Observation: I am uncertain of the passage of time, and have been since Day #3,745, subjective time, or thereabouts. My latest attempt to calculate a feasible algorithm for this maze has ended in failure...have the walls shifted yet again, or is my mind going? Chanting detected perhaps some two hours ago - attempt to draw closer resulted in current impasse. Identity reinforcement: I...I am...who am I? Why am I here, again?

Premise: I have been trapped here past all sense of time, or purpose, or identity. Everything about this place is calculated to obliterate all sense of direction, time and. From the maddening uniformity of its featureless white surfaces, to the harsh blandness of its illumination, to the way it seems to know just how many of the same turns it takes to cause even the most focused mind to begin to wander before a sudden switchback or dead end, to the way all sound and even thought falls muffled and dead, it is a monument to the dissolution of identity and sanity itself. I struggle to remember my own name and my purpose here. I vaguely recall that I once had vast resources - material and mental - available to me, but the state of my mind reflects my tattered pilgrim's garb and rough-hewn walking stick - threadbare and shorn of all features of note. Every often, I am tantalized with chanting, soft but clear, as though coming from just a wall's thickness away. I can no longer remember why the chants entice me so, but I do know that if I but find their source, all will be made clear, and I will be free of this horribly bland place for good. Needless to say, all attempts at locating the source of the chanting inevitably take me deeper into the featureless silence of the labyrinth.

Postulation: I once used to be someone of note. That much, I can remember...or surmise. Given the ordered patterns into which my thoughts naturally drift, even after an aeon trapped in this featureless madness, I must have been notable for my mind. Were I to analyse the way the chanting calls to me, I would say that I was once a seeker after secret knowledge, and I was put in this place against my will, for it was designed to provide me the maximum measure of torment, after my personality and inclinations. It provides me with just the barest minimum of options to tease the possibility of formulating a path out, only to yank hope out from under me, all while keeping my mind murky enough to prevent a collapse into total despair and catatonia...

...I was a planner. A builder of great works of hand and mind. An organiser of battles and industrial labours. A weaver of plots and schemes. A struggler against Fate. A survivor.

Conclusion: I remember who I am. I am Silim of Prospero, and my soul is a prisoner here, sundered from my body which lies...is that chanting I hear?

< Halls of Stagnant Blood > @matt23 @Virgil_Corbec @Vulpas
Arnok's tormentors left the room in a joined group of sadistic giggles and dark whispers. His own howls had devolved into pained mewls and pitiful groans. They had chosen to skin his face to start the morning off right and lidless eyes were forcibly opened to watch as they passed through the door. Curiously their voices died down to total silence and the barbed bars did not shunt up from below as they usually did. There was something in the air, something hot and angry that made the blood dribbling between Arnok's abused teeth scald his throat.

The voices had died and Mordethac was now very much alone once again within his cell. Daylight must be coming and soon the sleep of false hope would claim him. The familiar weight did not grip his lids or mind though, instead flesh crawled and blood surged through his veins as the stained wooden door that sat between him and the darkened halls beyond began to splinter and quake. A blurry dot of orange torchlight poured in through a tiny gap opened at the doors center and after uncounted days in isolation this small circle of light was enough to blind. Then the voices returned, and for once they weren't those of the long dead. Only those destined to be.

Garrick watched as the eternal trench blurred and then faded away around him. Now he stood propped up against the wall. Worn limbs with flesh that clung to visible outlines of bone sagged against the outline of the chamber and a curious warmth touched his back. What had been the roar of a sorcerer's portal in the Iron Warrior's mind was in reality the shattering of his bonds and the destruction of the door to his cell.

It was a scream of the purest and most primal rage that would draw them all from their holdings. Arnok found the altar snap in half and his binds break beneath him. The sound was violent enough to bring Mordethac back to his senses and fully ensnare Garrick's curiosity. As they and dozens of others shambled out into the flame lit holdings they saw Kharn. They felt Khorne's rage itself touch this place.

The Betrayer had forced his already bloody hands through the gorget of a Word Bearer minder and crushed both neck and windpipe with a single flex of his digits. Even without Gorechild or his plasma pistol the champion was as deadly as they came. Mass reactive rounds erupted against the dead Word Bearer whom was wheeled about as a shield against the other minders that had come to escort the seemingly defeated warrior to the halls on Erebus' command. A full suit of ceramite and the dead weight within was propelled through the air knocking one guard prone and scattering the other two. Kharn closed upon the first and wrestled chainsword from his target's waist, raw muscle beating out the power of its maglock. Chains had barely started rotating before the gutted Word Bearer went down. The third followed just as quickly and from his headless corpse Kharn drew a bolt pistol. Fury was vented by both warrior and weapon as six shots were hammered into the stunned son of Lorgar that had been struck down by his own comrade's corpse. It was only after he had weapons in hand and had slain his escorts that Kharn seemed to even notice the multitude of prisoners about himself. There wasn't room for disgust on his face among all his anger.

"If any of you still claim to have an ounce of honor or strength, you will level this accursed place and show the Erebus the folly of angering Khorne! Kill the guards, break open the armory! BLEED THIS PLACE DRY! " Without further word Kharn the Betrayer whipped around and broke into a stomping run that carried him through the stone arch that lead into the hall. Without hesitation many followed, picking the Word Bearers clean of any spare weapons and storming out with guns and blades raised and flesh bared entirely to whatever obstacles lay in wait. For Mordethac, Arnok, Garrick and many others whatever enthusiasm they may of had was held back by weakness of the flesh. Trapped as long as they had been here there was little hope they could even pick up anything heavier than a combat knife, let alone control the kick of a boltgun or the shuddering fury of a chainsword.

@DeranVendar

Mordethac smiled. It appeared that the chance for bloodshed had arisen and while he was in control as well! He could sense the other one in his head but his screams were so distant and vague compared to the cacophony of slaughter that presented itself to him. Stumbling a little he attempted to follow the horde but the time in his prison had sapped his body of any strength leaving only sheer force of will to propel him forward, made all the more potent by the sudden silence and clarity in his mind.

He made his way to the corpses of the word bearers and breathed in the smell of fresh blood deeply, it was a sensation he had spent ages without. Unfortunately the Word bearers were stripped of all weapons and armor and so there was little looting to be had. Instead he dabbed his fingers in the blood and promptly licked it off, it tasted like freedom.

Arnok fell to his knees and then hands after his chains broke loose. The ground against his hands and feet felt so strange, so different, though this could be contributed to a millenia of being chained to a torture slab. He reached up and touched his face, which was sensitive to the touch from the lack of flesh on it. After a moment of gathering his mind to wrapped around the change, he struggled to his feet, using the wall of his chamber to support his weight to the door.

Arnock, upon reaching the doorway to his chamber, fell out into the hallway, which was becoming a bloodbath. His lidless eyes fell upon the source of the blood being spilt, and of course it was the greatest champion of Khorne, Kharn. He felt anger flow through his blood as his years of torture had grown a hatred for the servants of the blood God. However, he had no strength to do anything about, so he was forced to merely watch as Kharn made his escape and many other prisoners followed behind him. Knowing that he did not even have the strength to follow or stand up straight only angered him further. Luckily, off to his side was one of his frail tortures who had been injuried, barely clinging to life. Arnock crawled over to him with a pained and psychotic smile. He then climbed onto his torture's chest and spoke, "Do you remember me?!?" Before the lackey of Khorne could even respond, Arnock sunk his teeth deep into flesh, tearing the lackey's nose from face. He spit it out before, before continuing to do the same thing over, and over again, screaming out, "How does it feel?! Is Khorne not pleased with your blood?! Cry out for his mercy as I did?!"

Kaleidos after all this time... How much it was anyway started to see despair and just losing a will to live as an option. He sunk into the warmth of the plant that was holding him trapped, secure, safe, clean and healthy. Just falling back, giving up. His eyes closed slowly, like a child that was throwing a temper tantrum every night, crying out for his father only to be left unheard. No love would be gained and everyday to hope it would change while he tried nothing else was the definition of insanity. His perfectly healthy body was in prime health and it disgusted him, every night when the sun would succumb into darkness and he could see his ugly pale face in the reflection of the plant's semi-translucent 'window' - but his mind. It was shattered and broken. Filled with so many dreams to carry the plague once more, but yet he had hoped and begged for too long. And so he did what no Nurglite ever was allowed to do if they were to continue to be bearers of the plague - give into despair, hopelessness, defeat and death.

And the plant willingly accepted the sacrifice. Kaleidos could feel how the plant started to slowly suck him inside, his feet being coated first in the awkward saliva and stomach-acid like sensation of the inner workings of the plant... Soon it would be all over - the hope, the dreams, everything. Everything made sense now, the moment he turned from Nurgle's unconditional love, that was the moment he truly died and accepting his fate after a felt eternity would at least hopefully give his soul to his disappointed Patron, to redeem himself in the absolute sacrifice.

Garrick as the illusions began fading and the heat of battle at his back cause the Iron warrior to smile as he saw his cell door be blasted open. "Freedom!" He managed to croak out surprised that he heard his voice so weak and almost sounding frail it displeased him greatly, as he heard the warrior Karn speak he added another name to his own mental list on who to take his revenge out, This Erebus would would pay for what he did to him.

Crawling out of his cell Garrick tried to keep up with the mob only to be left behind,Cursing Erebus one more Garrick began crawling over to what looked like a dead guard going to his belt he began grabbing his combat knife and trying to use his strength to take it

"Have to start somewhere." Garrick said as he began attempting to stab the guard and then bite into his a flesh to begin devouring him. " I hope you guards aren't as poor as the food you gave us or I may stay like this yet." Garrick said as he began eating.

< Halls of Stagnant Blood > @Vulpas @matt23 @Virgil_Corbec
Both Garrick and Arnok found the blood tasted bitter in their mouths and that there wasn't very much to go around. Garrick's attempt at salvaging a knife was folly as it was merely a trick of the mind and instead he had pulled up a jagged shard of cracked floor tile. Arnok at least was able to savor his revenge for a moment, torturer screaming in sharp bursts interrupted by the brief muffling experience of the fallen Word Bearer going in for another chomp. Like minded prisoners were lingering about the place doing much the same. Slaying and sometimes feasting on those who had tormented and mocked them for ages. The floors were rapidly accumulating of a slick layer of fresh blood and spread amidst the pool itself were the tools of the flesh breakers. For those so wretched and withered as themselves these were the only weapons they might be able to wield effectively.

Mordethac watched as others of his ilk began to shamble onward, having finished with their own prey and bouts of desperate hunger. One man clawed across the floors, legs twisted beyond repair and useless. Some had taken to fighting among themselves for weapons or having lost all control at the opportunity to make violence. One such man fell upon the lost soul lapping at his fingers. A rusty saw that had tasted blood long before the break out whiffed over his head as a skeletal looking man with a beard glued to his heaving chest by filth assaulted Mordethac, a raspy attempt at a war cry on his lips. It was a pitiful sight made all the more shameful by the fact that Kharn and the healthier bearers of Khorne's displeasure were out fighting against foes of actual mettle... at least maybe.

The Damned:
Mordethac: 8
Conditions: There are all sorts of tools laying around that can make passable weapons. Feel free to loot one or two of these.

The Other Damned:
Withered Inmate: 5
Conditions:

< Garden of Decaying Favor > @Uriel1339
It would all seem so real to Kaleidos. Desperate mind feverishly recreated the experiences of pain and rot, that suffocating feeling of being on the cusp of death. It tricked him into hearing the sloshing of acidic juices, yet just as quickly as it came the feelings were gone. Sloppy sounds of submergence became a gurgling laugh as the Plague God once again denied the fallen sorcerer even an imagined fragment of his festering comforts. Then came a scream, many screams in fact but one rose well above all the others.

Through the plant pod's skin he saw a tide of acolytes and cultists come pouring out into garden. Unarmed and garbed in rags or robes they were familiar sights as these fertile grounds for suffering were frequented by many scholars and adherents of the four who came to see one of many possible prices of failure or to enact punishment themselves. Two figures stood out among them though and these were a pair of Word Bearers. The sons of Lorgar had bolters drawn and were firing at targets that remained out of sight for several seconds. When they emerged Kaleidos saw those who had been damned like himself but in far less pristine condition. A starved trans-human who was fresh enough to still look it lead a pack of naked berzerkers into the court where they died in droves. Blood steamed on the rotting life in the fecund garden, and more would flow as the shamed of Khorne would not relent. The nameless warrior at the fore brought a chainsword around in both hands and began to saw through one of the guards while the other was drug down under weight of numbers after being staggered by sporadic bolt fire. When they were dead the multitude of much frailer mortals were next.

A stray round struck the pod prison and suddenly Kaleidos was dumped on the floor and gifted with breaths of stale air from the corrupted flora. Curled up on the ground he heard the local fauna respond before actually seeing it as something heavy and slimy skidded past him. The Beast of Nurgle whipped itself into the pile of dead and dying with glee, crushing those trying to flee from the escapees while simultaneously hammering into and killing many of the violent Khornates at the same time. Once Kaleidos had found his feet the short skirmish was over as the bulk of the bodies in gardens were already beginning to succumb to the gifts of Nurgle, any survivors having fled at the sight of the demon. There were others trapped here who hadn't been so blessed with his luck, perhaps they deserved freedom as well? Though there was the matter of the Beast which had just finished frolicking among its many dead friends and was now staring Kaleidos down with a broken, fang filled grin. Any admiration he had for the daemon from within his pod was suddenly fleeting, something told him Nurgle's gifts wouldn't be so blessed or kind to him while he was more or less scorned... perhaps he should flee?

The Damned:
Kaleidos: 8
Conditions: There are other prisoners left in the Garden that Kaleidos may wish to free.

Friendly Fiend:
Beast of Nurgle: 20
Conditions: Hug time.

< Silver Tower > @Grall_Stonefist @Keidivh @Draconion
Despite the roving mobs of Khornate warriors sacking the rest of the halls it was the Silver Tower that saw its defenses broken and prisoners set loose second. The Blood God's rage rolled through and the baleful gaze of Khorne sundered the wards and barriers that kept the play things of Tzeentch locked down while dispelling and breaking the enchantments trapping them inside their own minds. Nightmares fell away, illusions dropped and formerly comatose bodies snapped awake as souls were sewn back in. Altogether a deeply unpleasant experience as all the neglect their bodies suffered manifested as very real pains and aches. Hunger did not gnaw, it snapped. Limbs did not burn, they were infernos.

So sudden and unexpected was this that many would not even react. The most lucid minds were those of the chanters and minders that maintained the many spells put in place here and those that didn't keel over and die of Khorne's hatred were scrambling to get out, not wanting to deal with anyone of the possible powerhouses that might be seeded among the many pitiful souls that probably weren't much a threat. Indeed many were set to do more harm to themselves as they suddenly thrashed about in reality where moments ago they had been in a very different place.

Aphael went headfirst into solid stone as his vision passed from headbutting a Long Fang to suddenly driving himself into a wall. Blood trickled down from split forehead and body sagged down to the ground. Did he have any limbs even? He certainly could not feel them and the void was strong enough that even seeing them with his own eyes left him thinking twice.

Silim was struck by violent convulsions as soul was plucked from elsewhere in the warp and shoved back into what had previously been a carcass. Something cracked as his body revolted against the intrusion of returning life, yet he would not feel any physical pain. Nerves were much too busy trying to make sense of the, literal, soul searing agony.

Then there was Alpharius whom came out better than others. His last sight before awakening had been a Brood Lord awakening from a faulty stasis pod and leaping forth to rip him apart. Instead the Alpha Legionnaire merely staggered out through the formerly warded entrance to his cell and doubled over a stair side railing, vomiting up things he hadn't even remembered eating down toward the shadow consumed base of the tower.

< Temple of Deprivation > @Colapse @Redthirst
Slaanesh's own failures received a far kinder opportunity for freedom than those who had fallen from the grace of other gods. The Word Bearers had opened all the cells in their many forms and shut down whatever gases or chemicals at work in the prisoners and began hastily beating sense back into them. Cannon fodder was needed and the desperate rarely refused. Not that they really had a choice.

Viator's chains would be torn from the ceiling and the rusted blade kicked toward his hands by a helmet wearing legionnaire wielding a flamer.

"On your feet wretch! Those dogs from the Halls of Stagnant Blood have been set loose. If you've any desire left to live and experience the pleasures of Slaanesh's favor you will rise and fight them! Leave this cell within five seconds or I roast you. " Armored figure stepped around and quickly hurried out. Five seconds was a tall order considering Viator couldn't even feel his limbs yet, let alone know if they worked.

"Get up, get up! " Nemeritus was torn from his own illusionary hell as another Warden closed armored fingers around and his neck and drug the starving deviant from both seat at the dinner table and his cell. World spun as the cold tiles were the next thing Nemeritus saw before briefly blacking out on impact. A hard boot to the rib that surely broke or at least cracked something brought white light exploding into view. "Grab a weapon and prepare to fight! Lay about any longer and I put a bolt through your brain you miserable sack of bones! " When vision returned Nemeritus could see the other prisoners in similiar states. Some were struggling to rise or gripped by madness and rolling about screaming, crying or laughing. A loose pile of weapons was being picked at by those with the smarts to understand they had best get into the action. What was on offer was an insult entirely on its own as the blades and cudgels were meant for smaller hands and all of appallingly poor quality. It was perfect for the prisoners. Most bodies were so withered that their hands would barely wrap around these simple hand weapons.

"Line up and find positions near the entrance! We've got a mob coming and as soon as they are all dead we're moving to reinforce the armory! The bulk of the prisoners are laying siege there but we've got roving gangs of lunatics and failures that need dealt with or else they'll just eat at our heels when we close our jaws on the main group! " Three twisted horns spiraled out from the commanding Word Bearer's helmet and the power axe in his hand helped make it perfectly clear who was in charge, at least in the moment anyways.

The Damned:
Viator: 8 Nemeritus: 8
Conditions: Basic poor quality hand weapons are on offer. Clubs, swords, daggers and axes. No two handed weapons.

@DeranVendar

Mordethac cursed at the assaulter as the rusty saw bit into his forearm in his attempt to catch it. His aim had been a little off but now he gripped the saw blade and attempted to swing a hook into the assailants face. He wouldn't claim his skull for khorne, he won't give him that honor...at least he didn't think. For the first time in what seemed like ages he felt the thrum of battle and directed fury. He attempted to isolated the assailants saw hand and knock him out.

Aphaels breaths came in shorts gasps as his mind reeled from the sudden ripping out of the illusion that he had lived in for gods know how long. He held his hand against his bleeding forehead, even there he started to feel that he was both malnourished, and his body as much in shock as him, he bled, he shivered, he ached and his mind started to simmer.
Giving out a large scream of pain as his powers began returning to him, the powers granted to him by his genefather, surged through his mind and body, keeping him stunning even longer from this doubled shock.
And when it finally stopped the physiqal pain was still there, though his mind felt sharper, as he opened his eyes, seeing his own hand before him, as the strange sensation of looking through his own eyes once more rushed over him, he started to feel and see again, though what he mostly felt was horrible given his abused body, atleast he could be thankfull that his transhuman form was created to cope with massive amounts of stress and pain, as he finally pushed himself back up, to look at the part of his prison his head had just connected too.
Having risen, even though his limbs still felt alien in a way they never had before, Aphael looked around, trying to make sense of the place as he would leave his cell to look out over whatever this place was.
One thing was certain, the word beares would pay for this, he would keep their souls in sealed bodies for himself, they not even deserving their fanatic devotion the warp.

Arnock saw the threat coming and was disgusted by it. He spit out the last chunk of flesh that had filled his mouth before smiling slight. It has been some time since he had had a chance to fight back against those who attacked him, and his thirst for vengence had yet to be quenched. Arnock looked down at the tormentor, whom he had taken bites out of, and pulled from his belt one of the knives that he had used in Arnock. The sweet irony of the chance to kill someone with the same knife that had tortured him for years was almost to much to bear. The knife, however; did feel heavier than he remembered, but that was clearly due to his weakened state. Regardless, the time has come to fight back and so, with the strength he did have left, he fought his way to his feet. Arnock then changed toward the attacker, and attempted to plunge the knife, with all the power he could muster, into the man's neck.