They thought it was about pain. They thought it was all about pain. It was not. It was never about pain. Of course, there was no point in trying to explain it to them. Pain was all they knew so pain was all they saw. Pain was all they smelt. Pain was all they felt. Pain was their entire universe and still they knew nothing of it.

What they knew of pain was the loss of a limb. To have one's fingers carefully, exquisitely sheared off, on knuckle at a time. The feeling of having their bodies turned alight with the white-hot agony of neural excruciation. They thought pain of the body was all there was. Some, the clever ones, understood pain of the mind. They knew the pain of loss, of helplessness, of the fear that writhes in your belly, the phantom sensations that burned into the psyche after each session on the slab. They knew the agony of anticipation, they soul-searing suffering of compromising one's mind to preserve one's body, the pain of hearing the screams of a loved one that would not or could not be helped.

The most perspicacious knew pain of the spirit. They knew the loss of faith and morality that came from pain, the abandonment of sanctity that comes with true suffering. It was one thing to cower in fear from pain, another to fall into desperation to secure its relief. But worse still was the pain that was self-inflicted, with no coercion, no collusion. The pain of being striped of all pretense and be made to recognize one's own perversity. To lose one's very identity to the pain.

That was real pain, that was true suffering. To make mothers feast on their children, to make fathers beg not for an end to pain but for its continuation. That was the real art. That was the real purpose. And that was what he always remembered as he went about his work.

Slender, bladed fingers cradled the thing's head. No, it was not about the pain. He looked into the things's unblinking eyes. The think looked back. There was fear in those eyes, and miscomprehension. There was pain too. Mostly though, there was ignorance. The thing did not know yet the purpose for it's pain. It could not fathom the exquisite zenith of art and knowledge that it's suffering ineffable lead to. It did not understand, as he peeled its flesh off of it's face, that he wanted more than the base sadism of his kith and kin. It did not understand and he knew no way of communicating to the creature the deep designs for which it bled. He tried, he had spoken with it as he carved into it's gums, removing them from it's skull with a wet pop, but by then it had no words with which to convey its understanding. When he bored into it's ear canal and scooped out all the extraneous flesh from it's skull it lost the ability to hear his gentle explanations at all. But still, even now, bereft of most of it's base flesh it was aware. As he carved his foul runes into the inside of it's jaw and carefully etched the sigil of the Mon-Keigh Inquisition into the bloody bone of it's forehead he hoped it took solace in knowing that it's existence would still have means, greater know than it ever had before his loving caress. If nothing else it might take solace in the belief that it's labors would be in nominal service to it's primitive, heathen god-king.

Vix made a strange alien sound, almost a purr, almost almost a caw, almost a yawn. Rising from his place amidst the minutia of the things former life, he carefully stepped around the neatly stacked piles of bone and skin and sinew. Lifting the skull-thing, he placed it on the shelf with all the others. All those eyes, unblinking with no eyelids to blink, staring out with pain and fear the likes of which no mortal man could suffer to imagine. Vix bared his teeth back at his arrayed creations, their skeletal grins belaying none of their lack of appreciation for his ministrations. He would have to show the Inquisitor his latest work. Perhaps it was immodest of him, but Vix was certain it was his finest attempt yet. These 'servo-skulls' would be wonderful additions to the menagerie, held aloft by the wisdom of the Eldar, and moved by the very much still living brains of their original occupants, he could not help but feel a small amount of pride in his work, more nuanced and sophisticated than anything the mon-keigh had managed to create.

Thinking on the Inquisitor, Vix's smile turned sharper still. He was no fool. He knew when the masters used treats to placate their beasts. His latest materials were little more than an effort to distract and sate the Eldar in exile. To prevent him from making his particular presence known to the Inquisitors new pet. If Vix was given the have regard for the opinions of base creatures, he might find the notion insulting. Instead, it almost brought amusement. Mores the pity that the Inquisitor was not more comfortable with Vix's assistance, his interrogations were always more...informative with Vix around.

Still, Vix was sure he'd get his chance to drink of the new pet soon enough. More than he ever got with any of the others in any case. Vix still chaffed slightly from the Inquisitor's insulting refusal to allow Vix to have the Inquisitor's pet IllMureead creature, a beast with which Vix was especially interested in.

A small, involuntary whimper drew Vix from his spiteful reverie. He turned his face back towards the darkest corner of his domain. Ah, of course, he had almost forgotten. He still had one more collection of material as yet unused. It sobbed and soiled itself in the corner. No sense letting it spoil. Besides he had a particular use for this one.

The creature of cruelty and vision known as Vix stalked towards the fear-frozen heretic to the God-Emperor, his movements languid and predatory. Painfully thin and sharp limbs extending to claim it's flesh. He smiled in what he knew was by no means a reassuring manner and wrapped his bladed gauntlets delicately around it's throat. He wondered if it would understand, if during it's transformation, this one would know that there was about so much more than the pain.