Drink from the Cauldron

[spoiler]>Origin: Penal Legion
>Demographics: All Male, Dark Priesthood
>Recruitment: Redemption
>Homeworld: Imperial World
>Terrain: Wasteland
>Core Units: Mechanized Infantry
>Specialization: Lightning Strike
>Alignment: Nurgle
>Loyalty: Fanatical
>Equipment: Special Vehicle
>Creed: Best of the Best
>Ally: Chaos Lord
>Enemy: Imperium of Man: PDF[/spoiler]

The penitent sat hunched beneath a leaky roof torn open by rust and artillery. On his back was a threadbare satchel laden with momentos, the wriggling maggots and macabre trophies of a half-dozen pitched campaigns. He shoved a hand gaunt in some places swollen in others into the breach and thumbed his favourite: the dried knucklebone of a little girl who gasped so softly when he sent her to frolic in the garden. She was at peace now and would be forevermore, the ones who carried the trumpets said so, and she would never again be alone. A bad thought entered his head, jealousy for the communion she was part of and not for the first time that day he brushed the knife and slid it from the sheath and held it to his wrist and just- calmly, gently sat it down. That wouldn't do. He could join them in merriment at any moment but he would not be happy for he had not yet won the glory.

All things great and small were a part of the family and one day would return to bask in love and the making of love but not all were worthy. Not all who swore met the standards of the tally counters. Not all who sang in the pestilent choirs would see the Grandfather's face. Only those who saw and believed and made others believe in life or the life that follows would be given the greatest prize. A wet, phlegmy voice rang out- "Drink from the Cauldron." He nodded, spitting on the bare foot in a sign of respect, and acknowledged his purpose with a raspy growl that began with feverish intensity and drifted off into a throbbing mantra. "We will. We will we will we will...-" Barely aware of his voice the penitent measured his blade. Short, snapped near the tip and sharpened to compensate. Pitted with rust and coated with excrement, some fresh, some old, barring the odd, generous contribution, almost all of it his own. It was a poor replacement for the lasgun that broke on a misled and monstrously sterile vault door but it was worthy in His Sight and he yet worshiped.

He heard more than felt the rumbling beneath. It wouldn't be long now and the arthritic claw where a feeble palm once laid shook in anticipation. The tongue slid across a cavity, pushing in to feel a sweet crack reward its efforts. Crumbly and riddled with bloody puss, a treat! The staccato of stubborn autoguns began. They didn't understand but oh, they would and the trumpeters, they understood. The penitent raised his voice, squealing and wavering as if singing along with the din. "DRIIINNNK FROM THE CAULDRON!"

The chamber echoed- "DRINK!" A reverb spewed from pallid lips- "FROM THE CAULDRON!" Any semblance of unison was gone as the writhing throng burst into music, some whispering, some screaming, a few carving, all mouthing and repeating that blessed funeral dirge. The penitent was in rapture. The noise outside grew louder. Something blew beneath and the carrier flipped end over end, an interruption to the hymn, no more no less. The door lay battered open and aflush with aching bliss, he ran out to meet his god.