Grimoire II - A World of Victims and Executioners

The Story so Far
MALICONOSCIOUS, A KEEPER of Secrets has been captured by Daemonhunters to be studied and sealed away like some tamed beast. Grandfather Nurgle, displeased that some of his children were drawn in to this affair dispatches his trusted subordinate, the Daemon Prince Eldasay Edimus. Approaching The Masque of Slaanesh, a pact is struck between these two dark warriors in order to free the trapped Greater Daemon and to sow bloody vengeance amongst the mortals. Even combined the hosts of The Masque and Eldasay are insufficient for such an epic task, for it is a certainty that it will be no easy task to free Maliconocious.
The Masque journeys to the Realm of Khorne, to the Eight Levels of Insanity....

* * *

THE MASQUE STEPPED down from her Steed of Slaanesh on to the black ashes of the desolated land that now surrounded her in every direction. The exact distance was impossible to gauge, for the horizon was constantly shifting and could not be relied upon to show the edge of this, the world of slaughter.
High above, roiling grey clouds hid the sky, an inverted sea of sluggish ashen waves crashing around the towering volcanic peak. Across on the blasted desert, odd lights flashed across the barren valley, washed out blues and reds failing to dispel the dusky murk that enshrouded their source.
Nobody would want to see or smell or feel too much of this place.
The Masque raised the hood of her garish robe, electric pinks clashing with smatterings of red and silver thread. Before her lay The Eight Levels of Insanity the only structure in this domain and the personal stronghold of U’zhul Skulltaker, where he and his Legion of monstrosities made their home within the Realm of Chaos. The taint in this place was so strong it burned her throat when she drew breath and stung her eyes with the noxious fumes and choking ash clouds.
She lowered her head and began to cross the black stone bridge that led in to the depths of The Eight Levels, like a snake in her fluid motion. The crossing, wide enough for thirty men abreast, crossed a massive drop where at its bottom lay a roaring lake of lava, red mottled with black, where man-high flames danced, died and rose again. Either side of the bridge was flanked by the statues of two of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters, their bestial visages so realistic they looked ready to step down form their pedestals and leap at her in an attack.
Perhaps they might truly do this if she was perceived as a foe.
The Eight Levels of Insanity were a series of immeasurable vaults carved and blasted in to the side of one of the ash-black mountains at the very base of a volcano that seemed colossal enough to strike through the sky itself such was its mind-bending scale. What she now approached was the only entrance in to this forsaken place, or at least the only one that was considered common knowledge.
U’zhul would never allow himself to be cornered.
The bridge continued over the magma far below until it reached the rocky face, the stone roughly hewn in to the domineering form of a horned titan. The gate was set at the sentinel’s navel, blazing with a fiery light. At either side of the bridges end, two massive hands were raised before the sentinel as though cupping for water, though these hands caught magma which flowed in turn between their fingers. There was no mistaking the fortress amidst this dead landscape, for it dominated the land no matter where you stood.
The towering stronghold was warmed by the volcanic pools that clouded the already close and stagnant air The Masque’s delicate senses were close to being overwhelmed by not only by the sulphurous stink of the chasm itself and its unholy occupants, but also by the tumultuous din and clamour that echoes from a thousand tormented throats. It was these that uttered a cacophony of misery sounded out in wretched snorts, howls, squeals, screeches, screams and shrill cries that echo throughout the halls of the fortress as she entered the gate. A mere mortal would either go mad or their eardrums would burst should they listen for too long.
From here U’zhul the Skulltaker led out expeditions to bring in new humans and other creatures to amuse his Legion with their screams of agony. The expeditions would then return with caravans of wheeled cages filled with all manners of beings seeking to burst from their imprisonment. These unfortunates were brought in to the Eight Levels, where they were placed in pits or cages and exposed to the warping power of Chaos, made to fight one another for their captors’ sport, locked in mazes to be chased by Flesh Hounds, locked within the gibbets that hung from the bridge over the searing magma. Eventually every prisoner begin to rot or melt while lying still in their excrement as they slowly died an agonizing death, venting their hatred at their tormentors through baleful glances as the power of Chaos turned their souls inside out.
Few ever survived that long.
The Masque did not want to be here, ghosting around the corridors of Skulltakers lair with only the burning torches along the walls to light her way. From each torch hung a skull blackened by flame, indeed, the dominant motif of the place was so bland and boorish it could only be Khornate. Skulls carved crudely in to the walls, statues of bull-headed monstrosities bearing axes and swords, the occasional gibbet with the usual emaciated carcass within, spears topped with severed torsos.
The Masque wished she could be back at her Pleasure Palace, wiling away the time with her favourite mortal pets, attended by her handmaidens and not wandering through the cathedral-like corridors of maniac like U’zhul.
As this corridor ended she entered a sprawling plaza dominated by a huge bronze figure wielding a many thronged lash, cracking at the backs of a triple-headed Flesh Hound and armoured in fantastic mail with a face-enclosing helm. By some twist of reality the lash seemed to writhe in the air like a living thing, metal flowing as easily as water whilst the eyes of the statue somehow gazed with white balefires.
The Blood God.
She averted her gaze and walked quickly down the nearest corridor. It should come to no surprise to her that there be a shrine to Khorne in the palace of one of his most trusted and favoured lieutenants. That the God was depicted was the true surprise to her, for surely the mightiest of Chaos Gods would be of the opinion that nothing could capture his majesty, no material mortal or immortal could convey his strength. Not for the first time she wondered just how sane U’zhul was to be tempting the wrath of his own God in such a way.
As one who had suffered the full fury of a Chaos God herself, The Masque knew that even U’zhul would tremble before such a spectacle. She giggled at the thought of her rivals discomfiture should such a thing come to pass...perhaps with a whisper in the right ears she could encourage such action.
The corridor widened and The Masque found herself in one of the grand halls. Towering in to the sky the immense domed structure was left open to the choking sky, the floor of black flagstones slicked with fresh blood running in rivers. On every wall, on every pillar there hung a mortal corpse; the skin peeled off and left in a mangled heap at their base, their bones plied out and broken for marrow, their skulls hacked off and reverently placed atop the rags of skin on the floor. The Masque’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the savagery of it all, the simple lack of...what?
The lack of elegance, of showmanship, of any real intelligence – any dog could tear a body apart. The followers of Slaanesh were much more precise and certainly a lot less animalistic in their sport. She dared not make a noise of her disgust however, for by each flayed and boned corpse their slumbered a Bloodletter of Khorne, their savage, black-metal Hell-Blades clasped in their clawed hands.
Never had The Masque seen one of the Blood Gods followers without a weapon in their hand, even when they finally slept after a festival of blood and debauchery. With a quick cursory glance she counted at least a thousand in this chamber alone, some coated from head to toe in gore, others leaning upon the bulk of a dozing Flesh Hound and one or two appeared to have succumbed even whilst sat upon one of the immense and powerful Bloodcrushers of Khorne.
The Masque nearly tripped when she beheld the beast at the end of the chamber as it unfolded massive wings.
A Bloodthirster, the mightiest of all Greater Daemons lay not twenty feet from her, flexing leathery, bat-like wings as it let out a low growl that made her very bones vibrate; the awesome creature rolled over and resumed its slumber.
Letting out the breath she was unaware she was holding The Masque slipped quickly and quietly from the chamber and fled through the corridors. She now saw the reason for the celebrations here and the excessive number of victims even for the court of U’zhul the Skulltaker, for who would do anything less than honour the presence of a Greater Daemon, the embodiment of their Gods will?
U’zhul was honoured indeed, yet The Masque was troubled as to where the Lord of this fortress was hiding, though she had an idea as to where to begin.

* * *

THE WARREN OF subterranean catacombs beneath The Eight Levels of Insanity was known to the precious few allowed to enter as The Asylum of Ending, the personal chambers of U’zhul Skulltaker, Champion of Khorne. The Blood Lord had been obsessed with his lust for glory, having his minions digging deep beneath his fortress and expanding in to the mountain range and inevitably in to an ancient labyrinth of tunnels and caves throughout the domain of Khorne. The enormity of it was staggering.
The Masque stood alone in the centre of the great subterranean cathedral where U’zhul ruled his empire.
It engulfed her.
Unlike everywhere else up above the silence was perfect. There was something around her, some quality in the air itself that made this place quite different to the rest of the world above. It was as though the fortresses master willed it to be so and the Asylum of Ending bent to his desires.
The high vaulted ceiling dripped with long, gnarled stalactites, the lichen clinging to the rock seemed to shift dependant upon which angle you stood. It gave the entire chamber an unearthly and surreal quality to it. A huge brass alter commanded the central dais, two runnels carved along the ground at its base to collect the blood of the unfortunates sacrificed to Skulltakers madness. Behind the alter stood the chipped and desecrated remains of an Imperial Aquila, smothered with icons of Chaos and bloody runes of praise to Khorne and to the unholy master of the castle.
U’zhul’s vanity was incredible.
Touching the alter The Masque could see in her minds eye Skulltaker commanding his great host of minions from this very chamber. She could hear echoes of his tirades and the heat of his anger. It was the secret show of U’zhul Skulltaker.
“Where are you hiding?” The Masque said to herself, stalking gracefully out of the false cathedral to resume her search. She swept through the old cages, row after row of prison cells empty save for a few dusty bones, through in to the true trophy room of the Asylum of Ending.
The stacks and rows were all immaculately tended to and cared for, unlike anything else in the stronghold. The Masque ran her slender fingertips over the brows of the old skulls, reading the names off one by one, amazed at the wealth of trophies stored here away from prying eyes, away from sycophants and rivals. More so because of the loving care that had obviously gone in to maintaining the collection. She walked by strange jars within which floated human hearts, sets of eyes and twisted, skulls of every shape and size and from every race, some of them had been extinct for millennia and yet there still stood a trophy from them.
Despite a lack of understanding and veritable hatred of all things beautiful, Skulltaker had in his own way created a work of art. His art was death. For once The Masque admired her fellow Daemons single-minded obsession with glory and trophies when it all came together to form an honours list that stretched back to the rending of The Eye and painted a wondrous image of death and pride.
She walked on and soon found she was not alone, for a mortal man moved to and froe amidst the endless rows and columns of skull trophies, scratching out works with a battered old quill, occasionally taking down one of the leering objects to rub at it with an old rag. A stub of candle was carried along behind him by a small, impish individual in a hooded cloak. The mortals complexion was waxy, his long, grey hair matted and lank, wearing a black trench-coat.
“I am nearly finished, Exalted Lord. Soon, I swear to you. Just a little while longer and I will have it perfectly completed as you commanded. It needs to be perfect.” He wrote again a little more frantically, dusting off the large skull of an Ork Warlord before he finally looked around from his work.
His eyes were wild and he reeked of insanity. A branding was upon his brow of a ram-horned skull bearing a serpent-like tongue; the personal brand of Skulltaker. “Oh, you’re not Skulltaker. You shouldn’t be here, whoever you are.”
The Masque sashayed over to the mortal. “Who are you?”
“Varig.”
“Well, Varig, what are you doing here? I cannot speak for him, but I might say that should Skulltaker find you here amidst his most prized possessions your death will be spoken of in hushed whispers.”
“I’m working,” the mortal said as though this were the obvious. He gestured to the list of scratched out writing that whilst it was only one page contained several thousand names and annotations upon it already. “This isn’t your trophy room anyway; it belongs to my Exalted Lord Skulltaker.”
“Where is your master, Varig?”
“Why ask me? Is this a trick? Are you going to report me to him? Tell him that I serve him for all time and that all he needs is a little patience before I finish cataloguing his list of triumphs for him.” At that the archivist gave a bitter laugh. “Patience, does my Exalted Lord even know what that is? I very much doubt it...oh no! You must not tell him I said that or Kuhl’tyran will be gnawing on my bones next.”
Kuhl’tyran was the personal Blood crusher of Skulltaker. Amongst a massive and brutal breed of beast, Kuhl’tyran was the most massive and most brutal of all. The Masque could see what had happened very clearly. Needing someone to organise and maintain his nigh-endless collection but having neither the time nor the patience to do it himself, U’zhul had grabbed the most promising mortal soul he could and forced him to do his bidding for him. His dubious reward? To bear the personal mark of U’zhul Skulltaker upon his brow, so that all Daemons would know at a glance that to harm this mortal was to answer to his keeper.
Varig had been awarded a great honour and did not even know it.
“What are you doing here, Slaaneshi?”
The sound of the Bloodletters voice startled her, even though she had known all along that the muscle-bound fiend was stalking her footsteps. She turned, expecting to see the great mass of physical power that was Skulltaker but instead finding a smaller, but no less threatening Bloodletter. Like Varig he bore the horned skull emblem branded directly in to the red flesh of his chest, right over his corrupted heart.
His expression was sardonic. “I am The Masque, Herald of Slaanesh...I come to meet with your Master.”
“Somehow I doubt he will be pleased to see you,” the Bloodletter sneered as though reading her mind. The impudence. A lowly footsoldier showed respect to the Herald of one of the other Gods even if it created a bitter taste in their mouth. The Bloodletter nodded respectfully to Varig who nearly tripped over his own feet in order to sketch a formal bow back. “Lord Tezcatlipoca, sir, I was just –“
“I know,” Tezcatlipoca responded, cutting him off. “I will deal with this personally from here on in, Varig.”
Tezcatlipoca. The name was not unknown to her and for him to know Varig by name and to be permitted to wander these hallowed halls he must be highly placed in the court of the Blooded One. A bodyguard? A trusted lieutenant? A war counsellor? Tezcatlipoca could be any of these, though The Masque knew little of the inner workings of a Khorne legion and even less about the workings of Skulltakers court.
“My name is Tezcatlipoca. It is my Exalted Lords will that I serve as Gate Guardian to the Asylum of Ending, hence I was aware of your presence here the moment you crossed the threshold to the Eight Levels.”
“I bring word from Eldasay Edimus.”
Tezcatlipoca snorted with a twisted smirk of mockery. “You think that by speaking the name of a filthy half-breed Prince you can see my Exalted Lord? Begone! I shall not allow you to disturb my Master during his time of contemplation."
“Even if it brings him the possibility of more favour with your beloved God? Even if it will expand his trophies to become ever more bountiful? Even if he may find a foe who is worthy of his immense skills? Even if I will be personally indebted to him?” She knew she was playing a dangerous game in baiting the Bloodletter like this, but it was far safer than simply dominating his will and forcing him to take her before Skulltaker. By playing upon his own pride and what he knew of his Master, she hoped to convince him that to fail to take her before Skulltaker would potentially rouse his Lords wrath.
Tezcatlipoca scowled and swept away, his footsteps echoing throughout the row upon row of skulls. “I must confer with my Master. Do not move from this spot or I shall be aware of it and unleash my castellans to hunt you down.”
The Masque smiled to herself.
Now came the hard part.