Geshtinanna
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Geshtinanna was created on October 2011 when a namefag called Inquisitor Kadisirin wanted to bind a daemon with the help of /tg/. After some railroading, lucky rolls, and some sporadic posting, the last post of the Inquisitor's explained the Daemon's name and what happened to the person getting bounded. His last post number was, 1668866.
66,88,666.
The last triple doesn't need any explanation, but 8 and 6 are the numbers of Khorne and Slaanesh. The ensuing mayhem was nothing short of hilarious, but thanks to the efforts of a few dauntless writefags: the idea was expanded upon until we had, Geshtinanna Daemon-Princess of Chaos Undivided. Pray for a quick death when facing such a monstrosity.
History of Geshtinanna and Revival
What is Geshtinanna?
Geshtinanna is a Daemon-Princess of Chaos Undivided. With the blessings of all four of the Ruinous Powers, her strength is almost unrivaled in the material realm. Geshtinanna, Lady of Desolace, Recorder of Hell, the Faceless Horror, Princess of Destruction, Bringer of Oblivion, Faceless Princess of Chaos. Her titles are many, to say the least. Geshtinanna has taken unto her a human (or once human) herald, a man named Israel. Those who wish to harm the daemon princess by attacking her herald beware: none have face such terrible wrath at Geshtinanna's hands as those who inflict harm upon Israel. In ancient days past the reckoning of the Imperium of Man, there was a tower. Constructed by mankind, this obelisk unified them in the heart of a place then known as "Babylonia." But the tower, and therefore those under its thrall, secretly served a dark master, an entity from beyond the veil of the material realm.
Geshtinanna was the entity's name, her origins shrouded in mystery. This thing made of mankind her slaves, twisting them, reshaping their minds and bodies like malleable clay until they resembled something that pleased her. It was only after many years of Geshtinanna's tyranny that one came to her realm that would not bow. This man, who we now know to have been the Emperor incarnate, cast the daemon down and liberated her thralls. So great and terrible was His fury that He rent asunder the veil between reality and the Immaterium, cast the daemon into the void and sealed it fast. But Geshtinanna would not be so easily overthrown and forgotten. As she spiraled screaming into the Warp, she bestowed upon humanity a "parting gift," shattering the bonds of brotherhood and unity they had built by splitting mankind's one tongue into many. Her laughter at the confusion and dismay this sowed can still be heard echoing faintly throughout the Immaterium. Long was she sealed away, the universe safe from her depredations, until one man, one fool, set her free:
Revival
A sanctioned Imperial pysker named Bob. Yes, Bob.
After foolishly ingesting the psychotropics given to him by a Slaaneshi cultist, he fucked a goat. Two times, in both holes. Then he killed it, ate it raw and anointed his junk with its blood, thus falling under the sway of the Ruinous Powers (it is suspected that Slaanesh, Prince of Decadence, had a large role in this).
As punishment, his Inquisitor (Roland Kadsirin) decided to use the acolyte as a vessel through which to summon and bind a daemon of the Warp to his service. The Inquisitor couldn't hold back the power of the daemon, however, and it ravaged poor Bob. Bob's flesh began to be malleable, constantly shifting, limbs and horrible screaming faces pushing to the surface before being reabsorbed. Two great horns burst from the skin on his forehead, curling menacingly like those of a ram. Long, avian quills erupted from Bob's nightmare form, covering him in a sleek black coat of oily feathers. Whatever was left of Bob then mercifully perished, the daemon leaving no room for him in his own body. The corpse, sensing the absence of its erstwhile master, began to molt and rot horribly, and at an alarming rate. Perhaps even more terrifying, despite all the rending changes wrought upon Bob, his face was simply... Removed. Where mouth, nose, eyes and ears once were, his skull was clothed in a smooth layer of unbroken flesh.
While Bob's transformation continued, things began to... Happen. Things which bend and threaten to break ones sanity. First, the blood that now coated the floor began to drip upward and pool on the ceiling, as if gravity itself abhorred this place of daemonic birth. Liquefied metal and rust begin to ooze from the walls before mixing with the blood pools on the ceiling. Spiderwebs of frost began to spread outwards from where Bob was standing--nay, floating now, as the temperature in the immediate vicinity of the daemonhost plummeted. Finally, at the edges of perception, a person could hear something moving. Whenever one would try to focus on it, listen to it, it would stop, as if listening back. The thing that was once Bob approached the steadfast Inquisitor Kadsirin. Not to be intimidated, he turned a steady gaze on his erstwhile servant.
What an awful mistake.
The thing laughed as it boiled the Inquisitor's eyes in their sockets, lifting him from the ground and suspending him in midair by sheer force of will. Unable to scream, the Inquisitor merely chokes and gurgles on the surge of blood now pouring from his mouth. Now barely an inch from his face, and despite the featureless mask that was its face, the thing was unmistakeably smiling. Then it spoke; not with a traditional voice, for it has no mouth. No, the daemon instead violates the sacred boundaries of one's mind, raping the mental defenses and seizing control of one's own inner voice, its words echoing violently in a person's head. "Hello, little thing. Such a precious little thing. I am Geshtinanna." The thing taps its talon on the Inquisitor's nose, almost playfully. The effects, however, are far from it. Beginning at the point of contact, the Inquisitor's flesh violently peeled off from his body, exposing the blood, muscles and bones below. His mouth opened in a noiseless scream. And it was thus that Geshtinanna returned to the material realm.
The Creation of Israel
"What are you?!" Cried the Guardsman. Seconds later he was erased from existence, another hapless victim of the Faceless Queen. At that same moment another soldier's eyes boiled. Another clawed his own throat out. A fourth shot himself in the head before he could expire in a more violent fashion.
In moments, the entire squad had either been ripped to shreds or, consumed by madness, had killed themselves. All but one. One very, very unlucky man that had been smart enough to screw his eyes shut tighter than he ever had before. The daemon-host drifted slowly towards him until it was looming over the man like inescapable Death. But this man would not be granted merciful oblivion like those he once stood side by side with had. The daemon Geshtinanna whispered to him, breaking into his mind like a battering ram.
"Open your eyes, pretty little thing."
The Guardsman, his defiance admirable if futile, shook his head. He could not even comprehend opening his eyes. He knew he would be reduced to nothing the moment he did. He spoke back in his mind, either out of continued defiance or in the vain hope of forestalling his inevitable demise.
"Tell me... Wh--what are you called?"
The daemon played with the thought in her head for a moment, then replied. "Uttering my true name would destroy you, little thing." The abomination, initially only planning to toy with this thing before she consumed it, had become suddenly interested in the tenacious little spark that flickered in her Warp sight. "What is yours?" She asked. The man didn't know how to answer. This was a sick game, and he knew it. But the rules, if there were any, were hidden from him. In the end, he answered the daemon swiftly for fear of what it might do if he refused.
"Tammuz. My name is Tammuz Israel."
"I hate that word: Israel." Snarled the abomination. Reeling under the wave of anger that washed out from it like a typhoon, the guardsman collapsed, curling up on the ground and whimpering.
"Why do you lament, Tammuz?" Inquired the daemon, speaking in his own voice, driving him to the brink of gibbering madness.
"You're going to kill me," he stammered in between sobs, "You'll kill me like you did everyone else."
If the thing had possessed lips, it would have smiled then. "Oh no, little Tammuz. I have much, much grander plans for you."
Geshtinanna slowly moved her finger with delight towards the cowering man. Tammuz only shivered, helplessly trapped between death and something worse. Then Geshtinanna spoke to him again.
"I'll make a deal with you, little Tammuz. Are you listening?" Too horrified to answer, the man simply nodded. Once more, that impression of a smile. "I can either kill you now, or I can make you mine. Would you like to be mine, Tammuz?" He didn't know what to say, or what the hell she meant by 'hers.' At length, he replied in a way that he would regret for the rest of his wretched existence.
"Make me yours. I just--I just want to live." At his reply, the thing began to cackle insanely, and Geshtinanna touched the poor soul's forehead, beginning the process.
At first there was nothing. Tammuz heard only his own heartbeat, racing like a warhorse's. After a long moment, he was lifted from the ground and suspended two meters above the ground, unable to move. Erupting around him from seemingly nowhere were purple, turquoise, and black flames. The flames burned him awfully, but his flesh remained unblemished by the will of the daemon. The blistering pain he felt all over his body was nothing to what came next. In the tongues of nine hundred ninety-nine thousand languages, countless souls cried for death's release in his mind. The voices drove him mad, then sane, then mad again. Now, though this tale is known to few, fewer still understand why what happened next happened at all.
Tammuz didn't break. Unlike all the others, he held onto life. His will shouldn't have, couldn't have been strong enough. But defiant of all reason, it was, and that is why Geshtinanna did what she did next. Leaning in close, she spoke to him as his mind settled with what had just happened. "Now this... This is interesting, little Tammuz." The man took a moment to respond, still wracked with the pain of the mind warping.
"What--what are you going to do with me?" As he spoke, Geshtinanna changed into something the man could look upon without losing his sanity: a simple form of a human female, though her face remained as blank and featureless as before. "You may open your eyes now, little Tammuz. No harm will come to you. I have plans for which I require your assistance. There are some little insects on a filthy dustball of a planet that need to be reminded of something."
And with that, Tammuz Israel, former Guardsman and faithful servant of the Emperor, opened his eyes to gaze upon his new life and form. And so it was that Israel the Unyielding, Herald of Geshtinanna, the Faceless Princess of Destruction, came into being. From then on, the terrible destruction wrought by the daemon princess was preceded by the hooded and cloaked Israel, posing as a doomsayer and clairvoyant. Though he has been captured several times since then (most notably by the Inquisition and even the Alpha Legion, allegedly), each time Geshtinanna has found him, and come for him. And when she does, her terrible vengeance leaves none to tell the tale.
Woe unto those who attempt to waylay the Herald of Geshtinanna.
The Followers of Geshtinanna
Somewhere in the void of the Ultima Segmentum, a tiny planet, unremarkable and indistinguishable from its brethren, hovered in the dark. Clarus, a feudal world brought into the Emperor’s Light in the thirty-ninth millennium. A temperate breeze rolled over the little planet’s lush green hills, rubbery green stalks of vegetation bending lazily in the wind. Above, Clarus’ twin suns shone brightly, casting a warm glow over the Imperium’s best kept secret. It was on that morning that the daemon Geshtinanna decided she would grace her followers with her presence. After all, they had captured and prepared a nascent psyker for her to inhabit during her stay… Such demonstrations of devotion demanded to be rewarded.
On the planet’s surface, in a crumbling stone edifice at the summit of one of Clarus’ many hills, the followers of Babel made ready. Cloistered within the deepest parts of the ruin so as to avoid detection, sixty-six cultists (a very specific number) gathered for this most momentous of occasions. The excitement and anxiety each felt swirled together to create a heady atmosphere of unrest. Today their unswerving loyalty and dedication would finally be rewarded. Today, finally, they would meet the god they had sacrificed everything (in some cases, quite literally) for. At the center of the gathering’s attention, an old man stood stooped, hooded and cloaked, over the hapless psyker. The woman, now strapped to a stone slab by thick leather restraints, had been lured here with promises of freedom from the oppressive Imperium and its Corpse God.
"Faceless Queen!" The old man bellowed, and the cultists mewled and pawed at each other as the moniker was uttered, "We, your humble servants, assemble here in your name to offer our love and praise to She that cannot be looked upon. We bring before you, on our bloodied hands and knees, an offering; a sacrifice. All praise to Geshtinanna.”
At this, the gathering of hooded individuals exploded into activity. Some prostrated themselves on the ground, wailing and beating themselves with their fists, while others lost control completely and began to grope themselves vigorously, simply the thought of their god’s terribly majesty driving them to heedless debauchery. After a moment, the old man began to shout above the din of his fellow heretics.
“O, Geshtinanna! Mistress of Ruin! Accept this humble offering, this pure mind and body, unsullied by the numberless legions of the Corpse God! Take it and make of it your vessel! So we pray, in your name.”
Outside, dark storm clouds began to gather, swirling and eddying about the crumbled ruin. The moss-covered stonework became slick as it was pelted with rain, then hail, hail which grew in size and ferocity until it crashed down in great fist-sized chunks capable of killing a man in a single blow. Then, a great thunderbolt descended in fury upon the building, burning and cracking stone as it shattered through the roof of the structure. Snaking its way to the very depths of the edifice, the white hot bolt finally struck home on the terrified psyker. Like the many hosts that had come before her, the woman’s end was mercifully swift, as her being was instantly reduced to nothing, for no soul can abide in a vessel claimed by the Grandeur of Change. Now clad in fresh flesh, Geshtinanna then (perhaps out of mercy for her followers) merely removed the face of she that once was, rather than reveal herself in her full, mind-shattering form. The daemon princess’s voice echoed through out the minds of her followers.
“This form,” she purred, and the cultists’ fervor grew tenfold, “It pleases me.” She paused for a moment, surveying her faithful; they had all abased themselves now, their faces pressed flat to the floor, their bodies quivering in the presence of their mistress. After a moment, the daemon frowned.
“Where is he? Why is he not here?”
Sensing her sudden displeasure, the cultists of the Queen began to wail again, beating and clawing at their flesh for having somehow dissatisfied their mistress. They bled and vomited on the stonework floor, begging for her mercy. But the daemon known as the Winged Madness simply ignored them, instead opening a rift into the Immaterium with a single petulant thought. Several cultists were unfortunate enough to glance up at the unnatural hole in reality and were instantly robbed of their sanity, falling onto the floor, bodies convulsing and twisting unnaturally, bones snapping as they were bent in ways they were never designed for, rivulets of blood streaming from their wide eyes. While most screamed in agony, some began to cackle insanely, their minds completely overloaded with the horrors of the Warp.
It was then that a haggard figure stepped out of the Immaterium, out of the swirling madness, and into the now cursed ruins. The figure was wrapped from head-to-toe in raggedy clothing and scraps of cloth. Of whoever lay beneath, only the eyes could be seen; eyes that exuded a disturbing, unnatural calm, an emotion that should be utterly foreign to a denizen of the Warp. Then it spoke in a voice as dry as the desert, and hoarse, as if it had only recently been screaming uncontrollably. The sound made one’s skin crawl.
“What do you want, daemon?” It asked. “Why do you summon me to wade amongst this… Filth?” It continued, its eyes sweeping over the room and its inhabitants.
“My dear Israel,” replied the Faceless Queen, circling him and caressing his body with the hands of a corpse, “You have been so disquieted of late. I worry for you.” Which was, of course, a lie. “As for these… Lovely people,” she continued, gesturing broadly to the insensate cultists that lay on the ground around them, “You will show them a modicum of respect. They have waited long for this day, and toiled without rest.”
At that, Israel rolled his eyes. Had he been any other being, any other entity in the galaxy, the daemon would have struck him dead then and there. But for some reason that neither Imperial scholars nor heretical plunderers of forbidden texts could explain, the daemon Geshtinanna held her Herald, Tammuz Israel, very dear to whatever passed for her heart. And so he was allowed to live, as he had been before.
However, the Queen of Lies’ relationship to Israel is not fully understood and often misinterpreted. And so it was that one of Geshtinanna’s followers made the mistake of lashing out in anger at her Herald. A woman, petite in frame but famous throughout the cult for her zealotry and fiery temper, stood in defiance of Israel and shouted:
“How dare you mock our Lady of Babel, the devourer of souls, igniter of worl—”
She was not allowed to finish her declamation, however. With but a disdainful glance, Tammuz Israel lifted the woman bodily and hurled her across the cabal’s meeting place with great force, her body shattering against the flagstone wall, crumpling to the ground in a broken, silent heap. Geshtinanna only laughed.
“Now,” she said, addressing the cult’s leader, who remained kneeling in fear and awe before her, “Show me this place of worship you have made.”
The old man did his best to clamber to his feet with haste, but his ancient bones creaked and groaned painfully, and when his reply came, it was strained with agony.
“Yes, of course, my Lady. Please, follow me. Let me show you our home.”
The dark priest put on an admirable show for the otherworlders, considering the circumstances, and while Israel maintained his air of disaffected boredom, the old man was elated to see that his Mistress seemed genuinely pleased. He told them of how a single black tome had revealed first to him, and then to his followers, the truth and glory of Geshtinanna. Finally, the cult leader implored them to follow him up a winding staircase set into the back wall of the ruins. It led up, up into a lightless tower. By this time, Clarus’ short day cycle had already passed from morning to the pitch blackness of night, and soon day would break over it once more. As they gained the summit of the tower and stepped out onto a wide, open-air terrace, they realized that the rest of the cult had assembled here wordlessly and without command. Perhaps this was a ritual for them.
The sixty-six cultists gave Geshtinanna a wide berth, allowing her to enjoy the majesty of the Claran sunrise unhindered by the presence of their pitiful mortal forms. Israel stood beside her, and they both delighted in the incredible vista before them. Hues of purple and orange dashed across the water that stretched out before the ruins, and Geshtinanna smiled inwardly, musing at how similar those lights were to those of the Empyrean. She basked in the rapt attention of her followers, who watched her in stunned silence, stunned by the fact that their god, she who they offered up all of their prayers and lamentations to, now walked among them, robed in flesh. After a long moment, Israel spoke to her. "And so, mistress? Do you find them wanting?" She turned her faceless head to him, leaning close and speaking only to his mind.
"Oh yes. But I’d like to enjoy this in silence." She replied.
“Of course, mistress. And then?”
“Kill them. Kill them all.”
Tammuz Israel smiled wickedly as the light of Clarus’ twin suns broke over the damned cult and their petty holdings.
The Litany of Geshtinanna
Geshtinanna! Faceless One! Queen of Madness! Grandeur of Change and Mistress of Ruin! Who can gaze upon thy majesty and live? No one! No one!
Geshtinanna! Your voiceless cries blanket all in madness! A thousand thousand throats wail your black rites! Geshtinanna! Bless us through the spent flesh of the deluded and the damned! Flesh and steel warp and tear at your command! Nothing can withstand thy will!
Geshtinanna! The Faceless Princess of Chaos, Winged Madness! Change is your creed, delirium your herald! All hail thee! Let all bear witness to thy passing!
Geshtinanna! Geshtinanna! Geshtinanna!"
The above is repeated until Geshtinanna appears to silence all those who chant this forsaken litany. She really hates it for a unknown reason.
Kadsirin Returns
Pain. Pain is all that I know. It is my mother, my father, my brother and sister. My best friend, my worst enemy, my lover.
It has ever been thus. Though occasionally the ghostly after images of something, some different time dance at the edges of my perception, I cannot take hold of them. My god, the Emperor of Mankind, has forsaken me, for in my arrogance, I dared question His omniscience... Dared supplant it with my own meager collection of knowledge. Such a price mankind will pay for that. Such a terrible price.
At times in the darkness, I stumble upon a shred of my sanity. Always feeble, always fleeting, I latch onto it like an animal being washed downstream, desperate to survive the unending torrent. It is in these moments that I remember a name. A name born of some other place... A dark place.
Geshtinanna.
Then the laughter comes, and my respite from madness is at an end. I hate the laughter. It is the only thing I feel anymore. Hatred for that hideous cackling and the abomination from which it sallies. Hatred for myself, for it was my hand that brought about Its birth. She is always watching, you understand. Watching, waiting, laughing, prodding at my broken form.
I hate Her. She has left me in the dark now... Something else has taken hold of Her attentions. Perhaps a planet to devour, a genocide to commit... I do not know. I know only that I welcome such rare mercies. In the black void, I am numb. Drained of emotion, ambition, desire... Even my hatred for Her ebbs and slows as I take every advantage of this moment to steady myself. In all the eternities that I have suffered here, never has an opportunity such as this presented itself. I am alone. She is not here to torture and mock, to blaspheme against the holy Emperor. As I consider this, anger wells up in me once more. Different than the hate I am so familiar with, this feels... Righteous. Furthermore, it is not directed at Her, no... I realize that I am angry with myself. No, not even that... The heat is not coming from within. This anger presses down on my mind from elsewhere. It exhorts me to right the wrongs I have unleashed upon this universe.
"Get up," it says, "Get up and fight, Roland."
"I cannot!" I wail back at the void. "She has broken my body and my mind. I am as nothing before Her." And then, such searing pain, white hot like the bellies of ten thousand burning suns, consumes me. It is not Her. This pain is different... It sharpens my mind and blows away the coiling mists of madness like a furious gale.
"GET. UP."
The words tear through me like a bolt round exploding in my skull. Hot, painful awareness washes over me; agony and the stench of iron. For the first time in eons, I open eyes that I no longer have.
I am alive.
The Attack on Archon K'thraal
Treachery. Bloody-handed treachery.
Archon K’thraal snarled into the night as he crawled on the bloodied stumps that were once his legs across the corpse-strewn ground. His armor, once as magnificent as it was powerful, was now pitted and scarred with las-scoring and gouges from other unearthly weapons. Uniformed mon'keigh corpses ripped asunder by foul energies surrounded him, indistinguishable from the mangled, still forms of his own kabalite warriors. Betrayal. It had to be. How else could the Chaos deviants amongst the human world's population have known to stage their uprising on the very day his raid would strike? He wracked his mind for answers, and only one bubbled to the surface, time and time again: treachery.
Now the accursed cultists had managed to tear a hole in the veil here, and terrors worse than even his kabal had been loosed upon this world. Victory was no longer tangible; escape was the only option. If only he could reach the lower depths of the hive and find the Webway portal…
Something slithered behind the archon, and his nimble hand found, drew and aimed his sidearm in one swift, deadly motion, ready to defend him from whatever mutant horror stalked the Eldar. He squeezed a burst of fire into the darkness, and a hissing sound followed the sharp discharge of his pistol, a serpentine body wearing the armor of his kabal materializing from the shadows and raising a placating hand.
"Mas-s-ster," the serpent-thing called, one of its four arms severed with a clean stroke above the elbow, "We mus-s-st reach the Webway."
Snarling, K’thraal maintained a tight grip on his pistol as he fought to seize the sslyth's arm and gain whatever support he could. Broodeater, this bodyguard that had earned its moniker from its debased appetites, had always been loyal to him. Or at least, to the grave lotus the archon paid with.
"Then help me, you simpering little--"
K’thraal's stinging insult was left unspoken as he turned his gaze to find the sslyth suddenly impaled on what appeared to be a torn away shard of tank armor, the snake-like alien hanging limp as its lifeblood coursed down the jagged metal.
Laughter suddenly bubbled from behind the archon, a haunting sound, eerily feminine and filled with equal measures of scorn and joy. The Dark Eldar's splinter pistol snapped around him, firing wildly at the mocking laughter, but finding no target. A black blur shot across K’thraal's vision and his hand was sliced cleanly at the wrist, blood spurting as the appendage, and the weapon it held, fell to the ground. Screaming in pain in spite of the combat drugs coursing through his body, the archon's vision blurred as his attacker finally revealed itself.
The creature might have once been a mon'keigh, but there was little similarity beyond basic form. It was decidedly feminine in appearance, pale skin etched with eldritch symbols that stung the Eldar's eyes to look upon, black feathers sprouting from its body in place of hair. Its fingers ended in black, talon-like claws that were stained with blood both fresh and dried. But perhaps most horrifying of all was the face that wasn't there, the creature’s features absent entirely, its ‘face’ a smooth mask of flesh. Yet somehow he felt its cold, unfeeling eyes upon him.
A voice tore into K’thraal's mind, the same that had been mocking him so joyfully earlier, now all too clear within the confines of his skull.
"Hello, pretty little thing. Leaving so soon?"
Snarling in rage at the indignity of being laid low by this foul, insignificant creature, K’thraal's remaining hand snatched the severed one at his side, and he pried the cold fingers free of his pistol with his teeth. As the creature watched him, the archon came under the distinct impression that it was amused, hovering there with its head cocked, silently observing his futile attempts at survival. Freeing the pistol from the grip of his bloody hand, the archon returned his attention to the space where the beast had been, expending the last of his weapon’s charge. But he fired at nothing: the avian creature, real and present a fraction of a second before, was gone.
The soft flutter of wings was the only warning the Eldar had before it was upon him, the creature’s bare feet landing on his chest, shattering his armor and the bones underneath. Another blur of movement saw his remaining limb removed with surgical precision, a quartet of long, feathered black wings sprouting from the undersides of the creatures arms.
Its faceless features filled K’thraal's vision, and he felt the terrible smile where his eyes told him there was none. Once again, its voice cut into his mind. "Now, now… Play nice, little thing. Your pathetic kabal has been a true joy to slaughter, and I'd hate for the festivities to end on a sour note."
Wheezing heavily and trying to focus despite the incredible pain that rendered the dulling effects of his combat drugs useless, K’thraal writhed under the creature, coughing wetly and spitting ichor, black blood welling up between the thing’s toes where it pressed into the wound on his chest. The creature's wings seemed to shudder as a gasp of pleasure resounded in his mind, filling the deranged archon with revulsion and fear. It was toying with him, watching him die as he himself had done to countless others.
"It has been so very long since I've been able to savor the screams your beautiful throats produce, Eldar," the creature said, "And your dark kin make such excellent playthings. You think yourselves predators when all you do is hide in your little city. Where is your terrible might now? Gone. Gone like the one-time glory of your race.”
K’thraal spat a mouthful of blood into the creature’s faceless mask, laughing and coughing more blood as he did. "Don't make me laugh, daemon. We are the true inheritors of this galaxy. We are the only ones fit to rule. All else are mere cattle before us."
Seemingly unperturbed by the spatter of blood on its featureless face, the daemon's laughter bubbled within the archon's mind, deep, resonating chuckles, causing him to cry out in pain as blood streamed from his ears. Stretching its arms and spreading its wings with a satisfied sigh, the daemon's words were laced with a mocking chuckle.
"Oh, little one... I’ll admit, I needed that. It is so rare to hear such delightful humor. Such hubris… And yet you are nothing but a fool, another pawn in a game that has long since outgrown your blasted kind. You will die here and the Dark Prince will feast upon your soul."
Letting the horror of that inevitable fate weigh on the archon’s mind, the creature paused briefly, as if considering how best to wound him next.
"I have been to Comorragh. Did you know that? I've seen your Dark City and I have tasted of its fruits. When that fool sought to usurp the one you call Vect by summoning the Warp within his spire manse, I was there. Truthfully, I was unimpressed. Your kind are hobbyists when it comes to torture; amateurs. However, Slaanesh was pleased. From what I understand, he still affords himself a chuckle when reminded of that day."
Leaning forward, the creature’s mask of smooth flesh filled K’thraal's vision, and he felt tiny spiderwebs of frost stretching across the tip of his nose where the daemon was closest.
"When you find yourself before She Who Thirsts," the daemon whispered, her tone almost loving as her talons wrapped around his throat, "Tell him… Tell him Geshtinnana sent you."
Finally, with a wet sound of tearing flesh, the archon's throat was torn from his neck like rotten parchment, the daemon's feathers glistening black, its naked form stained crimson with arterial spray. Turning her eyeless gaze toward the sky, roiling with arcs of violet lightning as the raw stuff of the Warp bled into reality, the daemon's voice whispered a soft, sibilant phrase of devotion.
"Let the galaxy burn."