Bloodwrack Shrine

56,50 €
incl. 19% VAT , plus shipping costs
3 In stock
Delivery time: 1 - 3 Workdays
Only 3 left

Thousands of years ago, the Bloodwrack Medusas were sorceresses of Ghrond who used their magic and bloodthirsty rituals to become more beautiful than even the gods. In doing so, they became aware of the goddess Aharti, who is vain beyond measure and suffers no mortal competition. In retaliation, the goddess of joy stripped the rising mortals of their beautiful forms and imprisoned them in pained, serpentine bodies. Deeming even that punishment inadequate, she reduced her thoughts to little more than beasts. Atharti left her victims only a sliver of consciousness, enough for them to remember with agony the beauty and power they once possessed. Morathi, who had thought for her grace alone that she needed no magical enhancement, drove her former sisters from Ghrond's walls. She then thanked Atharti for the well-deserved punishment and set about replenishing the Dark Monastery's ranks.

Now the Bloodwrack Medusae are eager to once again meet Morathi's needs, albeit in a vastly different way than in their previous lives. When a grand campaign beckons, the Hag Sorceress sends warriors into the caverns beneath the Spiteful Peaks and the filthy caverns within. Those who survive return to Ghrond with prisoners in tow - Bloodwrack Medusae, their claws bound and their faces masked. At Morathi's orders, the captives are chained to Athartis great Bloodwreck shrines and driven by dark magic to the front of the assembled armies.

A Bloodwreck Medusa's gaze is a fearsome weapon; should a victim's gaze meet hers for even a second, his lifeblood will rebel violently, oozing from every pore until his body collapses in a pool of his own blood. To protect themselves from this, the shrine guardians—priestesses so infatuated with their goddess that the act of worship has become their greatest pleasure—wear mirror-smooth masks. Worse, anyone fighting near a Bloodwreck shrine will be bewildered by an echo of Medusa's endless despair. All but the Dark Elves, that is; To them, the scent of suffering is like the finest perfume—an intoxicating brew when mixed with the smell of freshly spilled blood.


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