Blascronoret - Page 431


Meat falls from bone like a tender steak at an expensive restaurant. Engelschnitter's razor sharp edge carves through Number Three's legs with a torrent of blood. Perfect... Her femurs will make fine supports for the altar. You nimbly angle the fine blade at the center of Number Three's chest and push, slowly separating the rib cage.

Once the internal organs are removed, you pull each rib apart, laying them in a precise pattern next to the bloody femurs. To tie the structure together, you devise a makeshift rope by braiding lengths of tendon and muscle together. You give the bloody band a tug, testing the tensile strength, and then wrap it around the femur and a pair of ribs, creating the foundation. 

The creation of the altar consumes your mind. Number Four can wait. Numbers One and Two will be easy enough to find. Even after just a cursory glance you could tell that only Number Four possessed a true fighting spirit. One and Two will run like beaten dogs. They will return in similar fashion, tails between their legs, once the altar is completed. No one can resist the call of the Dark One.

You carve the meat away from the spinal column and set it aside. Using the utmost precision, you dig the tip of Engelschnitter into the soft vertebrae at the base of the column. A yellowish ooze runs out of the bone and collects in a pool at your feet. Heated by the open chasm to Hell, the marrow and spinal fluid will make a fine mortar.

Once the femurs and forearms are properly secured to the table of ribs, you prop the structure upright, enjoying the soft squishing sound it makes in the puddle of gore. The altar is almost complete. You drag Number Three's aromatic skin over the top of the altar and hammer it in place, using her finger bones as nails. You pull the skin taut and flick it once it is secured. It vibrates like the head of a drum.

"Only one thing left," you smile. "The heart of a fighter. Number Four's bloody, beating heart." Engelschnitter practically leaps from your grip. The blade itself is thirsty for slaughter. You must satisfy it.


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