Kabal of the Bitter Irony

*A chamber in the depths of the darkest of cities. Neatly arranged flasks and jars of all sizes line shelves above spotless, but well worn, benches. All is shadow. A single light, slung low over a single slab, agonisingly white, is the source of these shadows. In the blackness of the laboratory all is still. Only in the light is there motion. Thrashing, screaming straining, a creature of talon and chitin shudders with frenzied strength at its unyielding restraints. Looming over it another creature, a shard of night, regards it with immortal patience. It is stillness itself. The tableau persists for several moments.*

*A heavy metal door opens with a lovingly artificed creak.*

“Master?”

“Ah, Cajal. Good of you to attend me at this hour. Join me, won’t you.”

“Master I…”

“That’s a nasty case of personal pronoun you’ve got there Cajal. You’ll stick out like sore thumb around here if you continue with that attitude.”

“Master, this one is here to serve.”

“Excellent. Hand me that bone saw will you? Not that one, the number 12. I must say you are a fortunate one tonight, this promises to be exceedingly interesting.”

*The luckless creature on the operating slab jerks wildly as the superior portion of its cranium is expertly removed*

“You may have heard that I have acquired a new friend lately. You haven’t? Sure? Good. Well lucky you Cajal! Tonight will be one of learning for you. I’m sure you’re grateful.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Quite. Well this friend of mine is Archon Vyril Koi of the Bitter Irony. Heard of them?”

“…”

“You don’t get out much do you Cajal? I believe he was a nobody relative of Vhigis, former Archon of the flayed mask. All that business with the Yllithian Dysjunction appears to have rather changed his career prospects. As I hear it, in the aftermath of the battle of Alzos’Querion Vha, young Vyril found himself in command of a heavy skimmer squadron. Probably uncomfortable with the prospect of having his face cut off by a sibling, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it I say, and rightly certain of Vect’s capacity for mercy he led a group of survivors into the lower districts. No doubt Bolstered by absorbing other refugees of the Dysjunction during their flight, his outfit seized control of a small spire overlooking the River Khaides. You have to hand it to the lad, that probably took some doing.”

“Just look at that prefrontal cortex analogue! Wouldn’t credit it would you?”

“Ahem, where was I? Oh yes. So our young friend has some peculiar tastes, nothing wrong with that, everyone should have a passion. He breeds specimens of the kroot genus, just can’t get enough of them apparently...”

“…What happens when I prod this? Oh, interesting. Have a go won’t you? Yes that’s the way...”

“…His pets have been causing quite a stir in the local arena scene, refreshingly brutal and they adapt so quick you see. He’s got a Syren from the Cult of Strife training them, I don’t know what she did to get pushed off on such a low rank kabal… careful with that scalpel! We don’t want to cause a ventricular leak.”

“Anyway, our friend Vyril happens to need the services of a Haemonculus, and I happen to need someone with a talent for capturing things like my darling little IllMureead. A fine partnership don’t you think? I’m glad you do, because you are going to help make it happen.”

“Me Master?”

“Hmmm?”

“This one means: This one master?”

“Yes you Cajal. Despite your considerable inelegance I have noticed that you do good work on occasion. This will be one of those occasions. On that bench over there is a letter of introduction from myself to Archon Koi that I wish you to deliver. I don’t need to mention that this is a private matter do I? Nobody needs to know about a trivial little alliance such as this. Once the good Archon realises the friendship we share you will be my emissary to the Kabal of the Bitter Irony. Do not displease me.”

*The wrack shuffles over to bench and retrieves the roll of skin bound with a crimson ribbon, leaving the thin silhouette of its master gleefully picking the brains of its prize. As the one named Cajal makes to leave the laboratory the sibilant voice of its master hisses in chastisement*

“Wash your hands!”