The Scorned
Arnok - Former Dark Apostle and bearer of Khorne's scorn.

Nemeritus - Formerly in the service of Fabius Bile. Now starved by Slaanesh's will.

Silim - A wayward son haunted by the dead and enslaved to the capricious whims of Tzeentch

Mordethac - Loyalist made traitor then loyal again. Madness and Khorne's ire dog his every step.

Viator - A perfect blade made rusty. Made a deal with the devil on the satin throne.

Alpharius - Many names make up one legend. Toyed with fate and now the Changer of Ways toys with him.

Kaleidos - Once a beautiful bloom of rot. Deceived and now but an ashen hide cast from Nurgle's swiftly decayed favor.

Aphael - There is a thin line between confidence and arrogance. Tzeentch watched this one cross that line.

Garrick - Betrayal born of hubris wrought in iron has rusted this one. Khorne still expects a worthy fight.

These are the damned. They will be slaves to many. They will fight to reclaim what was once theirs. Most will fail. A rare few may wrench victory from the twisted threads of fate. No matter what, suffering awaits. Read on for their journey, their trials and their fates. ​

<Unknown point in space - Inside the Rimefang>
Gorechild screamed as its teeth bit into the bulkhead. Metal split and sparks flew free from the wounded steel as Kharn tried to hack back into the Space Wolf vessel and the cowardly Techmarine that had locked him out. Only the sharp bite of the Nails and pure fury were even allowing him to damage the bulkhead, let alone cut through it. The feat would go unappreciated as the loyalist on the other side activated the multitude of explosive charges he had rigged up before hand and jettisoned the champion of Khorne into the void. Body tumbled over itself several times before coming steadying and allowing him an unfiltered view of the significantly larger than himself turrets on the vessel's flank locking onto him. Guns meant to rip apart enemy void craft were about to be used upon one of the oldest and most deadly warriors in the galaxy. When they zeroed in and fired upon the Betrayer all he felt was the familiar sting of reality shedding its skin for the warp to pour through. The sudden portal to Sicarus had been masked by the flash of weapons fire and for all the defenders knew they had just claimed the kill on Khorne's greatest mortal champion.

When the stunning surge of sensations that accompanied sudden and unprotected warp travel subsided one ancient found himself staring at another. Bloodied, battered and as close to death as he had been in a long time Kharn now stared down at the infernal visage of Erebus. The smouldering glare on the Word Bearer's face sat at odds with the friendly grin that he wore beneath it. Ten thousand years and the tables had finally turned...

<Sicarus - The Halls of the Damned>
Many an unfortunate soul was trapped upon Sicarus. Many were simply fodder for the infinite number of warp beasts and denizens that roamed the planet that had been the sanctuary for the Word Bearers and their Primarch since the Horus Heresy. Others were lost spirits who had given everything in worship of the gods and now wandered the surface in un-life. Then there were those whom ended up in the Halls of the Damned. Built to house those who had failed their patrons it was used to extract endless misery and reparations from anyone so unfortunate as to be cast there, whether by fate or artifice. In the chambers of stagnant blood warriors whom had dedicated themselves to Khorne and fallen from the Blood God's favor lay useless and withered into weakness.

Among them was Mordethac whom was locked in an eternal cycle of failure seeks atonement. Every day a dark sleep takes him and he is briefly transported into a dream. In this dream he is always following a voice unlike any other that had ever acknowledged him, both before and after he and his chapter's fall. After many years he is convinced that the Emperor is guiding him during this time, leading him through staggering revelations until at last darkness comes and the warrior awakes in his cell finding only total blackness surrounds him. During this time voices far more familiar and much less kind return to him and not for one second do they relent. It is madness.

Then there is Arnok whom is a very special guest here. For millennia the disgraced Apostle has been strapped to a stone slab. Every hour of every day bodies frailer than his enter with scalpels, saws and all sorts of crude tools. Flesh is cut and bones parted as a tribute of blood is paid and the depraved little hunched figures reap a toll of joy punishing what had once been a voice for the Blood God. Each day he awoke from the embrace of death so that it might begin again. His devotion and deep knowledge of chaotic lore had long ago helped him figure out that he would be here an entire year for ever soul that he had offered as apart of his pact.

Next door to him was Garrick the Iron Warrior. Within a cell too small for a full grown Astartes he lived in an illusion as an endless trench war played out around him. Scores of foes too weak to satisfy his blade fell, little more than gnats such was their uselessness to him. For days at a time Garrick chases worthy foes half glimpsed through toxic smoke and over the lips of his trench. Every now and then he actually meets them and is handily defeated before he might strangle an inkling of joy from the fight.

What of the other gods though? What of Nurgle? Within the Garden of Decaying Favor Kaleidos is trapped with many other failures. The sorcerer and once master of a fertile church is trapped within a plant bulb. Its surface has the consistency of leathery flesh and within Kaleidos is severed from the gifts of Nurgle. His flesh is pristine and pale even though it clings to his bones. He has not eaten in years yet he has not died. No rot or death passes through that bulb, Kaleidos can see out however and through a sickly green tint he watches as the worthy revel and celebrate the gifts of the Rot Lord.

Beyond the Garden lies the Temple of Depravation wherein those who have fallen from favor with Slaanesh waste away. In a grand dining hall that exists only in the mind of a certain Nemeritus the former ally of Fabius Bile has spent countless days immobile in a fine oaken chair watching display after display of elaborately prepared courses of human flesh rot away into nothing before being swapped out by many limbed servants. Sometimes these mutant aids will come to Nemeritus and offer him a bite. Every time without fail the cannibal's body rebels against him and head shakes itself in polite rejection even as the void in his stomach screams for sustenance.

A floor down from him one can find Viator. Suspended and bound in chains his body is deprived of all sense except sight. Eyes are eternally locked upon a rusting blade that he had once used to reap a terrible tally of souls in the name of the Prince of Pleasure. One may wonder if mind even functions at this point, if any thoughts pass through the warrior's head after years of stagnation.

Finally there is the Shifting Tower. A silver domed turret that extends from the center of the Halls of the Damned and it is here that those pawns in Tzeentch's eternal games are imprisoned. Sorcerers aplenty there are also tricksters and manipulators here. Figures like the great Alpharius even rot here, or at least some of the many to wear his name. They experience an eternity of perfect failures where something betrays them at the worst possible moment. A stuttering of the tongue ruins a deal with traders in heretical artifacts. A very human growl of the stomach draws every eye to a dark corner. Sometimes the betrayal of self is much more literal and he lodges a blade through a throat only for victim to spin about and look back with his own eyes. Moments later same blade tears open own throat and the cycle repeats.

The Thousand Sons end up here quite often for reasons that have never been explained. Many a mighty sorcerer that had served under Magnus the Red is sealed away to pay his dues. Silim is one such soul. An intelligent warpsmith plagued with bad luck it is no wonder he ended up within the Tower. In a small cube of a cell his body lays lifeless while magical wards have severed spirit and cast it into one of the many impossible mazes of Tzeentch. He has wandered so long that all he knew has become a distant memory at best and his actions come from routine rather than planning. On a good day false hope blossoms as he thinks to near a border wall and can hear the promising chant of knowledge unknown just beyond his grasp. It has been this way for some time now and doesn't seem set to change.

Then there is Aphael. One of the Prodigal Sons and thus of Ahriman's ilk Aphael was lead here by arrogance and a haste to uncover great power. Like so many others pursuing the exact same goals with the exact same sin in their hearts he failed. Humiliation is total as his own personal hell leaves the Sorcerer bereft of dignity and wielding a poor mans blade in a primitive arena occupied by raucous sons of Russ whom come to watch him fight on the daily as if he were nothing more than a caged animal.

These are but a fraction of the varied torments that await the hundreds of damned trapped upon Sicarus. Some may one day know freedom, others may be here for all eternity or until some momentous kindness is granted and death takes them.

"My son."
"Emperor?"
"Yes my son."
"Emperor! Emperor what can I do? I have been trapped here and the voices-"
"Shhhh, rest well my son. Soon your salvation shall come."
"E-emperor? Where did you go? Emperor? It is getting so dark...and cold. Emperor?"

His eyes shot open and yet he couldn't see anything. All was darkness, he lay on his back on a cold floor completely unclothed. His once powerful and muscled body had wasted away until only a frail husk remained of the once proud space marine of the Crimson Sabres. "No! No!" he screamed with a hoarse throat as he could hear the voices returning to him. Voices of old friends, enemies and strangers all killed by his hands were condemning him and demanding further bloodshed to repay for his sins. He clenched his head between his hands and screamed in rage and despair into the nothingness surrounding him.

Somewhere deep inside Aphael new this was an illusion, but that did not help him, he was cought here again, he stood, the wolves had captured him alive, somehow deprived him of his grandiose powers, he used to be able to turn great warriors to dust with little effort, but that was no more, not here, they had taken his armour, they had taken his relics they had taken it all and given him nothing but a rusty blade, to fight everything, hotheaded youths duelled him, wolves where unleashed upon him, and great many other creatures of the feral and cold planet tore at him, but never, he was never granted death, allways waking up, something they called fleshsmiths putting him back together, it was never ending, they taunted, laughed and broke Aphael, though somewhere deep inside, he knew this was not real, but the shame was.

Arnock's roar could be heard echoing through the halls of the torture chamber. Though the pain was very real, it was perhaps the disgrace of failure that cut deeper than the knives used on him. A pool of blood, millenias old, encircle the slab upon which he was chained. Though he knew it would be a failed attempt, he constantly pulled at the chains with all his might yelling and cursing Khorne, "Damn you, Khrone! One planet! One planet short! Were the billions of lives given to you, from -my hands-, not enough to fill your gluttoness appetite? Free me and you shall have more!" He then saw as another group of do the frail torturers came into his chamber and yelled out in anger, knowing the pain to come, "Release me Khorne!" But there was no answer, and so he cried out in pain as the knives fell upon his flesh, "I shall have my revenge, Khorne! Every last one of your servents that crosses me shall bare the weight of your actions! I swear it!"

Despite perfect health the former priest of the blight church wheezed, breathed heavily. He attempts heavily the blessings of Nurgle perhaps with his pathetic display trying to convince the god of plagues, his father of decay and giver of the most disastrous blessings that he needs his love. Kaleidos was ripe to be a Slaaneshi at this point, his skin so pale like a newborn child. His impurities non-existing, smooth, even, filthy healthy...

He tried to spit against his prison deep within the flower chamber, wishing his acidic spit that at least was coming from his betcher's gland would make a tiny hole so that the gardens' deadly air may be inhaled, forcing him to get the familiar warmth of the rot within, to know that wherever he goes, whomever he touches would be forever changed ... No! Change is what brought him into this hell hole of healthiness and protective womb! And as always his acid spit was of no use, the flower started to got eaten away, but short before it would actually make a hole it simply healed back as it was before. Other attempts included biting his way out like a feral animal, which also were futile. His teeth may be in prime condition - lacking any bacteria or virus - but they were not sharp enough to pierce the flower that his prison was. In fact it was even refreshing in the way that with every bite it was like floss between his teeth, leaving them cleaner than before and with an aftertaste of mint.

But the worst was yet to come today... A trio of newer cultists, barely baring the gods of their father walked near the flower. And in the distance Kaleidos easily could see a Beast of Nurgle. Happy and eager to find a playmate. They were gorgeous creatures, infecting everyone they licked with a thousand and one diseases. This was it's domain but it never paid one moment to the former Sorcerer, no matter how much he whistled, yelled or kicked his prison. The flower was pure and immune against it's diseases. But... Those cultists weren't. Having entered it's domain the beast turned around on it's heel, sniffing the air and smelling that foul purity.

Immediately it moved with top speed towards the three, the first only bore warts and no real disease in which he was punished to death by being devoured. The other two however bore proper gifts such as bloated stomachs and a swarm of flies following them. They petted the creature without the slightest fear, for it was full with the love of Nurgle. And they in return were rewarded with happy, thick, green-blue saliva filled licks from the beast all over their faces and torsos. And with each lick blisters would appear all over them, popping and causing infected bubbles all over them, the acidic saliva deforming their hands and arms, but ultimately strengthening the bone as it finally saw sunlight with the skin and flesh leaving several open patches. It was glorious. Once they were done playing, they just turned their back to Kaleidos and walked into the distance, towards the sunset. His heavy arms hammered against the walls of his prison. "WHAT ABOUT ME?!" But his scream and his hammering were unheard. And as energy left his body, all that was left was the hunger... The hunger for Papa Nurgle's love.

"Come on Get out of my way this ones Mine!" Garrick yelled he could see it in the distance a oppanent worth fiughting not only that but a Imperial fist, something that seem to put a deep rage within the Iron warrior and ambition to slay such a hated enemy of the perturbro his Primarh it was almost impossible to stop his charge, Ducking and wreaving through fire and Artilliary Blast he laughed. Like a maniac as he got near he had the imperial fist in his sight not only that but a champion a worthy kill, bring hide sword up he connected blades with the Imperial fist as the battle began Garrick could almost feel the adrenalinee rising once mora but as soon as it came he felt a tingle in his back and a shiver go down his spine as helt himself being pulled away from thre battle. "No no No NO! Dammit!" As he began saying he could hear that cursaid laugh that Garrick recognized as Malrauxs voice laughing as he was pulled into the air towards another dammned vortex. Hr could see the Imperial fist champion drawing his side arm a plasma pistol taking aim before firing it at thee floating iron warrior sending him back threw the vortex to be torn apart.

Waking up in a roar of anger Garrick began letting out a string of curses and rage filled yells as he tried to move in the box like cage he could barley move and as what movements he could seem to only increase his rage. "Let me Out!" He roared angrily wanting to kill those that imprisoned him

Suspended and chained in the middle of the cell, Viator's body gave no signs of life other than the faint violet light that burned in the depths of his eyes, and behind those eyes, the mind of the traveler worked. Like other travelers on this path, he was also aware of few rules, or one should say, steps that should be taken if one was to advance and proceed towards the next juncture. But as there were the steps for advancement, there were also steps that would take one backwards, or even worse, to lead one astray. Sensations, as would some call pleasures, were a definitive way forward - one of many ways that would drive the blessed one onward - and depriving one of the same was a fitting torture.

Of course, like madness, knowledge comes in many forms and shapes, as well as quantities. Those who would still be considered as beginners on the path, as well as the myriad lesser beings who spoke the name of the Dark Prince with reverence, would try to find pleasures where possible, even within one's mind. A knowledge that you bested your foe on a distant battlefield years ago, or the sweet and numbing touch of post-combat narcotic trip, relived in the captive's mind could offer some degree of satisfaction and give one false hope. However those who traveled through the vast corridors beyond the Palace of Pleasures, and even found few of the many hidden paths of excess around it, reached the state where such mundane sensations would have little effect on them, pictured as only few small bricks on the road to ultimate comprehension.

Only tiny morsels. Viator growled in his mind. Those were like few spare coins a beggar would receive for a week, good enough to only allow him to buy a piece of bread and postpone the inevitable doom. The agony of a prolonged subsistence, knowing that whatever you do didn't matter in the end. But that was a lie made to differentiate the weak from those not so weak because nothing would be easier than to let go and enjoy the false salvation of limitless oblivion. That was the coward's way, the road easily distinguished by the whispers of the souls of the feeble travelers that now adorned its steps.

Viator refocused his mind outward, truly opening his eyes for a first time in some time even though they were physically opened all this time and as always, ever since he ended up here, his gaze fell on the familiar edge of a rusty sword. He saw the ill-maintained blade, despite its unmatched quality and the masterful work that went into creating such a piece of art, falling apart. The metaphor was perhaps fitting, or at least that's what his jailers thought, but Viator pushed such thoughts aside and continued watching the once razor-sharp edge. The souls of the damned and those he had damned personally could still be seen dancing around it, playing on the tune coming from the eyes of the Dark Prince, that even now smiled in the distance. He could see their screams with his own eyes, the promise of pleasure there, within his reach...

The Traveler closed his eyes, retreating with his mind once again. The pitfalls and dead-ends were all around this maze and he wasn't about to let his guard down after all this time. Of course, time was irrelevant to one such as he, which also made him realize something. The desperation in which he ended up on this leg of his journey was of a strange kind. This place was still...stale, rotten and stagnant, and all of that was in the end, the domain of another being and not his master.

Viator smiled inside of his mind. His patron, besides many other things, was not a patient master and eventually, it would show. And when that happened, the true test would begin.

Astoro lay alone in the darkness. It did not matter if his eyes were open or closed, either way darkness enveloped him. He could hear the voices swarming through his mind like maggots in rotten flesh, devouring and tunneling through his brain. He had known the voices by name for the only other voices were from his fellow suffering warriors in the darkness but he never noticed their screams, moans and curses.

While the maggots tunneled through his brain he noticed that there was 3 voices that didn't seem to match the others, perhaps they were strangers but they were so prominent in his mind. "Enjoy yourself" said a silky soothing voice, "Plan a way out" said another whose voice seemed to change with every syllable, "Embrace your form" said a older almost elder voice. These voices gave him consolation throughout the cold and hunger but were little relief. He would always ask who they were but they never seemed to give a straight answer "I am the prince" said one, "I am the architect" said another, "I am the deacon" said the last.

While the maggots burrowed through his mind and the specters whispered in his ear there was another voice, familiar yet different and he knew it all too well. Mordethac the slaughterer, the beast, the monster. This voice was himself given a different form. Astoro hated it. "Emperor steel my will, shield my soul from the eternal hunger-" "The emperor cannot hear you" Said Mordethac "He cannot save you. He does not care."
"Lies!"
"No, look deep within it is true."
"Get out of my head!"
"I could say the same to you Astoro. I much liked my home before you came and ruined it."
"No! You came into MY mind and ruined everything! You and those voices!"

Astoro screamed as frustration overtook him. He had lost all sense of time. He couldn't tell if he was here for 10 minutes or 10 millennia. He crawled through the darkness his astartes vision offering little in the way of illuminating the gloom. Mordethac looked around, blood he needed blood to silence the voices.