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| - The marches surrounding the fortress are covered with a dark forest of unfathomable depravity made of blasphemous trees. Skulls and mouldering bones dangle from dead branches, and knotty roots pierce the remains of bodies. Immediately surrounding the Fortress lay the remains of a battlefield from long ago. Corpses, rusted armour, and broken weapons litter the gore-soaked plain, intermingled with tattered banners of both the armies of Slaanesh and Khorne. Some bodies still move and moan from their killing wounds, and their rotted faces smile at the irony of their demise. The only sounds to be heard are the shades and wraiths wandering the forgotten battlefield, ceaselessly shrieking, laughing, and crying at their plight.
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| abstract
| - The marches surrounding the fortress are covered with a dark forest of unfathomable depravity made of blasphemous trees. Skulls and mouldering bones dangle from dead branches, and knotty roots pierce the remains of bodies. Immediately surrounding the Fortress lay the remains of a battlefield from long ago. Corpses, rusted armour, and broken weapons litter the gore-soaked plain, intermingled with tattered banners of both the armies of Slaanesh and Khorne. Some bodies still move and moan from their killing wounds, and their rotted faces smile at the irony of their demise. The only sounds to be heard are the shades and wraiths wandering the forgotten battlefield, ceaselessly shrieking, laughing, and crying at their plight. Sitting in the shadow of the towering Fortress, a lone, massive windmill performs its macabre task. The sails of the windmill constantly turn, despite the fact that no wind caresses the marches. A small army of Slaaneshi Daemons work the mill in a constant frenzy of activity. Corpses, both of mortals slain in battle and Daemons that fell into disfavour in the eyes of the Master are ground into a bloody mortar beneath the titanic grindstone of the windmill. This mortar is used to strengthen the walls of the Fortress above, empowering it with the strength of mortality and the authority of despair. A constant stream of Daemonettes cart this mortar up the winding road, whipped and degraded by the powerful Keepers of Secrets. Slaanesh’s chosen sycophants cavort and revel in unspeakable acts within the confines of the Fortress. For anyone unlucky enough to find themselves within its walls, the dynamics of the Fortress are a mockery of the genteel and courtly rules found in mortal noble houses. Bread is broken and cups are raised in dripping praise to the Lord of Pleasure, and the charade of courtly behaviour reigns in feasts of blood. The Fortress is filled with the constant din of screams—both in pain and pleasure—the cries of lovers and the dying, and the echoing cackling of daemons and debased mortals. The interior is exquisitely appointed in the finest of art, silken cushions, and decorated tables filled with all manner of treats and drink. However, this splendour is twisted in its presentation. On closer look, the artwork is blasphemous and debased, and seems to move on its own accord. The food has the unhealthy sheen of corruption and putrescence. The furniture appears luxurious and comfortable, but is torturous to sit in. The bodies of those that have reached their limits in pain and pleasure litter the floors and dangle from manacles—some still serve as fodder for the survivors, or the Daemons, that prowl the Fortress. The residents of the Marcher Fortress tempt interlopers with all manner of delights—food, drink, song, dance, and favours that defy the imagination. Anyone who succumbs finds himself spiralling into a pit of decadence and corruption.
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)