Editing Geshtinanna (section)

==The Followers of Geshtinanna==

Somewhere in the void of the Ultima Segmentum, a tiny planet, unremarkable and indistinguishable from its brethren, hovered in the dark. Clarus, a feudal world brought into the Emperor’s Light in the thirty-ninth millennium. A temperate breeze rolled over the little planet’s lush green hills, rubbery green stalks of vegetation bending lazily in the wind. Above, Clarus’ twin suns shone brightly, casting a warm glow over the Imperium’s best kept secret. It was on that morning that the daemon Geshtinanna decided she would grace her followers with her presence. After all, they had captured and prepared a nascent psyker for her to inhabit during her stay… Such demonstrations of devotion demanded to be rewarded. 

On the planet’s surface, in a crumbling stone edifice at the summit of one of Clarus’ many hills, the followers of Babel made ready. Cloistered within the deepest parts of the ruin so as to avoid detection, sixty-six cultists (a very specific number) gathered for this most momentous of occasions. The excitement and anxiety each felt swirled together to create a heady atmosphere of unrest. Today their unswerving loyalty and dedication would finally be rewarded. Today, finally, they would meet the god they had sacrificed everything (in some cases, quite literally) for. At the center of the gathering’s attention, an old man stood stooped, hooded and cloaked, over the hapless psyker. The woman, now strapped to a stone slab by thick leather restraints, had been lured here with promises of freedom from the oppressive Imperium and its Corpse God.

"Faceless Queen!" The old man bellowed, and the cultists mewled and pawed at each other as the moniker was uttered, "We, your humble servants, assemble here in your name to offer our love and praise to She that cannot be looked upon. We bring before you, on our bloodied hands and knees, an offering; a sacrifice. All praise to Geshtinanna.”

At this, the gathering of hooded individuals exploded into activity. Some prostrated themselves on the ground, wailing and beating themselves with their fists, while others lost control completely and began to grope themselves vigorously, simply the thought of their god’s terribly majesty driving them to heedless debauchery. After a moment, the old man began to shout above the din of his fellow heretics.

“O, Geshtinanna! Mistress of Ruin! Accept this humble offering, this pure mind and body, unsullied by the numberless legions of the Corpse God! Take it and make of it your vessel! So we pray, in your name.”

Outside, dark storm clouds began to gather, swirling and eddying about the crumbled ruin. The moss-covered stonework became slick as it was pelted with rain, then hail, hail which grew in size and ferocity until it crashed down in great fist-sized chunks capable of killing a man in a single blow. Then, a great thunderbolt descended in fury upon the building, burning and cracking stone as it shattered through the roof of the structure. Snaking its way to the very depths of the edifice, the white hot bolt finally struck home on the terrified psyker. Like the many hosts that had come before her, the woman’s end was mercifully swift, as her being was instantly reduced to nothing, for no soul can abide in a vessel claimed by the Grandeur of Change. Now clad in fresh flesh, Geshtinanna then (perhaps out of mercy for her followers) merely removed the face of she that once was, rather than reveal herself in her full, mind-shattering form. The daemon princess’s voice echoed through out the minds of her followers.

“''This form'',” she purred, and the cultists’ fervor grew tenfold, “''It pleases me''.” She paused for a moment, surveying her faithful; they had all abased themselves now, their faces pressed flat to the floor, their bodies quivering in the presence of their mistress. After a moment, the daemon frowned.

“''Where is he? Why is he not here''?”

Sensing her sudden displeasure, the cultists of the Queen began to wail again, beating and clawing at their flesh for having somehow dissatisfied their mistress. They bled and vomited on the stonework floor, begging for her mercy. But the daemon known as the Winged Madness simply ignored them, instead opening a rift into the Immaterium with a single petulant thought. Several cultists were unfortunate enough to glance up at the unnatural hole in reality and were instantly robbed of their sanity, falling onto the floor, bodies convulsing and twisting unnaturally, bones snapping as they were bent in ways they were never designed for, rivulets of blood streaming from their wide eyes. While most screamed in agony, some began to cackle insanely, their minds completely overloaded with the horrors of the Warp.

It was then that a haggard figure stepped out of the Immaterium, out of the swirling madness, and into the now cursed ruins. The figure was wrapped from head-to-toe in raggedy clothing and scraps of cloth. Of whoever lay beneath, only the eyes could be seen; eyes that exuded a disturbing, unnatural calm, an emotion that should be utterly foreign to a denizen of the Warp. Then it spoke in a voice as dry as the desert, and hoarse, as if it had only recently been screaming uncontrollably. The sound made one’s skin crawl.

“What do you want, daemon?” It asked. “Why do you summon me to wade amongst this… Filth?” It continued, its eyes sweeping over the room and its inhabitants.

“''My dear Israel'',” replied the Faceless Queen, circling him and caressing his body with the hands of a corpse, “''You have been so disquieted of late. I worry for you''.” Which was, of course, a lie. “''As for these… Lovely people'',” she continued, gesturing broadly to the insensate cultists that lay on the ground around them, “''You will show them a modicum of respect. They have waited long for this day, and toiled without rest''.”

At that, Israel rolled his eyes. Had he been any other being, any other entity in the galaxy, the daemon would have struck him dead then and there. But for some reason that neither Imperial scholars nor heretical plunderers of forbidden texts could explain, the daemon Geshtinanna held her Herald, Tammuz Israel, very dear to whatever passed for her heart. And so he was allowed to live, as he had been before.

However, the Queen of Lies’ relationship to Israel is not fully understood and often misinterpreted. And so it was that one of Geshtinanna’s followers made the mistake of lashing out in anger at her Herald. A woman, petite in frame but famous throughout the cult for her zealotry and fiery temper, stood in defiance of Israel and shouted:

“How dare you mock our Lady of Babel, the devourer of souls, igniter of worl—”

She was not allowed to finish her declamation, however. With but a disdainful glance, Tammuz Israel lifted the woman bodily and hurled her across the cabal’s meeting place with great force, her body shattering against the flagstone wall, crumpling to the ground in a broken, silent heap. Geshtinanna only laughed.

“''Now'',” she said, addressing the cult’s leader, who remained kneeling in fear and awe before her, “''Show me this place of worship you have made''.”

The old man did his best to clamber to his feet with haste, but his ancient bones creaked and groaned painfully, and when his reply came, it was strained with agony.

“Yes, of course, my Lady. Please, follow me. Let me show you our home.”

The dark priest put on an admirable show for the otherworlders, considering the circumstances, and while Israel maintained his air of disaffected boredom, the old man was elated to see that his Mistress seemed genuinely pleased. He told them of how a single black tome had revealed first to him, and then to his followers, the truth and glory of Geshtinanna. Finally, the cult leader implored them to follow him up a winding staircase set into the back wall of the ruins. It led up, up into a lightless tower. By this time, Clarus’ short day cycle had already passed from morning to the pitch blackness of night, and soon day would break over it once more. As they gained the summit of the tower and stepped out onto a wide, open-air terrace, they realized that the rest of the cult had assembled here wordlessly and without command. Perhaps this was a ritual for them.
 
The sixty-six cultists gave Geshtinanna a wide berth, allowing her to enjoy the majesty of the Claran sunrise unhindered by the presence of their pitiful mortal forms. Israel stood beside her, and they both delighted in the incredible vista before them. Hues of purple and orange dashed across the water that stretched out before the ruins, and Geshtinanna smiled inwardly, musing at how similar those lights were to those of the Empyrean. She basked in the rapt attention of her followers, who watched her in stunned silence, stunned by the fact that their god, she who they offered up all of their prayers and lamentations to, now walked among them, robed in flesh. After a long moment, Israel spoke to her. "And so, mistress? Do you find them wanting?" She turned her faceless head to him, leaning close and speaking only to his mind.

"''Oh yes. But I’d like to enjoy this in silence''." She replied.

“Of course, mistress. And then?”

“''Kill them. Kill them all''.”

Tammuz Israel smiled wickedly as the light of Clarus’ twin suns broke over the damned cult and their petty holdings.