In the final minutes preceding dawn, on the highest peak of the mountain range known as the Scar of Sheygoth, a procession of scantily clad people made their way towards a group which stood right on the precipice of said peak. Large, muscular men of varying heights and builds all marched their way up the mountain, with each step perfectly timed and between each step, some of the more muscular specimens would ferociously beat the drums that hung on their torsos, as well as of those on the men in front of them. There were cliques within the procession, with each one seemingly having a set role. Some played drums, others chanted or carried massive poles which supported gargantuan braziers, smoldering with bright blue flames that did little to aid in illuminating the darkness. Majority of the men were clad simply in blood red loincloths – with their entire heads wrapped in whatever material their loincloths were made from – completely hiding their faces. Their bodies were covered in markings which looked simple enough at first, but upon closer inspection were textured – more akin to scars that were painted over. All of the men, regardless of role in the procession, were dressed and marked the same. Well, almost all of them, as in the middle of the march, there was a group of men who walked while holding up a palanquin. They were dressed in more elaborate attire, looking more like ornaments than actual people. Almost unnecessarily long trains of deep red silk hung from their shoulders and waists, dragging along the hard ground as they moved. Their heads were completely covered as well, but in far more elaborate wrappings, with a headdress that caught the eye.

The banging of the drums became progressively harder and louder until the procession reached the group waiting at the top. There was an assembled crowd of robed men and women, who were all kneeling. The moment the procession arrived, crowd split, shuffling on their knees to open up a path. As soon as they did that, a shrill yet gravitas filled shriek emanated from the palanquin and almost pierced the heavens, causing the crowd to gasp in unison. The palanquin group knelt down, and as they did, the voice from before started singing in a pained, guttural voice. The song was more akin to a chant or a prayer, spoken in a tribal dialect that sounded like it came from the deepest recesses of the region. The voice sounded incredibly old and weathered, as if the throat it was coming from was made from dried leather, yet as the smooth skinned, youthful looking leg poked out from behind the shade cloth of the palanquin, one could be forgiven for being confused. Slowly, a young looking­ figure slinked out while singing, and began to dance and almost seductively. The loose-fitting cloth that covered her body threatened to expose her nethers more than once, but somehow, even as she accelerated the speed and vigor of her dance, there wasn’t a single slip. By this time, the assembled crowd that had been prostrating itself since the singing woman emerged, was in tears and weeping audibly and once she broke through to the front of the procession, it began moving again – albeit slowly. Her singing became louder, and as the tempo quickened, so too did the pace with which the procession was moving. As they neared the summit, the tips of a number of large metal structures came into view – something made easier by the fact that red flames smoldered from said tips. As more of the structures came into view, so too did how complex they actually were, looking equal parts geometric and tribal. The sound of them creaking in the wind was clearly audible, in spite of the vigorous drum banging that filled the air.

What wasn’t audible however, were the pained groans, pleas and sobs of the people who were crucified onto the structures. A group of people, who were clad in actual armour stood in front of the two central structures. They wore long, flowing red cloaks that were in various stages of disrepair, with a litany of rips, tears and holes decorating them. Their armour, despite varying in size and weight, was uniform in its design, and bore an Insignia on the left breast. They all held their weapons – Warhammers all so large that they beggared belief – in their right hands, and stood in formation, perfectly in line. The procession reached the group just as the summit began to be bathed in the warm oranges and magentas of dawn. The singing, dancing and drumming all came to a sudden stop, with silence prevailing for the first time in what seemed like forever to the everybody present – both standing and prostrated. One of the men carrying the palanquin reached inside of it and then pulled out an incredibly gnarled staff. Only, it was more akin to a Warhammer like those belonging to the cloaked group. He carried it with some difficulty to the previously dancing woman, knelt down before her, and presented the staff to her. She reached down with one hand and pulled it up with ease, holding it as if it were a twig. Another of the palanquin carriers approached the woman and draped a cloak over her shoulders before backing away. She then made her way over to the group and stood next to a man in the center of the group, whose cloak was more elaborate and almost ceremonial looking compared to the others – much like hers.

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As she joined them, they were bathed in more light, which revealed that the entire group was wearing helmets that completely covered their faces. At first glance, these helmets were all in the shape of a face – with a standard template having being used. However, upon closer inspection, each mask was warped and buckled in unique ways – as if many blows to the face and head were deliberately taken in order to create said shapes. The helmets were made of some kind of alloy and were completely sealed.

“I greet you in the name of the Exalted Queen, High Priestess.” The man next to the woman spoke, a tinniness to voice, attributed by his mouth being encased in metal.

“In the name of the Most High, Grand Priest.” She responded, in a decidedly husky, damaged sounding voice.

“The hour of the Ceremony approaches. As you can see, the Offerings are ready… as are we.”

“Me and mine are also ready. Let us assume our respective positions, and let the Ceremony Commence.”

With that, the Grand Priest’s fellows raised their weapons and took a step forward in unison. The Priestess banged the bottom of her staff against the hard ground which served as a signal, prompting the drums to be banged again. This time, there wasn’t any monotonous drumming – it was intense and almost frantic in nature. The Grand Priest stepped forward and stopped just in front of the structures, before looking at the two in the centre, upon two half naked and incredibly bruised and battered bodies hung. He then raised his open left hand up, which caused the drumming to cease immediately.

“Goddess of Perdition, Upholder of Punishment,

We ask O Goddess, for you to look upon us with your Allseeing Eye,

And to bear witness as we continue to spread your Dogma,

By delivering Punishment to these Transgressors.

Through Penance, may they gain your favour and be reborn within our Faith,

As so many of our Flock gathered here today.

We ask this in your precious name, O Unyja. Straf.”

“Straf.” Bellowed the entire crowd present on the mountain.

They then began to slowly chant the word Straf – punishment – over and over. Very quickly, it went from a sort of drone, to an extremely fervent and vociferous scream, with the robed ‘flock’ banging their foreheads on the hard ground from their prostrated positions. The head banging was accompanied by drums and soon, it was so loud it was as if they were trying to alert the entire realm of the ceremony commencing. The two Priests and their groups stood with barely contained satisfaction with not only the atmosphere, but the obedience of the crowd. All this was suddenly brought to a halt when the sound of almost unnecessarily loud and boisterous laughter pierced through and overpowered the chanting. It came from one of the people crucified on a structure that the Grand Priest was standing in front of, and he clenched his fists tightly.

“Oh man, I apologise!” The man said, almost sounding genuinely apologetic. “I don’t mean to laugh, but you guys are a bunch of fucking CRAZIES!” He said before looking to his right. “Am I right, Oh Holy Sphincter?”

“You insufferable barbarian…” The Grand Priest spat through gritted teeth. “How many times must we remove your tongue before you are silenced?!”

The man referred to as a barbarian began laughing again, clearly amused in spite of his current predicament. He and the others were all naked, with spikes driven through their hands and feet, although in his case, it was a little bit different. He had spikes throughout his limbs in their entirety, and unlike with the others, fresh blood continued to flow from his wounds. He, much like the rest of them, also had a helmet on which kept his face hidden, however his was secured with spikes in his neck, which bled profusely as well. The Grand Priest shook his head before gripping his Warhammer.

“I am usure which Deity wasted such a Blessing on a worthless piece of trash like you, but we will correct that mistake and end you together with these other sinners – you and that heretic of Mahra.”