De la economía moral de la violencia a la acción colectiva

SCULPTOR R OF TORMENTSOF TORMENTS

Twisted beyond measure, the being known as Urien Rakarth has such a mastery over the arts of the esh that he has died and risen back to life time and time again. A depraved genius in the elds of bodily manipulation and anatomical sculpture, Rakarth’s skill as a eshcraer is legendary. ough he once played key roles in many of the intrigues that bind Commorragh, he has transcended the need to involve himself in such petty squabbles over power and prestige. Now, only the most grandiose transmogrications of Commorrite society pique his interest – those that allow him to revel in the depravity of his twisted imagination.

Urien’s wizened body has long passed the ability to regain the glory of a recently fed Drukhari, for he is several thousand years old. Over that great span Urien has perished to bolt, ame, blade, bullet, toxin, eviscerator and more grisly fates besides. Each time he dies, Urien’s remains are used to slowly grow another iteration of the Master Haemonculus, through the regeneration process of which he is the progenitor. Each of his surgically altered bones holds the key to a dark resurrection; Rakarth has crossed the veil so many times that he savours death like a ne wine, revelling in the peaks of agony and the transcendent knowledge that comes with each new demise. In recent centuries, however, something seems to have been corrupted across his repeated renewals – either accidentally or by Urien’s own design – and his latest incarnations have each borne unintended vestiges of the one before. So it is that Urien is now a truly horric sight, his compound spines sprouting from his back in baroque profusion and his leering face tied onto his skull with cords of leathery esh. Rakarth boasts many sets of limbs: some stripped, silvered and re- strung as fully functional appendages, some atrophied and disturbing, pushing out of his many-spined sump to beckon weakly at those nearby. So profoundly have these constant regenerations aected Urien’s metabolism that his articially toughened esh is able to reknit and heal at an incredible rate. Rakarth welcomes all forms of injury, especially upon the battleeld, for it forces him to adapt his body to accommodate the wound. Like all Haemonculi, Urien has an undying enthusiasm for craing symphonies of pain. He carries a variety of strange weapons to war, including a gauntlet that can inject

his own highly mutagenic ichor into his foes and a blade that can kill with the slightest scratch. Rather than covering his amorphous body in bulky armour, he simply abstracts it further by using a clone eld to project multiple overlapping hololight images of himself onto the battleeld. us obscured, he is able to avoid his enemies’ attacks, allowing him to concentrate on harvesting choice subjects for use in his torturous experiments. To aid in the harvest Urien carries the Casket of Flensing – an impossibly intricate puzzle-box that, when opened, unleashes a swarm of evil spirits upon his victims. e souls rip the esh from the heads of their prey with needle-like fangs, before tearing skulls from spinal columns and carrying them back to Urien with the still- conscious brains le writhing inside. Despite the panoply of cruel artefacts that Urien possesses, the true weapons of this demented end are the repugnant creations that shamble out from his esh-pens – a menagerie of horrors that strains the sanity of all who behold it. Blood-spattered Wracks and towering Grotesques stalk between living sculptures that moan and stagger as rapacious Haemovores writhe in the gore beneath. At the head of this gruesome procession comes Rakarth himself, theatrically conducting the carnage about him like a ringmaster at some hellish circus. Such a masterful performance demands an appreciative audience, and to this end Rakarth oen deigns to enter realspace accompanied by a Kabal or Wych Cult. To set his creations loose upon the eld of battle is not just to ensure the demise of his enemies, but to display his latest masterpieces to his fellow Drukhari, and ensure he continues to be regarded as a true artist within the Dark City. To his faint amusement, competition is extremely erce for the honour of the Master Haemonculus’ presence. Few spectacles are as extreme as the gnashing, thrashing carnival of pain Rakarth unleashes upon his prey. For this reason, Commorragh was abuzz when the Sculptor of Torments announced he would display his cra openly at the wake of Asdrubael Vect. Archons from every corner of the Dark City came to view the grim spectacle, little knowing it was they who would become the subjects of Urien’s latest masterpiece.

‘I

‘I havhave e lonlongg taktakenen anan int

intereerest st inin humahumansns andand theitheirr crude

crude dabbdabbling ling inin eshceshcra.ra. e

e AdeptAdeptus Astartes us Astartes areare power

powerfulful warriowarriors,rs, butbut theitheirr crea

creators hators have alwayve alwayss beenbeen tootoo res

restritrictcteded inin thetheirir visvisionion.. isis Prim

Primarcharch,, RoboRobouteute GuilliGuilliman,man, occ

occluludedess hihiss mimindnd toto soso mamany ny pos

possibsibiliilitieties,s, andand asas sucsuchh willwill nev

neverer achachievetheievethe perperfecfectiotionn he

he seeseeksks –– ththee peperfrfecectitionon ththatat II dedenene thrthrououghgh thethe prapractictisese of

of mmyy crcraa.. IIff hehe wiwishshestoesto learn

learn fromfrom thethe masmasteterr, , letlet hi

himm cocometometo meme.. II wiwillglallgla dldly y ma

makeke roroomom fofor hir himm inin my my grandest

grandest oubliette.oubliette.’’ - Urien Rakarth

WRACK

WRACKSS

Each Wrack is an abhorrent example of his master’s surgical crasmanship, an individual cut apart and refashioned into a walking instrument of torture. Masked and modied to better instil fear into those they encounter, they act as the hands of the Haemonculi in the world outside, and upon the eld of battle they will defend their creators with their lives.

Every ruler needs obedient servants, and Wracks are literally fashioned for the task. Known in some circles as Haemacolytes, each Wrack’s sole duty is to dutifully ser ve their master, whether at the slab or upon the battleeld. To this end they are physically modied to better perform their gory duties. Within the Wrack’s surgically enhanced frame lies a shocking strength, and in combat they lay about themselves with a variety of sickled blades, corrosive whips, stun-rods and silvered hooks.

Because Haemonculi tend towards megalomania or even delusions of godhood, they surround themselves with supplicants and minions to enact their orders. In fact, most Haemonculi prefer not to sully themselves with physical labour of any kind, and consider themselves somehow polluted if they have to exert themselves in any way. Instead, the dirty work of each Haemonculus is performed by his Wracks. Most Wracks hope to one day transcend their previous lives entirely – a Wrack will endure almost any degradation in the hope that they may eventually ascend to the ranks of the Coven lords. A typical scene in the oubliettes and laboratories of the Haemonculi is a single gure looming over a partially dissected victim whilst hunched Wracks scrabble to enact every disturbing command.

Wracks oen have heavy metal gauntlets graed in place of their hands that can inject or withdraw uids from their subjects with the ex of a wire-taut tendon, or be coated with searing venom when accompanying their master on a raid into realspace. Spinal gras and rampant bone growth is common in these disturbing composites, oen forming baroque exterior racks and hooks from which samples and serums can be suspended so they are readily at hand when their Haemonculus needs them. ey will also be further modied to ensure that they can defend their creator in battle, or pillage a community in order to gather fresh specimens for their master’s pleasure. e nails of their ngers and toes are severed and replaced by razor-sharp talons that skitter and scratch on the cold stone oors of their underground needle-lairs, and their faces are covered by inscrutable metal masks, for identity has no place in the Wrack’s existence. Wracks wear only the most rudimentary of clothing in their day-to-day lives, going about their business in stained butcher’s aprons and tabards, twilight glinting from a bewildering variety of torturer’s tools hung from their belts. Perhaps the most sickening aspect of the Wrack’s strange plight is not their hideous appearance or simmering bloodlust, but the fact that they have chosen this fate for themselves. It is a peculiar trait of the Drukhari psyche that aer a few centuries they oen request to be modied into a form other than that of their birthright, for such voluntary surgery staves o ennui and gives up a whole new suite of experiences and debaucheries to savour. For this reason a Drukhari who has nothing to lose will give themselves to the Haemonculi, emerging from their foul metamorphosis as something far more frightening than ever before.

e subject to whom Gretius had been assigned hung from the gibbet in the dimly lit chamber. His arms were pinned in place above his head, skewered to the cross-beam to prevent any unnecessary twitching. e skin on his face was ush and full, his eyes bright with anticipation of the transformation he was about to undergo. Gretius remembered the same sensation of ecstasy that had preceded his own making.

‘You are to be my brother soon,’ said Gretius, locking eyes with the subject. ‘I shall teach you how to use our tools so that Master will not be displeased.’

‘Yes, brother,’ said the subj ect, the pain and excitement palpable in his voice. ‘Teach me your cra’.

Gretius splayed the Haemonculus tools on the table between him and the gibbet, arranging them so that the subject could see each edge and point distinctly.

‘is we use to ense,’ said Gretius, holding up a brutally curved blade. He ipped the blade over exposing the jagged barbs on its back edge. ‘And these we use to pry open joints.’

e subject’s mouth split into a crazed grin. ‘More. Show me more tools, brother!’

‘Patience,’ said Gretius. ‘We must rst nish our studies with this tool.’

He raised the curved blade to the subject’s esh and whispered, ‘is will hurt a lot.’

GROTESQUES

GROTESQUES

Towering and monstrous, Grotesques are insane creations that are employed when their Haemonculi masters have need to commit extreme physical violence. One does not become a Grotesque voluntarily. ough they generally begin existence as Drukhari,

these tragic and repulsive constructs have been reborn in the most hideous of ways as punishment for some real or perceived slight to the Haemonculi.

e process by which a captive becomes a Grotesque begins with a series of painful and humiliating body modications. Drukhari are narcissists at heart, and the cruel Haemonculi take a sinister joy in distorting the esh of those that have angered them. ough

the process oen takes years to complete, the hapless victim is constantly pumped full of growth elixirs, macro-steroids and muscle stimulants until their form has swollen grossly out of proportion. Bone growth is driven into hyperactivity by injections of osseovirals, resulting in external spines that curve over the meaty back of the tortured recipient. eir thick, muscled forearms are augmented with blades and toxin-dispensing gauntlets, and their hands are replaced with grasping claws or dripping tubes that can eject a great spray of the victim’s own blood. At this point the Grotesque is usually clinically lobotomised, though some are le dimly aware of their surroundings, the better to understand the full horror of what has befallen them. Either way, the Grotesque

becomes mindlessly obedient, able to comprehend and execute only the simplest of tasks. eir slack and terror-etched face is sealed forever behind a mask of black iron, and they lumber dripping from the Haemonculi esh-pods a new and entirely subservient creature whose only desire is to serve their dark master. On the march to battle, these meat-hulks shamble forlornly aer their macabre keepers, but when given the command to kill, they transform into engines of destruction. Racks of syringes depress in their spinal sumps to dump potent stimulants into their ichor- stream, ridged bellow-pumps connected to primary lungs wheeze and contract at triple speed, and veins throb near to bursting as tube-punctured hearts are forced into overdrive. With a great mued roar the Grotesques thunder into battle, butchering all within reach with hook, claw and cleaver. ey absolutely will not stop until they receive their master’s command to cease. If this command is not heard, perhaps because their master is temporarily deceased or the din of war is too great, the Grotesques will continue to kill everything within reach – including other Drukhari. Whether the tiny spark of the individuals le within the Grotesques take a measure of satisfaction in this unbridled carnage can never be known, but one thing is certain – a Grotesque has plenty of pent-up aggression within its bruised and muscular frame, and it is not a good idea to be nearby when it is released.

TALOS

TALOS

e Engines of Pain, of which the Talos is the most widespread, are seen as the pinnacle of the Haemonculi’s art. Creations of mad genius, each one is part organic and part mechanical, festooned with surgical apparatus and horrible-looking weapons of war. ough they vary greatly in construction, each Talos is always well equipped to visit hideous retribution upon those that earn their master’s ire. From the clanking Chainghoul favoured by the Prophets of Flesh, to the drill-legged Shriveners that guard the Everspiral, each is an unholy terror many times the size and strength of its creator. ese semi-sentient constructs dri along with menacing slowness, the whine of their anti-gravitic motors in counterpoint to the icker-clack of silvered blades as they close with their prey.

e Talos performs several roles in the oubliettes of the Haemonculi, for it is both a guard-creature and a mobile torture chamber that can inict a dizzying variety of agonies upon those it catches in its steely grasp. A Talos is valuable to the Haemonculi not only as a shield – its metal shell and twisted mind make it all but impervious to harm – but also as a tool, for it allows its master to punish the slow and the impudent without liing a crooked nger. e forelimbs of a Talos can be mounted with a variety of cruel implements, such as macro-scalpels that can scissor even an Ogryn into bloody chunks, chain-ails that can rip esh and metal

with equal ease, or ichor-spewing funnels that siphon uids from a Talos’ thorax to reduce lightly armoured victims to primordial ooze. Additionally, the creature bears ranged armaments on its scorpion-like tail. But it is the manipulators and scalpel-keen claws that hang underneath a Talos’ segmented carapace that are truly to be feared. When a Talos catches an enemy warrior, it holds them tight with a pair of grasping steel limbs and begins a rapid and ecient disassembly of its victim with the rest. Motors hum and drills whine as it works away with its surgically sharp implements, drawing each constituent part into itself, stripping and rendering down the physical form of its prey layer by layer until nothing is le but a few drops of blood.

In battle, this gruesome process is immensely pleasing to the Haemonculus owner, for not only does it provide an entertaining spectacle but it also aords the Talos even greater motive power as it harnesses and consumes its eshy bounty. Clacking and twitching as if revelling in the kill, the Talos advances with renewed vigour, its high-tech weaponry spitting indiscriminate death into

the ranks of the foe. When it catches its next quarry the process begins anew, but the fate of one caught by a Talos does not end in death – upon the Engine’s return to its Coven’s oubliettes, the constituent parts of its victims will be siphoned out from within its metal shell and used to create yet more potions and elixirs.