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I am thinking of doing them purple, a mid-tone and each having a black hand print on their heads. Thinking of anyway. Will have to see how I feel in a few months. I have called them the "Dark Hand", hence the hand print.
Halibel covered his ears, the caterwauling of the Sigmarite priest echoed across the open plaza. Through gritted teeth, he grunted his orders to the rest of the band. They spread out, moving slowly along the centre of the plaza. Almost cautious like. That was until Ulquiorra spotted the humans. A group of males, wearing long sleeved cloaks and tall, high brimmed hats walked with a swagger through the ruins. Burning torches lit their way in the gloom, the ruddy red glow catching the purified, silvered weapons and the pristinely polished pistols held in black gloved hands. Each wore a silver icon of a hammer behind a flaming comet. Halibel felt sick, it seemed that Ulquiorra felt the same; the multi-limbed monstrosity howled a bestial roar and sprang out of cover. The possessed being bounded from ruin to ruin, nimbly avoiding the dangers; before falling upon a crazed fanatic and a devoted of Sigmar. His blackened tongue flicked out of his mouth in a hiss as he leaped upon his quarry. The three clawed talons that acted as his arms lashed about him in a flurry, the black nailed tearing flesh from bone with ease. Halibel’s demented grin of jubilation melted from his face as he watched the silver icon glow gold for a brief moment, and the realisation that neither of them fell. The fanatical flagellant merely shouted his prayer louder at the searing pain that flashed across his chest, and in response he swung the overly sized flail at Ulquiorra. The weapon, unlike the rest of the band, was unclean, its spiked head was matted with what Halibel could only guess was flesh and brain matter. In fact, to the magister’s eyes the entire man looked out of place. In stark contrast to the sharp, clean, pure clothing of the witch hunters themselves, this man and the others like him, were sorely an anomaly. Each wore a tore tunic of a red fabric; the edges were ripped and worn, like they were rarely taken off. The tunic exposed pieces of flesh through the holes, each inch of these humans were scarred or bleeding in one manner or another. Halibel had know of this, a self inflicted wounding – something about it, he recalled, was similar to those worshippers of the Dark God Slannesh. He watched in horror as this specific fanatic caught Ulquiorra hard in the head, blood as black as night gushed from the wound and the possessed human dropped hard to the floor.
On the other side of him, Halibel watched as one of his mutants grabbed a large breed of a dog and dashed its head out against the stone tiles of some ravaged building. In its death throws the mutt dropped a glowing green crystal from its mouth – wyrdstone! The mutant picked up the powerful stone, and began to wave and prance around – that was until a filthy, woman brained him from behind with a makeshift mace. Cursing Halibel turned back to the other half, where he was just in fine to watch the last of his coven fall beneath the silvered weapons of the blessed witch hunters. He could see that two were true killing blows, as the initiates fell, their corpses spasmed as they slid down to the floor. It was enough for Halibel, and he called a retreat.
************
Halibel dumped the rotting piece of wood on the floor, frustrated. It wasn’t here. One of the cult’s patrons, one of the many fools wishing to forget about the city’s plight and drown themselves in depravity, had told his ‘partner’ of a stash of gold, and “glowing green rocks”. Now Halibel and his followers were hunting through the dilapidated remains of what once appeared to be a market place – or just a large street, it was hard to tell what rubble and remains would have been there before the city’s destruction.
“Next one, its not here.” he muttered, gesturing to the others in the same building. As he turned to leave, there came a pained shout from the street. Carefully picking his way over to a ruined wall, he glanced up and down the open area outside the building. At the far end he spotted humans, ones he had fought with before – the rich, pompous ones they encountered many months ago. Sighing he began to bark orders at the cultists; it was never easy being the leader. Halibel stealthily slipped out of the building, to get a better look at the street, taking shelter behind an upturned cart less than a dozen feet from the building, and his fallen mutant.
Quickly Ulquiorra and the others began to spread out, looking for the prize before the humans did. But it was not to be. As the twisted man-goat neared a small burnt out pie shop he witnessed two men emerge, a large blackened chest was hefted between them on a makeshift stretcher.
“THERE!” he bellowed, his finger pointing at the two men shuffling further and further away from his followers. “Get it!” he bellowed, with as much authority he could mange, from his hiding hole behind the cart. Ulquiorra was the first to react, his near naked, purple form a mere blur as he sprinted towards the two men, ready to render them into pieces. But instead he was sent flying to the floor, as in a brave, yet ultimately stupid, move, one of the humans – the leader perhaps, Halibel thought, as he considered the oversized peacock feather flopping from his hat – had lowered his shoulder and launched himself into the speeding possessed, thus stalling his hunt for the treasure. Unfortunately for the imperial the possessed being was not easily stunned, and was quickly back on his feet – black clawed hands raked the worn clothing of the mercenary. Clouds of white tinged with black hung around the combat, as the captain unleashed two elegant pistols at almost point-blank into Ulquiorra. The act just angered his further, so much so that his next strike, struck the man in the head, knocking him clean off his feet.
Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of metal upon metal, evidence that the cultists elsewhere were engaging the rest of the mercenaries, out of view. To the other side, he witnessed a third arrow strike the already wounded mutant; making the abhuman beast stumble again. Then, suddenly – as quickly as they came – they left. A couple of corpses littered the floor, the rest of their wounded being dragged away under the umbrella of bow fire. The treasure was his! The ragged remains of his warband shuffled around the corner, a wounded mutant dragging a leg whilst being supported by a cultist. Halibel cared not. The prize was his.
***********
The violent scene tore across his vision once more. A red sheet of slow, rippling liquid lapped at his naked feet. Before him a ruined city stood, burning and ripe with darkness – there were pieces of pure wickedness there. In the centre a sinister, impenetrable shadow hung, above the city. A pair of red, coal eyes peered from what might have been the head. The name “Mordheim” ricocheted around his mind forcefully. Halibel opened his eyes and was back in the small farm that once might have been prosperous. But now it was dormant and dead. The screams of those who once occupied it were now and forever silent. He missed them. In the distance he spied the city, a great spire of smoke still drifted from its ruined corpse. It had been nearly a month since the so named 'Judgement of Sigmar' had struck the city, it had quickly become a haven for those not wanting to be found or those serving a higher purpose. Like Halibel.
********
It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.
The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.
“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.
Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.