'You will pay for this!', spat Sister Maria, a fledgling member of the Adepta Sororitas and the only survivor of her convent's failed assault.
The ceramite battleplate and ceremonial habit she once prized had been sundered and scattered about the chamber, discarded with a dispassionate flick; with it, her decency had been lain bare. Strength suited the nun's feminine form, as fertile as she was robust. Each muscle contoured and every curve emphasized. Purplish tendrils coiled about her wrists and ankles, oozing a lubricating sludge and binding the loyalist in a rigid kneeling position, hands clasped behind her head. She would have thrashed and snarled with increased vigor had the gilt-studded gauntlet of her captor not held so firm upon her snowy crown.
His voice was a sickly sweet melody, an ominous prayer to some maleficent deity, 'Such vigor! Such flesh. O' how you'll squeal with delight soon enough!' It was an enthusiasm unbefitting of an Astartes, though this - thing - had long rejected such a title. The disturbed retinue it cavorted with no other name than the 'Emperor's Children' Traitor Legion; their current state a bastardization of the title by all accounts.
While Maria maintained her sneer, it was almost impossible not to recoil at the terrible visage of the corrupted space marine. A leathery veil of pulsing man-flesh was stretched across his helmet's plated his own ghoulish face. More sickening was the web-way of distended tendrils that palpitated beneath the layers of purple ceramite it called armor; some snaked their way to the rim of her ears and toyed at the lobes with rapacious intrigue.
'Traitor. The Emperor protects!' Bravado had strengthened Maria in the face of certain death many times before. Unfortunately, death would've been a blessing. The battle-sister failed to understand the terrible reality of her situation; the perversions that awaited would be legend even in the Eye of Terror.
The Champion of Slaanesh slouched down, hovering just above her scarred left shoulder, 'We are not done yet, my dear.' He chuckled, 'o' the sights we have planned!' From the yawning hole of where his vox-grill should have occupied, a palp-like tongue slithered forth and slathered her lightlly-scarred cheek with a powerful stimulant. In his free hand, a foaming chalice of pearly discharge frothed and popped. Had that been? Surely no...