The cold, tainted air bit at my skin as the Ritualist called us forth before
the great black gates of the Silent Cathedral. Many had gathered before to this
place, whether it be for solemn worship or gatherings, but this, I felt, was to
be something different altogether. The crowd gathered, many of whom were
muttering about frivolous things. I cared not, for it was then that the
Ritualist appeared, a blast of chill air wafting over the crowd as burning,
golden eyes gazed over our heads malignantly. A foul darkness obscured the
Ritualist's features, making it impossible for me to discern anything about this
mysterious being.

"Dark tidings, brethren," the Ritualist spoke a voice sublimely soothing, yet
cutting like the sharpest blade. The crowd murmured their greeting to the
Ritualist before the words continued. "We have gathered here to pay homage to
the Demon Lords of Nil: our revered mentors upon the path of Forbidden Lore and
guides upon the path of Freedom from the oppressive shackles that the Three
Fates bind the rest of the Basin with." A quiet clicking noise emanated from
beneath the Priest's cowled visage as the crowd stiffened beneath the frosty
gaze. Turning, the figure beckoned to the crowd and footsteps began to echo
along the grand stairway, "We shall begin with a sacrifice to the Lord of
Wrathful Bells."

Inside, the Cathedral was as dark and menacing as I had remembered. It had been
long ago, during its construction, that I had visited it as a child. The
memories still made my skin burn with a sickening pain. I paused to observe an
old mural of the Lord Luciphage driving His sceptre through the sternum of the
Supernal Elohora, painstakingly preserved through all these years. I shook my
head and continued to follow the group to Lord Ashtorath's font, where the
Ritualist raised a hand for silence and then kneeled before the altar.

"Duke of Inescapable Damnation!" intoned the Priest in a guttural growl, "We
here gathered vow to give fully into Wrath when we are wronged and that
Vengeance shall be ours." The Ritualist extended an arm above a twisted sword
affixed in front of the altar. "We shall not allow for Fear to stand between us
and our goals. Instead, we shall give fully into the self-righteous Wrath and
the weak shall tremble as we sweep through the Basin. Brethren, chant the Ritual
of Rubeus with me so that no fear, shyness of foolish feelings pacify us in our
quest for Vengeance." A loud murmur echoed through the crowd as the Nihilists
and Ur'Guard gathered chanted the harsh words of the ritual, their eyes gleaming
with a dread hatred.

As I chanted the old ritual, my vision became red, blood rushing with a doze of
adrenaline. Anger overcame me and I struggled not to tear apart the cultist next
to me. So long have I craved this feeling, why did it take this long? The
desire, hatred, jealousy... it all poured through my mind in a burst of emotion.
So overwhelmed was I that it seemed aeons had passed before I regained my
composure, the priest's eyes locked onto mine like two ravenous vultures
awaiting the slaughter. Nodding, the Ritualist then sliced along tender flesh
with the sword, letting hot red blood spill upon the altar before muttering,
"May it be so." Blazing white fires answered in unison within the corners of the
font.

And so the Priest lead us to the Font of the Weeping Amaranth, where the
Queen's beauty made its home on the Prime Material Plane. "Queen of Insufferable
Cruelty," the Ritualist began with a silky composure as a large, hideous demon
emerged from the shadows, "We have gathered here at your Font to pay homage to
Your beauty and art. You who teaches us that no pain shall rule our minds and
that to serve You is to paint the canvas that is the Basin in blood in Your
honour. You who urges us to reject the greatest of taboos and, instead, embrace
it. We are here to paint your altars with willing blood in a marvellous
depiction of Your favourite flower."

From the shadows, a slender girl emerged, picturesque in her beauty. I could
not help but leer at the perfection of such a specimen, the very icon of desire
before us. A small, demure smile played along her lips as she laid upon the
bloodied altar, her eyes closed, chest rising and falling as she took deep
breaths. I was in tune with every minute movement of the girl, hypnotised by the
grace and subtlety of the creature. With a sinister laugh, the Ritualist bound
the girl tightly as the demon began to cruelly tear apart her flesh. Slow and
meticulous was the torture that it made the woman seem even more beautiful than
before.

The stench of blood flooded my nostrils as my senses became dazed. Was this
true pleasure? The height of pain and sensuality intermixed in a gruesome
display of base butchery? Finished with the sacrifice, the Ritualist pushed the
body off the altar, pulling forth a long needle and tracing the symbol of the
White Amaranth upon the stone. Silence echoed as the Ritualist then lead us to
the Altar of Lord Baalphegar.

"Now we come to the Font of Despair to pay homage to He of the Dark Web," came
the soft voice of the Priest, a soft hiss emanating from the surroundings as the
torches seemed to dim with some alien power. The figure struggled through thick
cobwebs, oddly graceful as a hand laid upon the pedestal where a black tome
rested. With a small gesture, the voice spoke again with a sibilant hiss, "Here
within this tome lie the secrets of those offered in sacrifice to the Prince of
the Dark Fates." Silence dominated the room as the voice continued ponderously,
"Secrets... Secrets, Shadow, Despair. Those three runes mark the founding stones
of the Prince's philosophy; to discover the enemy's secrets and conceal your own
within shadow." A cold wind raced through the room, creeping along my skin as I
involuntarily shuddered, the torches flickering wildly as if grasping
desperately for the sustenance that made them whole.

My attention was drawn once more to the cowled figure as a lose strand of the
webbing was slowly being twirled around a raised finger. "And as you do so,"
murmured the quiet voice, "weave the web around them slowly, patiently, till you
are ready to topple them from their lofty spot in one quick wave of a hand. They
shall not know better, they shall not be the wiser, for through your cunning
ways they shall remain in the dark. And then..." The silence pierced us all,
struck that nerve within the chest that made my heart beat, my brows sweat. What
was this feeling, this sense of helplessness? The eyes of the priest seemed to
lock on me, a cruel smile curling ruby lips that seemed neither masculine or
feminine. The gaze drew me in, taunting, enticing. As I felt myself sink in, a
cold shock of awareness overcame me as I was violently ripped from the hypnotic
trance, the Priest's words echoing through the deathly silent chamber, "They
shall know only Despair!".

The words sent a ripple through the crowd, some of the weaker-willed crumpling
to the ground in abject horror. My eyes were wide as I felt fear and uncertainty
wash over my being, and yet a profound sense of... something greater. "Our
Prince," intoned the Priest reverently, "we vow that secrecy and stealth shall
be our weapon of choice in endeavours in Your name. And we shall stalk the
shadow and remain unseen as we do so." As the last word echoed along the walls,
those of the Cult of the Webbed Lord muttered in low words, vanishing from
sight. A sense of wariness overcame me, as my eyes darted to and fro, searching
for the missing followers, but the Priest was already far ahead. I rushed to
catch up as a chill went down my spine. The cold laugh of the sinister Demon
Lord was ringing throughout the font.

The pathway grew muggy as we walked, foul odours permeating the air as strands
of congealed slime oozed precariously along the ceiling above. The more we
continued, the stronger the scent became, the thicker the moist atmosphere,
until it began to make me wheeze. Some of the cultists looked back at me with
disdain, for who was I to dare show weakness within the temple of the Unholy
Lords? I ignored them, however, intent upon our destination... a place I knew
well as a child. A hand ran down a gruesome gash along my arm as we entered the
Font of the Devourer.

"And now we come to the Devourer's Font," came the languid voice of the Priest,
who was prostrating before the altar which was, as it has always been, not so
much an altar as a series of gaping maws, endlessly gnashing their teeth for but
another morsel. "Our great Lord, He who was once the King and now rose even
above that. We come here to pay tribute for the wisdom You bestow us with upon
the path of Nihilism. We here gathered understand that to devour is to empower
ourselves, and not to destroy." As the words poured from the Priest's lips, a
slimy tendril lashed out at the figure, falling short of its victim. Pausing to
consider the oddity, the priest rose and turned to the crowd, "We also bow our
heads before Change for without Change there is only stagnation and slow decay.
Even if we do not fully comprehend that where it may lead, we give unto it out
of our own free will. In Your honour, Devourer, we bring this merian child to
appease Your eternal hunger." The priest beckoned to the crowd, where emerged a
cultist with a bound merian girl.

I cold see clearly the agony written on the girl's face... and indeed the fear
that overwhelmed it as its eyes looked upon the many hungry orifices. I could
not help but lick my lips in anticipation, a swelling urge growing within the
pit of my stomach. "Eat her..." I whispered, feeling light-headed as a slow buzz
murmured amongst the crowd, urging the sacrifice to be made. Louder and louder
the chanting grew, "Eat. Eat. EAT. EAT!" until it reached a horrifying
crescendo. The Priest boomed with a dark, sadistic cackle as the helpless child
was grabbed and held aloft, the gag around its mouth now undone and the merian's
screams heard clearly. My vision blurred, my mind swimming in the deep, palpable
hunger that pervaded the room, the altar groaning as it lashed out hungrily with
its tendrils. "For the King!" the piercing scream rang through my ears as the
sickening crunches of the child's bones reverberated along the chamber. Silence
filled the hall once more as the Priest clasped hands, "Heed this lesson,
Brethren."

At last, we came to the culmination of our journey. The Supreme Master, I was
taught as a child, was the epitome of all the Demon Lords' teachings manifest
into one supreme being. My back stiffened as I passed the threshold of the
chamber, acutely aware of the power within. The Priest kneeled reverently before
the altar, murmuring a prayer before rising to address us, eyes gleaming with
passion as the homage began, "We gather here last because only through a
combination of all the other Demon Lords’ teachings, can we please Him. Our
Lord combines those tenets into a perfect conjunction and with an iron patience
sways from one to the other as the situation demands. He is the embodiment of
Perfection and with that perfection comes power. The power to sit patiently as
the Eternal Master of Nil and to hold Himself above the other Lords."

I nodded slowly, my eyes fixed upon the Priest, whose every movement seemed
surreal and as if it was weaving a spell upon me. A golden glow suffused the
priest as a sigh escaped the lips, standing taller and more aware it seemed. "We
understand this lesson and in Your honour vow to perfect ourselves in all
aspects. Within Tipheret, the Sphere of Perfection, we embrace that and free
ourselves from all bonds, physical and spiritual. Chant the words of the Sphere,
Brethren, and know the Supreme Master's will." Those around me began to murmur
as I bowed my head, whispering in low tones as my mind reached beyond its
pitiful shell.

There I saw the Midnight Legions, hordes of undead. The cackles and growls of
the demons sent a shiver down my spine, but none so stunning as the image of the
Supreme Master Himself, resplendent in His black and golden robes. My eyes met
His, and there I knew true fear, true anger and lust. I saw beauty within Him
and above all, power. The cruel smirk that played upon His lips had me on my
knees, weeping openly and grovelling at His feet, like an unworthy sloth. Who
was I to even deign to gaze upon such a being? The pain wracked my body, horrid
and agonising as His finger traced along my cheek. "And so your soul is Mine,
mortal."

The words rang in my head, pounding and painful as my eyes opened. The
congregation had long left, but there on the altar stood the Priest, eyes
staring into mine. Red lips sneered as the figure began to dissipate in the
aether, sparkling motes encompassing its form. "And so now you serve... and
forever your soul is damned."