Azakhail stood in front of the cult, surrounded by bloodthirsty, howling warriors. They shivered and waited in joyous anticipation, staring at the alter in the center. Nailed to a large, metal stake was a thin, pale figure with pointed features and ebony hair. The sacrificial victim struggled against her bonds, both physical and psychic, which kept her bound tightly. Azakhail watched as she fought, desperate to escape.
"Psyker!" Durmont, the Chaos Lord that led the cult, said. "Why are we waiting?"
Azakhail took a deep breath, smiling.
"We'll begin immediately, then," he says.
Azakhail raised his hands in the air, as the cult became silence. His hands began to glow with the powers of the Warp. He walked forward, as the cult quickly began finishing their preparations. They were so desperate, so eager, for Azakhail's work to come to the end.
Soon, with an eruption of psychic energy, the Daemonettes would arrive. The people would feel the pure joy as a being of incredible power, incredible pleasure and incredible pain, glanced quickly at them, her very attention giving them waves of ecstasy, before sending a wave of Daemonettes to pour into the Materium. Then, the cultists would experience new sensations. All the pleasures Daemonettes offered, all the pains, everything, would be experienced by the Cultists. They couldn't wait.
Azakhail smiled as he walked up to the Eldar. He placed his hands around her throat, smiling.
"She Who Thirsts is using you! You're only a pawn in her games!" the Eldar says defiantly.
Azakhail looked around, drawing the long, curved blade from his side, before drawing a vile of blood, an ornate candle and a long snake skin. Azakhail smeared the vile of blood over her face, before draping the snake skin over her neck. Finally, he lit the candle by her feet, letting the smoke rise up to her face. Azakhail pressed the blade against her throat.
"Let the ceremony begin!" Azakhail shouted, before beginning to chant in an ancient language.
The cultists began to join in the chant, waiting patiently. What gifts would Slaanesh provide? A new sense unknown to them to revile in? Psychic pleasures and pain? There were so many gifts of Slaanesh, that...
"Ah! Help! Help! Haugh!" one of the Cultists screamed.
The cultists turned to look, as one of the Cultist's tongues began to grow, and wrap back around his own throat. The cultist screamed as his skin began to turn to black scales, before collapsing on the ground as he became a Chaos Spawn. Another cultist yelped as mouths appeared in his eyes, devouring his eyeballs and cackling as they replaced them, before the cultist's flesh turned to solid, ever-morphing goo. The cultists began to scream as the mutations of the Warp.
"What is this?" Durmont howled, her eyes merging into own as her neck became covered with mouths, long, prehensile tongues extending from each as insanity took her.
"This... is success," Azakhail said.
The Warp Portal opened, and instantly out marched three dozen warriors clad in blue and gold power armor, led by a levitating Psyker wearing power armor holding a staff and wearing a scaled cloak.
"All is dust," the Space Marine said, staring at Azakhail, who dropped to his knees.
"Praise, master," Azakhail muttered.
The Thousand Sons had arrived. This planet was theirs now.
553.
