The abomination bred by the Cult of Tzeentch on PC-5728 is a horrific, writhing mass of fused human flesh, a testament to the capricious whims of the Changer of Ways. Known among the cultists as The Wailing Union, this monstrous champion is a chaotic amalgamation of several individuals melded together in grotesque and unpredictable ways.
Description of the Creature
- Form and Movement: The creature’s body is an uneven mound of flesh, stretching nearly four meters in width and over three meters tall. Its mode of locomotion is as unpredictable as its construction—several mismatched legs, some muscular and human, others twisted and stunted, carry the mass forward in a lurching, uneven gait. Arms, still bearing remnants of hands, splay outward, dragging and bracing its immense bulk. Some of these arms remain functional, grasping at the air or clawing at the ground, while others hang limp, grotesque ornaments of its flesh.
- Skin and Features: Its flesh is a mosaic of varying skin tones and textures, stitched together by chaotic fusion. Faces, half-formed or grotesquely warped, peek out from its surface, their mouths agape in perpetual moans of anguish, ecstasy, or manic laughter. Eyes, singular or clustered, dart madly in every direction, some leaking tears of blood, others glowing faintly with the unnatural light of warp energy.
- Warp-Touched Elements: Along its body, tendrils of bright, chaotic energy flicker intermittently. Dark tentacles of the creature seem to phase in and out of reality, leaving behind smears of unnatural, shifting colors. Its entire form is alive with the essence of change, giving off an aura of disquiet and dread.
The Moans of the Fused Individuals
The creature emits a constant cacophony of voices, a grotesque choir of its trapped components. These voices, though indistinct when heard from afar, become unnervingly coherent up close, speaking in fragmented sentences:
- Ecstatic Revelry: Some voices exclaim with unnatural glee, thanking the dark powers for their “ascension” and reveling in the pain and chaos.
- Pleading and Despair: Others cry out in despair, begging for release or cursing their captors, their pain evident in every word.
- Madness: A few voices rant in gibberish, repeating nonsensical phrases or cryptic warnings, their sanity long since shattered.
The overlapping voices create an unnerving soundscape that grates against the senses, drawing even the most stalwart individuals into unease.
Identification of Fused Individuals
Scattered across the mass of flesh are identifiable remnants of the people who once were:
- The Arbiter’s Head: Near the top of the creature, the warped head of a former arbiter can be seen, his helmet still partially intact. His lips form incessant prayers to the Emperor, even as his bloodshot eyes betray his agony.
- The Noble’s Torso: Embedded along the side of the monster is the gilded breastplate of a minor noble, their upper body sticking grotesquely from the mass. They laugh maniacally, calling out names of old rivals and promising “a feast” to unseen guests.
- The Dockworker’s Arm: An oversized arm, bearing the tattoos of a hive dockworker, flails wildly, clutching at nothing. Its former owner’s face can be faintly seen near the wrist, sobbing quietly.
- The Cultist’s Eyes: A trio of eyes positioned on one of the creature’s malformed shoulders glow faintly, muttering praises to Tzeentch and encouraging its rampage with unsettling fervor.
The Creature as a Champion
The Wailing Union is more than a monster—it is a living symbol of the Cult’s devotion to chaos and change. Its very existence mocks the natural order, serving as both a weapon and a horrific sermon to the onlookers. It moves with surprising speed and devastating power, its grotesque limbs working in unnatural harmony. Every step spreads despair and confusion, as its constant noise breaks the will of those who dare to oppose it.
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The air within the heart of the cult’s hideout hums with malignant energy. The chamber is vast, its walls lined with crude, jagged glyphs carved into the stone and pulsing with an unnatural, rhythmic glow. At the center stands a towering crystalline monolith, its jagged form radiating an eerie, shifting light. Whispers coil around the room like living things, voices half-formed yet maddeningly insistent. Cultists kneel around the base of the crystal, heads bowed in reverence, their chants spiraling into a rising crescendo.
Judge Mordechai steps into the chamber, his breath ragged and his body smeared with grime and blood from his journey through the hideout. He is stripped to the waist, his scarred torso glistening with sweat. In his hands is a battered chainsaw, its motor coughing and spluttering, barely alive. His eyes, however, are sharp, his defiance unbroken.
The cultists turn their heads in unison, their faces twisted in expressions of awe and mockery. A robed leader stands before the crystal, their body silhouetted against its baleful light. “Welcome, lawkeeper,” the leader sneers, their voice a warped, echoing melody. “You arrive just in time to witness the birth of our ascension.”
The Monster’s Arrival
From behind the crystal, a sickening, sloshing sound fills the chamber. The chanting ceases abruptly, replaced by a deafening silence that is soon shattered by the grotesque approach of The Wailing Union. It lumbers into view, a patchwork monstrosity of fused human forms. Several legs—some skeletal, others bloated—scramble for purchase on the uneven ground, while a multitude of arms drag its bulk forward. Faces twist and writhe across its surface, their expressions a cacophony of pain, ecstasy, and despair.
One face near the creature’s center glares at Mordechai, its eyes glowing faintly with warp-light. Its mouth stretches into a jagged grin, and it speaks, its voice layered and fragmented. “You will become… one of us.”
The Wailing Union advances, its many limbs scraping and thudding against the stone floor as tendrils of dark energy writhe around its body. Its approach brings with it a wave of nauseating stench—rot, sweat, and the clinging tang of the warp. The cultists around the crystal rise, their cheers mingling with laughter and gibbering prayers.
Mordechai’s Defiance
Mordechai tightens his grip on the chainsaw, revving it until the motor roars to life in a cloud of black smoke. He takes a step forward, his eyes locked on the monstrosity. “You think this abomination can stop me?” he snarls, his voice cutting through the chaos. “I’ve faced worse things than it. I’ll cut you all down like your kind before.”
The cultists laugh, their voices twisted and echoing off the chamber’s walls. Some sway in rhythm to the crystal’s pulsations, while others shriek praises to their dark master. The leader raises their staff, adorned with a twisting crystalline shard that mirrors the monolith’s light. “Your defiance is futile, judge,” they call out. “The crystal has shown us your end, and it will be glorious.”
The Monster’s Charge
The Wailing Union lurches forward with horrifying speed, its many limbs moving in grotesque synchrony. Its voices rise in a discordant wail, the faces screaming, laughing, or chanting as one. Mordechai plants his feet, the battered chainsaw roaring in his hands. The chamber fills with the deafening clash of its snarling motor and the creature’s guttural howls.
As the monstrosity charges, the faces along its surface twist and turn, some of them recognizable. A woman’s voice cries out, “Help me, please!” while another face—half-melted but still alive—laughs hysterically. The ground beneath Mordechai shakes as the abomination bears down on him, a tidal wave of corrupted flesh.
The Cult’s Frenzy
The cultists circle the chamber, their cries reaching a fever pitch. Some fall to their knees, clawing at their faces in ecstasy. Others whirl in wild dances, their robes flaring as they praise the crystal and its monstrous champion. The leader steps closer to the crystal, their staff raised high. “Witness the power of the crystal!” they scream. “Witness the destiny of flesh made perfect!”
Mordechai doesn’t hesitate. With a roar of his own, he steps toward the charging abomination, his chainsaw a flickering promise of vengeance in the dim, corrupted light of the crystal.
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The heart of the cult’s hideout hums with an unholy energy, the massive crystal at its center bathing the chamber in shifting hues of corrupted light. The air stinks of ozone and death, thick with whispers that gnaw at sanity. Judge Mordechai stands battered and bloodied, stripped to his waist, his smoking chainsaw gripped tightly in trembling hands. Before him, the Wailing Union looms, a writhing nightmare of fused bodies and madness.
The abomination surges forward, its misshapen limbs clawing at the ground as it advances. From its core, dark tendrils of energy writhe, snaking out in impossible directions. Mordechai meets the charge, his chainsaw roaring to life as he swings it in a desperate arc. Flesh and ichor spray as the blade bites deep, severing one of the creature’s clawed arms. The Union shrieks, its many mouths wailing in ecstatic agony, and retaliates with a lash of dark energy.
A Grievous Wound
The tendrils pierce Mordechai’s side, their unnatural chill sapping his strength. He staggers, blood pouring from the gaping wound, but his grip on the chainsaw remains firm. With a roar of defiance, he hacks at the tendrils, severing them in a burst of black smoke. The abomination recoils, its form shuddering violently, but the tendrils regroup, striking with vicious speed.
This time, the tendrils drive through Mordechai’s chest, lifting him into the air. His chainsaw sputters in his grip as he coughs blood, his vision swimming with pain. The cultists cheer, their voices a chorus of exultation, as their monstrous champion seems to claim victory. But Mordechai’s eyes blaze with unwavering determination, his lips moving in a silent prayer to the Emperor.
The Killing Blow
With a guttural roar, Mordechai channels the last of his strength. His arms, trembling and weak, raise the chainsaw high. As the tendrils writhe through his body, he swings the weapon down in one final, devastating strike. The blade carves into the Union’s core, ripping through fused torsos and shattering the arcane bonds holding the monstrosity together.
The abomination releases an ear-splitting wail as its form collapses, its tendrils disintegrating into wisps of black smoke. Mordechai falls to the ground in a heap, his chainsaw clattering beside him. Blood pools beneath his broken body as the cultists stare in stunned silence.
The Emperor’s Name
Mordechai’s breath comes in shallow gasps as he forces himself onto his elbows. His voice is weak, but it carries the weight of unshakable faith.
“You will… burn for this,” he rasps, his bloodied lips curling into a grim smile. “The Emperor’s wrath… will find you.”
With those final words, Mordechai collapses, his body lifeless but his defiance immortal. The cultists glance uneasily at one another, their moment of triumph tainted by fear as the crystal pulses ominously, its corrupted light reflecting the doom that has begun to gather over them.
Ignis Aeternus WH 40K campaign notes 