Save for a few dots of light, the dusty old room was almost completely enveloped in twilight; like a never ending sea of darkness, it seemed so close to swallowing the small glowing candles that dotted the room. Through their light, one could barely make out the dilapidated shapes of ancient busts; yet the union of the seemingly perpetual gloom and their poor condition meant that no one would be able to perceive whom they once depicted. Clad in a cloak that blended in with the dark surroundings, a figure seemed to swirl within its depths. With a wave of a bony left hand, the flames of the candles grew brighter, casting more light on a room that had clearly seen better days. Shattered pieces of old glacial stone littered the floor; from the hole that was present in the roof, one could see the captive sun that shone on this particular realm of Commorragh; well, shone gave the trapped celestial body too much credit, instead glowing so dully that one barely noticed it. In due time, the figure once more held its hand aloft and from its dark confines drew a wickedly curved dagger that caught the light of the brightened candles. With a swift gesture, the being whipped the blade across the palm of her free hand; swift and surely, its life's blood swiftly began to drip from the wound, tapping as each drop fell to the obsidian floor. No sooner had the first little droplet made contact with the ground, a deep, resonating drone came from the Eldar; the occasional delicate notes that manifested amongst the growing cacophony indicated that their singer was female. Even then, the voice sounded worn; as though it came from the throat of an ancient crone.
After the first torrents of blood began to form a sizable pool, the witch's throat-singing began to grow more erratic; she slammed her bleeding palm into the sanguine coalescence. Swiftly, as though her hand had developed a will of its own, she began to scrawl rapidly into the blood; the Eldar woman's voice gradually become more high-pitched. In due time, the scribbles seemingly began to take the shape of somewhat crude runes, from her throat then came a discordant wail that seemed to echo within the abandoned ruin. No sooner had she evolved her peculiar cacophony, the runes began to glow with forbidden power; still, the witch continued to scribble into the pool of blood, seemingly possessed by a force that drove her in her gory task. In due time, these sanguine images would come to form a circle, glowing merely seconds after they had been finished. No sooner had the circle been finished, the crone held her hands high towards Commorragh's crippled sun; with the wounded one still dripping blood, her wail then became a piercing shriek that would assail the tapered ears of all who heard it. Yet this ghastly shriek held a meaning to it, one that only the most astute would be able to decipher. That meaning itself was a name; one that was spoken with scorn within the Dark City, should it manifest once every millennia within the Halls of the eldest Archons. That name, was Morai-Heq, and with the dead goddess's name invoked, the circle surrounding the witch blazed into life with warpfire.
"With these hands, we strip the hope of fools. With our blades we strip their flesh. With our engines of swift agony we take their freedom. With our desires we feast on their souls".
Battle chant of the Kabal of the Bleeding Claw[i]
In the depths of the Dark city, cute little bunnies and rainbows ain't good for an Archon's health.