Foul Deeds Will Rise:
Prologue by Patrick Eibel
He donned a robe and padded to a locked chest by his bed. Coughing up the key secreted in a sac in his mouth, he unlocked the box and removed a small blue figurine, the one he had retrieved from Theralon. He had sacrificed much to get the magic item, but if the ritual he planned to perform was successful, the cost would be worth it.
Pocketing the figurine in his robe, Lynatharr moved through a series of secret doors and passages to a chamber. Inside was a rectangular, black marble vat large enough for a person to lie in. Suspended over the vat were six human slaves, drugged and insensate. Lynatharr placed the blue figurine in the bottom of the vat, shed his robe, and casually drew what served as his right hand--a misshapen, scorpion-like pincer--down the backs of each of the slaves, releasing blood and spinal fluids into the vat below.
As the bodies drained, he retrieved a pitcher of scented oil that was waiting on the floor nearby. Chanting words that no Eldar, Dark or otherwise, had spoken in millennia, he poured the oil into the vat. The mixture bubbled and roiled as he spoke. Once the pitcher was empty, the liquid in the vat stilled and Lynatharr submerged himself until he lay, arms crossed over his chest, on the bottom.
Slowly, as the air escaped his lungs, Lynatharr felt his consciousness drift from his body, as if he were flying through space, with stars all around. He tried to focus his thoughts, but found that he could not control the images. The thought of losing himself amongst the myriad of stars caused him to panic, reminding him of his long incarceration in a stasis chamber at the hands of the hated Fighting Tigers. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and he thrashed, inhaling some of the ghastly liquid. Sputtering, he forced himself to calm down. He knew this was his only chance to perform this rite.
As he went still, the scene in his mind’s eye changed. He was in a large room, so large that the sky was its roof. Lounging in the middle of the room was a great being, with the body of a woman and the head of a jackal. Her body was covered in tattoos and piercings, and from her hundred breasts, loathsome creatures--some vaguely humanoid, most not--suckled.
Lynatharr stepped forward, not sure how to proceed. He was saved from having to think by the great being, who glanced over and noticed. Casually she extended her arm and scooped him up, disrupting the feeding of her supplicants.
“Poor child, you have lost you way.” Her voice was like beautiful music played on instruments beyond description. “Are you sure you want what you seek?”
Lynatharr dumbly nodded.
“The cost will be great, and your people will no longer be able to escape my realm.”
Lynatharr nodded again.
“As you wish.” With a turn of her palm, the being dropped Lynatharr into inky blackness.
As he fell, Lynatharr felt his perception expanding – past the stars to time itself. He felt his body being taken apart particle by particle, then his new self beginning to coalesce and reform in a gout of searing, white-hot pain. He awoke screaming and sputtering, still suspended in the liquid..
He crawled out of the marble sarcophagus, weak from the astral projection. He dragged himself back to his room, back to the mirror. Using his last bit of strength, he stood and gazed upon his new, monstrous form, a horrid, chimerical blend of Dark Eldar and scorpion.
A familiar, shark-like grin spread across his face.
Foul Deeds Will Rise
Posted June 2011