Looking beyond the daemonettes and their wanton antics, I see that it is not just the lascivious pleasures that fill this impossible pavilion. All around me, there are works of breathtaking artistry from countless civilizations and cultural epochs, and the sounds of music and song conflict with the cries of pain and pleasure that fill the air. Here and there, the daemonettes dance, some furious and improvised, others calm and dignified. But be not deceived by all of this, dear reader, for there is nothing redeemable to be found in anything in this opulent realm. So many are the works of beauty and wisdom around me, and so impossibly diverse and manifold are the aesthetics on display and being performed, that they seem to assault my senses, denying me the time or consideration to appreciate them. They mingle and intermingle, until one becomes much the same as the other, and ceases to have any meaning or purpose other than to assault the mind and emotions of those unfortunate enough to be caught amidst them. Just as I am.
I see now what this pavilion is: it is a high temple to Slaanesh's dark glory; the great museum of his unholy arts; his nightmarish and soul-consuming harem.
Slaanesh’s chosen sycophants cavort and revel in unspeakable acts within the confines of the Fortress. For anyone unlucky enough to find themselves within its walls, the dynamics of the Fortress are a mockery of the genteel and courtly rules found in mortal noble houses. Bread is broken and cups are raised in dripping praise to the Lord of Pleasure, and the charade of courtly behaviour reigns in feasts of blood. The Fortress is filled with the constant din of screams — both in pain and pleasure — the cries of lovers and the dying, and the echoing cackling of daemons and debased mortals. The interior is exquisitely appointed in the finest of art, silken cushions, and decorated tables filled with all manner of treats and drink.
—Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Tome Of Corruption
Here were expensive bodies Remade into shapes to indulge dedicated gourmets of perverted flesh. There were children sold by their parents and women and men forced by debt to sell themselves to the flesh-sculptors, the illicit Remakers. There were rumours that many had been sentenced to some other Remaking, only to find themselves Remade by the punishment factories according to strange carnal designs and sold to the pimps and madams. It was a profitable side-line for the bio-thaumaturges of the state.
Time was stretched out and sickly in this endless corridor, like rancid treacle. At every door, every station along the way, David could not help but glance inside. He willed himself to look away but his eyes would not obey. It was like a nightmare garden. Each room contained some unique flesh flower, blossom of torture.
David paced past naked bodies covered in breasts like plump scales; monstrous crablike torsos with nubile girlish legs at both ends; a woman who gazed at him with intelligent eyes above a second vulva, her mouth a vertical slit with moist labia, a meat echo of the vagina between her splayed legs. Two little boys gazing bewildered at the massive phalluses they spouted. A hermaphrodite with many hands.
This was the ultimate brothel. You really could have anything, whoever your heart desired. And it worked. Mengele never quite got to reap the fruits of his endeavours - he got his comeuppance in some accident or other after a few more years of manufacturing refugees from Hieronymus Bosch paintings. But what he created lives on. Fantasies tailor-made, so minutely perfect you can't see the join.
As long as you don't think too hard about where the meat they're made from comes from.
—Welcome To Mengele's, by Simon Bestwick
