high-ranking individuals were fully shielded from view, on four-poster beds covered in purple drapes.
For the Avidity they came.
L’Ost was rich. The rates for services in Ecstatica Inseln’s Palace of Pleasures guaranteed a certain clientele. An exclusive level of networking. Some Seafarers were quick to recognize it, and had been busy working on those black ships, on those black sails embroidered with the purple sigil. The deals and rumor-mongering had already started during the trips at sea, and everyone hoped to get something from the night’s ceremony. Just being seen here was an investment, right? The uneasy ones were fearing for their souls. The secret members of Slaaneshi cults were fearing to be discovered. The excited ones were hoping to be enlightened. The hopeful or delusional ones were praying to be touched by Slaanesh himself.
For the Gluttony they came.
Slaves appeared, carrying cristal vessels and golden platters. The dishes were beyond any mortal’s wildest dreams. Drinks that were meant to be only smelled. Finger food that remained alive, playing with their tongues and stroking their throats, still moving as it travelled down their stomachs. Sweet and salty flavors, that kept rising from their bodies, in multiple waves, combining, transforming and eventually interfering with vision, touch, and hearing.
For the Carnalcy they came.
Slowly a chant rose through the cathedral. A mesmerizing voice. The Diva appeared, alone on a thin walkway dozens of meters above the crowd. Her voice immediately silenced the moans of pleasure triggered by the food, replaced by gasps of surprise.
The song waa slow, warm, enchanting. Collars were loosened, capes dropped, gowns opened, just a little more. Slaves gently removed the fabric and leather that was getting in the way, unfastened what little ceremonial armor had been brought.
Feliishiiaa’s, Hohepriesterin of Slaanesh rose from an an octogonal stage in the center of the cathedral. Sornob the hermaphrodite hobgoblin Konsul von WendThing, was behind her, arms craddling rolls of purple rope. Slowly, following the rhythm of the Diva’s chant, s/he started tying the rope in intricate patterns, knot after knot, lining Feliishiia’s exquisite body. Tighter, ever tighter, spreading her limbs open. She was smiling, confident, regal. Looking at the assembly a few meters below her, staring at the noble’s balcony, she knew her power.
Selena, Alchemist Herrin, gave her a sip from a long, black chalice, and poured the rest down a complex array of tubes and vats. A thicker smoke started to rise, engulfing Feeliishiia.
Sornob connected her back ropes to a hook and pulled on a chain, raising her body high above the crowd, towards the Diva’s walkway. The black chain clicked, as she rose, in time with the music.
Now all could see her exposed body, wet from sweat and lust, and all could feel the warmth in their chests, in their crotches. Every inch of the skin crawling with anticipation, tingling with desire. They reached out naturally, to slaves, and to each other. They explored in ways they had never though possible. They opened up. Above their heads, Feliishiia’s body started to squirm, her skin visibly pulsating, her clit growing and growing out of her, flowering into a full-blown phallus. All accross the cathedral, females felt penetrating, males felt penetrated, and the hundreds in between finally felt at home, free to explore new dimensions, delighted to see the binary world views turned upside down, twisted, torn apart.
For the Paramountcy they came.
Voluntary cultists offered their flesh for scarring, handing over sleek blades to each of the guests. After several minutes, as blood started to flow, their eyes closed. Their skins were pierced by hooks, their wails of suffering joining the Diva’s voice in an unholy choir. More ropes fell from the ceiling, revealing an intricate network centered around Feliishiia’s chain, reminiscent of an ancient old spider web.
Slaves took the blades from the guests’ hands and replaced them with the cultist’s ropes. Their eyes could see the ropes, the web, the hooks. They could feel the power. Right there. In their hands. The things that were suddenly possible. Things people would not approve of at home. Thoughts they could not reveal to the their spouses. Limitless. Eager to exercise their power, they pulled on the ropes. The cultists’ skins stretched and their bodies rose towards the arched ceiling. The High Priestess’ body tensed, her limbs spread by thousands of eager arms, vibrating from rising pain and pleasure.
The crowd start humming. The song picked up pace, the Diva joined by dozens of drums, hunders of singers. The rhythm was martial, complex, syncopated.
Feliishiiaa yelled, a powerfull "For the Dark Prince!”
The crowd roared:
"Pain and pleasure!"
Her body started convusling, bones moving in their sockets. What magic prevented her from being dismembered?
"For the Dark Prince!”
"Pain and pleasure!"
Her skin now looked completely purple, her delightful features contorted in a grin no druchii face had ever seen. Her voice was neither male, nor female, nor of this world.
"For the Dark Prince!”
"Pain and pleasure!"
With the Vainglory they went.
Didn’t Trauguid the Verwalter knew them not only by name, but also their favorite beverage? Didn’t Keleath himself nod to them on the way out. Weren’t they at their best that night? At their peak, ready to take on the whole world? This is where they wanted to take their lives. They had been selected. They were the truly blessed. The truly enlightened.
Fleeting memories surfaced on their way home. The metal collars that appeared from below the cushions, from behind the high back chairs. The metal collars that members of l’Ost Noir were wearing too, and the ones they tightened personnally around the guests of honor’s neck, kissing them and stroking them as the metal spikes were biting their flesh.
Illusion? Reality?
One the way home, the night was dark.
One the way home, their dreams were black, and purple and gold.
