Letters, Press Conferences, Overheard Mutterings
Related to Scribbl CLIMAX V
Seekers of Transcendence
In the belly of the squat, decrepit boat of Norse design, four voices raise in unison, three with the disciplined accent of Reikspeil, one with a guttural bubbling that bears some semblance of the cadence of speech, but is completely unintelligible, and which makes one's bowels feel somewhat loose. Occasionally, a candle sputters, as pungent gases from a burp, a fart, or a rupturing lesion are released.
WE, YOUR DEVOTED COUNCIL, BEG FOR YOUR SUCCOUR, ALLFATHER. WE FACE OUR BROTHERS IN FAITH NEXT, THOSE WHO HAVE RECEIVED THE GREATEST OF YOUR GIFTS.
Four blades are removed from four sheaths, followed by the sound like the tearing of soft, wet, leather, repeated. Something splashes on the stone floor.
WE OPEN OUR HEARTS AND OUR BODIES TO YOU. PLEASE FATHER NURGLE, FORGIVE US, AND SHARE UNTO US WHAT YOU HAVE BESTOWED UPON THEM. WE ARE READY TO ACCEPT ALL THAT YOU OFFER. WE ARE READY TO BECOME MORE, AND TO SPREAD YOUR GIFTS TO OTHERS. LET US NOT BE LOST TO THE GREAT COLLECTOR WITHOUT BEING READY TO SHARE YOUR GLORY WITH THEM AS WELL.
The tearing and splashing sounds resume, accompanied by an ecstatic moaning and groaning that raises in volume, reaching a strained crescendo.
Elsewhere in the boat, the deformed warriors, hedonists, and students cease their own devotions at the cry, and exchange glances. Despite their diverse backgrounds, the look of horror in their eyes is instantly and universally recognisable; "I ain't cleaning up the mess this time."