Following Priscilla's lead, the Salamander stepped over bodies sprawled drunkenly across the carpet—some too intoxicated to stand, others tangled together in fevered indulgence. A few were cutting designs into their own skin with knives; others inhaled deep from crystalline tubes of the latest narcotic craze, "Fantasy."
Ignis could feel it now—the faint but unmistakable taint of Slaanesh. The good news: the corruption here was still shallow. These wretches pursued only carnal pleasure; the deeper soul-degradation hadn't yet taken root.
Even so, the forgemaster's mind was already at work—calculating how to raze this place to ash. Without his power armor, the best course was retreat: leave now, prepare, and return armed. Grenades first, then use the 40mm autocannon for room-to-room purging. The corridors would burn nicely with military-grade ether fuel. And if it came down to close combat—well, the power fist would deliver its own kind of benediction.
Still, even unarmored, he was hardly helpless. Riskier, yes, but not impossible. There was enough liquor here to start a respectable inferno. The only problem would be time—killing this many cultists barehanded would take longer than he liked.
While Ignis plotted the cleanest way to obliterate the den, Priscilla stopped before a padded door. Two masked guards flanked it; she nodded, and they opened it in silence.
"After you, Master."
The moment the door closed behind them, the cacophony outside was cut off. Silence fell—almost reverent.
A long corridor stretched ahead, dressed in gaudy imitation of old Imperial nobility. The lamps were electric, but shaped like baroque chandeliers. Thick carpets swallowed their footsteps, intricate patterns woven in red and gold.
Ignis's gaze lingered on the rug—and his facial brand flared with pain. The fibers' color, the subtle sheen, the coarse texture—
O Emperor above, he thought grimly. That's human hair.
Each doorway along the hall was guarded by a masked attendant, most muscular, some not even human at all. From the spacing, the rooms beyond must have been large—and lavish.
Down the corridor, someone emerged pushing a line of serving trolleys, each carrying silver-domed dishes. The scent of cooked meat drifted through the air—rich, savory, but with a sickly undertone. The same faint chemical note as Fantasy.
"Quite the appetite," Ignis muttered as the carts rolled past—a dozen in total.
"Oh, that guest?" Priscilla's smile was coy. "A famous actor. Loves our cuisine. And he has many… companions waiting for him."
She turned, eyes glittering. "We can provide any pleasure here, Master. Every artist deserves indulgence—inspiration rarely strikes on an empty stomach or… unsatisfied body."
Ignis almost snorted. Lock them in a workshop and starve them until they deliver—you'd get masterpieces by the dozen.
As the carts reached their destination, the door opened—followed by unmistakable noises that confirmed the actor was, indeed, "indulging."
"I see your guests enjoy themselves," Ignis said casually, steering the talk toward what mattered. "Though, I did notice—there's only one exit. Suppose someone blocks it? PubSec have been cracking down on illegal establishments lately."
"You needn't worry, Master," Priscilla assured him smoothly. "We have a private escape route for our esteemed patrons. In any emergency, staff are trained to evacuate everyone safely."
"How reassuring," Ignis replied with a polite nod—while mentally adding hidden passage to his tactical map.
Priscilla stopped before another door and exchanged words with the attendant—a Canine Thiren. He nodded and opened it.
Ignis's eyes flicked over him: eyes and mouth stitched shut, tubes snaking from his back into a humming mechanical unit at his waist.
Servitor, or something worse.
Inside, the décor matched the hall—opulent to the point of parody. A vast canopy bed dominated the center, easily twice the size of the one in Ignis's forge-barracks. The carved posts bloomed into ornate floral motifs; gilded friezes crawled across the headboard and walls. Oil paintings—real ones, brushwork unmistakable—hung in heavy frames. Dozens of candles burned on silver stands, releasing heady perfume into the air.
"Interesting," Ignis said, settling onto the edge of the bed—it creaked alarmingly under his weight. "Outside looks like a hive club, but in here it's all retro nostalgia."
"I'm sorry if the furniture doesn't suit your size," Priscilla purred, sitting beside him. "Our employer already ordered a custom set made to your proportions. This room will always be reserved for you, Master."
"Well, that's generous." Ignis lifted her chin lightly between thumb and forefinger.
"Shall I prepare a bath first?" she asked, fingers curling around his. "The tub is large enough for you, I promise."
Damn. She's escalating.
"Uh… maybe some drink first," Ignis improvised. "Something strong—furnace-grade. I work best when I'm… fired up."
"As you wish." She dipped in a graceful bow. "We have such spirits on hand."
"And music," he added quickly. "Atmosphere matters."
Throne, what am I even saying?
Priscilla chuckled softly, hips swaying as she went to the wall and pressed her palm against a hidden panel. A sleek holo-interface slid out.
"Let's see… strongest liquor… and a bit of soft violin."
Gentle strings filled the room.
"Better make it two dozen bottles," Ignis said, masking his intent to turn them into Molotovs. "I've got a big frame to fill."
"Oh? I thought you didn't drink." She smiled over her shoulder.
"When necessary," he said evenly. "By the way, is there a lighter in the room?"
"I'll have one brought with the drinks," she replied, entering the order. Then she sidled close again. "Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps… something stimulating?"
Ignis's mind flashed back to the narcotic-laced "meals" downstairs. His enhanced physiology could handle poison—but daemonic chems were another matter. He wasn't about to become another corrupted addict like the Emperor's Children.
"I'll pass," he said flatly.
Priscilla's arms slid around his neck, breath hot on his ear. "Then perhaps… something else to warm things up?"
"Actually," Ignis interrupted, pointing toward a whip mounted decoratively on the wall, "I'm more curious about your special rooms."
Her smile widened. "Ah. I see the Master has particular tastes. Yes, we have specialized chambers—all varieties. You may choose any subject you desire: male, female, construct, Thiren, old or young. Whatever your art demands, we provide."
"And the cost?" Ignis asked, staring into her eyes.
"Money?" She laughed lightly. "So crude. Our employer collects artists, not coins. Art should never be stained by commerce."
She leaned closer, whispering: "All we ask is that you grace our stage occasionally—offer something bold, something unseen. A true avant-garde performance."
"What, you want me to forge a sword live on stage?" Ignis barked a laugh.
"Exactly! The Gardener would adore that. If you agreed, he'd attend in person."
Her enthusiasm was genuine—and completely deluded. Ignis fell silent. He'd sooner walk naked into the Eye of Terror than take part in a Slaaneshi "performance." Even imagining their idea of a forge made his skin crawl—human fat for fuel, skin for scabbards, blood for quenching.
The thought alone sent a chill down his massive spine.
"I prefer working alone," he said curtly. "No audience."
"Of course," she said quickly, still smiling. "Your presence here is honor enough." Then, gently: "At least let me help you bathe. A body like yours must be difficult to manage alone."
Her voice softened. "Please, Master… just once."
You think I'm here for pleasure? I'm here to burn this place down.
"No, lady," Ignis said, shaking his head.
"Why?" Her confusion was almost genuine—no one had ever refused her before.
"Simple," he said evenly. "You're not my type. And as a guest, I assume I have the right to choose who serves me."
Her expression dimmed—not angry, only hurt. A performance, but a convincing one.
Ignis's fingers twitched. If she insisted on staying, he was ready to snap her neck and hide the body in the bath.
"You're right," she said softly, voice trembling. "You may choose anyone you like."
She gestured at the wall panel, displaying portraits of dozens of attendants. "Take your time. I'll leave you to it."
At the door, she dabbed theatrically at her eyes before slipping out.
Ignis waited until her footsteps faded, then rose, switching to thermal vision. He scanned every inch of the suite—no hidden cameras, no surveillance nodes.
Too confident, he thought. They don't need recordings. Drugs and decadence will keep their victims compliant.
He lay back on the bed, mind racing.
Confirmed: Slaaneshi corruption. Destruction mandatory.
Known routes:
Entry through the undercity sewer, led by Polaris. Emergency tunnel Priscilla mentioned—likely reserved for "VIP" evacuation.
Live "entertainment" meant there had to be holding cells—a dungeon. Find it, mark it, free whoever's still alive.
There'd be a liquor storehouse for the Molotovs, and a kitchen—probably with gas lines he could rig into explosives.
Need to get out and scout. But the guard outside won't let me wander. Either distract him… or eliminate him.
He approached the console, scrolling through the gallery of performers—each with glossy photos and stats. It looked disturbingly like an retro "simulation game" interface.
Reducing living people to menu options. Disgusting.
Still, refusing to choose would arouse suspicion. Ignis selected a newly listed girl—one of the least experienced.
Gather intel. Escape. Come back in armor.
But first, he'd need an excuse to leave this gilded cage alive.
Something simple—like the girl didn't satisfy him.