This article, Fanon Classic Kabal of Twisted Thorns, is still being created by the author. The author, AmyTheStray, apologizes for the inconvenience.
"It is quite obvious that not a single one of you understands the gravity of the situation. Sedition; plain and without masque. Mark my words, this is just another step in the wrong direction... a step I am more than willing to foster."
Far bellow the star-guttering spires of High Commorragh, the desolate dregs of the lower city stretch out in infinity like a jagged web. Through the ensorceled shadows of blood-water slick allies, along the claustrophobically narrow, mind splintering lengths of pain theaters and hellow stockades lies the Mance of Kja'Rehdo. It is here, bellow the shadow of the Core Spur that Sha'Thiie and his Kabal of Twisted Thorns make their lair.
Acting as more of a howling Hellion gang than a proper Kabal, the Twisted Thorns are a young and savage group of motley Ynneas clad in miss-matched armour, pitted and chipped with use. Built from the ground down by the self titled 'Prince of Thorns', the half flooded 'mansion' of Kja'Rehod ('Hidden Palace' in the Eldar tongue) is a shadow infested ruin of tunnels and caverns (once of industrial use) in the arteries bellow the Core Spur. Founded in the time the Mon Kiegh known as M39, the Twisted Thorns have remained an insignificant blot in the ink-dark pool of Kabals, Cults and secret societies that make up the life blood of Commorite society. As befits a Kabal of such obscurity, the Twisted Thorns are as poor as beggars, gaining what little income they can through various schemes and plots set around the denizens of lower Core Spur, or even plain and simple theft and murder.
Made up of ex-slaves and runaways, the Twisted Thorns are not the best equipped Kabal in the Nightmare Realm. Clad in dark green and silver segment-plate of archaic fashion, the followers of the Thorned Prince scrounge all that they possess from the abandoned ruins and factories of Old Core Spur. As such, the Kabal's armoury is stocked with ancient weapons and armour of styles that are fully abandoned by the more socially attuned members of Commorite society - a fact which makes more than a few members of the Kabal quite scornful.
"You see them? The ones across from us in red. Look at them. One day... that will be us."
—Dracon Hyicnhi, at the Core Spur High-Ring
The chosen colour of Sha'Thiie's Kabalite warriors is a deep, mossy green; a theme that is seen through out the Twisted Thorns in not only armour, but in the spindly tattoos that cover the alabaster skin of the warriors and the long knotted braids upon their heads.
"Child of words, I give thee motive. Child of words, I give thee life. Child of words, I give thee darkness; and in that darkness mold thy strife."
—Seventh Rite of the Blackened
Much like their larger cousins, the Kabal of Twisted Thorns stands as a pseudo-monarchistic dictatorship ruled over with supreme will and command by the Kabal's Archon, the slithy, manic and slightly touched 'Prince of Thorns'.
Ruling Class and Retainers
Sha'Thiie, whose power and insight (some say foreknowledge) is unquestionable with in the deep of the Hidden Palace, has lead his people in unspeakable rites and bloody atrocities unending since the founding of his 'family'. Holding the power over elemental Shadow, a potent gift indeed in the darkness of the Nightmare Realm, the Thorned Prince continues to gather his Scions and thralls in waiting.
Nuorka the Architect, the Starless Gazer, the second of the Thorned Prince. Standing in for the Archon while he
The Incubi of the Twisted Thorn, known as the Hak'orii (Primogen), are a singularly savage and loyal triarch of Punisher armed killers whose soul(less) ambition is to follow the directions of their master. Tasked with the role of enforcing the Archon's rule, the three nameless nightmareclads are rarely seen but never forgotten.
The mass of the Twisted Thorns forces began their lives in the lower city as slaves and miscreants who, when given the right motivation, flocked to Sha'Thiie and his band in their droves. Known amounts themselves as Green Thorns, these lowlifes believe themselves the 'masters of poisoning'.
Bitter droplets of rain fell like silver daggers across Versi's skin as he lay almost insensible amoung the grime soaked jumble of the narrow near-way - his exposed flesh cringing from the slicing pain. From end to end the long dark passage was littered floor and wall with scraps of metal and cloth, bones and blood, and many fairly more unseemly articles. This sunless patch of forgotten proto-cosmopolitan ruin, as it was, is the gloomed haunt of the dreaded Mandrake.
Slowly, with painful motions, the stricken Ynneas lifted himself stiffly from the filthy ground; gasping as his unremembered wounds twinged agonously along with his motion. Brushing himself clean of ally grime, Versi gathered his wits and slowly found his bearings. Peering absently through the darkness, his keen eyes, for just a moment picked out a slow gathering shape gliding shiftfully amoung the rubble to the northern end of the alleyway. Taking an unsteady step toward the dark metal wall, he lent to relieve his aching bones and reform his blurry mind - the dark shape seeming of no consequence to Versi's addled senses, and all at once becoming supreme in his mind as the already frigid temperature turned arctic and pinched at him with hollow pain.