Murder Cult

Hi all. This is a short piece that I wrote because Souper Dave was nudging me to get back into writing. It took about forty five minutes to write and is a first draught. It explores an idea that I've had for a while, an organisation called the Murder Cult of Khaine.

I hope you enjoy it. C&C welcome.
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With forefinger and thumb he ensured that the halfmask sat on the bridge of his sickly-pale nose. His presence, although being rather small in frame, made all the citizens and Kabalites walk straight past him and into the markets without looking back. In these streets reputation meant more than prowess. By no means could he best an officer of the Harrowed Soulscream, but he would never have to. They had an understanding. The Kabal would keep to making sure T’llionoch remained safe and the Murder Cult would stop things in the darker reaches from turning against the beneficent Lord Cavash.

Of course, he cared not for the propaganda, but he had to laugh at how others would allow it to dictate their lives. He had always lived in the most hostile, deepest reaches of the Dark City, where gangs would murder each other for a morsel of food and the Kabals would not lend their uncaring gaze; but out of all the domains in which he had dwelt T’llionoch was by far the most political. Not the Black Heart’s view of politics where your name is spread through murdering your rival and maintaining fear, but through indoctrination and military display. A good massacre always prevented any would-be upstarts from causing trouble.

Here he found himself with a cautionary loose grasp on the leather-bound handle of his forearm length knife, waiting for the perfect moment. He did not need such reassurances as stealth this day, his mission did not require it. His orders were simple; the back of the Grand Archon’s servant read: ‘Eviscerate, incinerate, intoxicate or vitrify the Hierarch of the Brazen Hope Shrine.’ He had then slashed the whimpering whelp from navel to nipple to rip his payment from within his heart. Lord Dernia did always have such an affinity for theatrics and his cardio-thematic style.

There was one question, though. If he could not best a standard Kabalite officer how was he supposed to slay the Hierarch of an Incubus Shrine?

The answer lay in a little crystal phial in the mutilated servant’s intestine.

A venom so toxic that even the slightest cut to exposed flesh would render the enemy limp and lifeless within seconds.

He had grinned momentarily upon discovering the toxin before remembering that he was knuckle deep in faecal matter.

After making the appropriate sacrifices; wrenching open the chest of a still breathing maiden and flicking her blood up the cast iron statue of the Master of Vengeance, he had prepared himself for the assignment. He slashed down his biceps with the blades he intended to slay with. The sensation of blood running across his own body was always surprising. He rarely ever got to experience his own life fluids upon him. He then brushed his ritually scarred torso and limbs with aromatic oils that seared his open wounds shut with quickly rising smoke. He did not pretend to understand how they worked, but it was an impressive feat of science.

Then came the next step in his preparation. Rising from the slain maiden he reached deep into her chest and tore free her heart. Into a glowing brazier it plunged with a prayer to Khaine, the rising torrent of incendiary wrath a sign of the Murder Lord’s favour.

In the centre of the room stood a carved stone plinth, each of the six legs depicting an agonised Aspect Warrior deprived of their masks holding a palanquin upon their backs. Upon it resided his apparel; an array of combat stimulants, a tarnished black amulet depicted the Bloody Handed’s symbol, his black and red Ghostplate, the concealing robes that would hardly be needed to conceal his form on this outing, and the cowl that had been instrumental in his survival on so many killings previously.

Dextrously flipping one of the inhalers into the air he caught the nozzle with his teeth. His left hand came around to administer the dirty taste of Hypex cut with cheap Coldmind.

The Hypex hit him instantly; that joyous buzz returning to his life. In the back of his mind, however, something grew more focussed. If there had been anymore Coldmind in that dose he would surely be a wreck within a year. The drug had been commissioned by one of the Dynasty’s Princes for use in times of great strategic need. It would focus the mind to an extent where nothing but logic and intelligence seemed relevant. All of a man’s humourous disposition could be crushed in a second, turning him from a cold-hearted jester into an infanticidal sociopath without leaving a trace of his former self. On top of that, it had a horrible issue of being an incredibly hard habit to shift.

Any more and he would become a slave.

No need to dwell on it. His thoughts were clouded by the Coldmind.

Without another thought about the sickening substance running through his body the Cultist dipped his forefinger into the blood of the sacrifice. Above his heart he drew a symbol of strength. Only the strong could survive, and if he was weak then he deserved no soul to gift his body.

He took more of the cooling crimson fluid and drew a rune that represented cunning and scheming. If he did not have the power to outthink his foe then he had no right to be serving Khaine. If he could not win through backstabbing and treachery then he deserved to be cut down.  He whispered a prayer for his mind to be clear.

By armouring himself piece by piece and decorating each panel with an individual symbol he assured himself his lord’s vigil. He fastened the cloak and cowl after the placement of his mask before applying the toxins to his knife and heading out into the street.

Nearly all had heard the legends and myths of the Murder Cult operating within T’llionoch. They were seen as another reason to obey the Lord Cavash. They were another hidden blade with which he could get to anybody.

It was when he was stood in the alleyway, waiting, that he truly realised the power that he held. His reputation would allow him to get anywhere or anything he wanted. He could get to anybody and, as long as he remained in the Grand Archon’s favour, he was untouchable.

The only way he caould have more influence would be if he were to plunge his own blade into his king’s jugular... but that’s another plan for another day. He grinned ecstatically.

He saw the sign to make his move.

Two Incubi ascended the carved obsidian steps to their temple. With them he could enter. With them he would strike.

The Murder Cult had members everywhere... no establishment was safe.

He snapped his cowl up to shadow his eyes, took a deep lungful of rancid, icey air, and made his way to face the Hierarch.

Good to see you writing again!

I especially liked the details of the ritual - the anointment with blood, and the slow donning of the armour to put him into the 'zone' ... Very effective!

Thank you very much, Malys. I was trying to write a more descriptive piece than my usual stuff, so I'm glad that you enjoyed it.

I might develop these Murder Cult fellows soon. They play a big (yet secret) part in my Kabal's history, so a few short stories might be in order.

I'm writing another short piece about a Murder Cult member. Does anybody have a suggestion for a scenario they'd like to see or a certain target?

Suggestions are most welcome.