Thousands of years ago, the Bloodwrack Medusae were Sorceresses of Ghrond who used their magics and blood-feasting rituals to become more beautiful than even the gods. In so doing, they came to the attention of the goddess Atharti, who is vain beyond measure and suffers no mortal competition. In retribution, the Goddess of Pleasure stripped the upstart mortals of their beauteous forms and caged them in pain-wracked, serpentine bodies. Even this punishment she deemed insufficient, and so she reduced their minds to be little more than those of beasts. Atharti left only one sliver of awareness to her victims, enough that they might always remember with torment the beauty and power they had once possessed. Morathi, who alone had accounted her comeliness in no need of magical enhancement, drove her former sisters from Ghrond's walls. She then gave thanks to Atharti for delivering a punishment well-earned, and set about replenishing the Dark Convent's ranks.[1a]
Now the Bloodwrack Medusae are bent to serve Morathi's needs once more, though in a manner entirely different to that of their former lives. When a great campaign beckons, the Hag Sorceress sends warriors into the caverns below the Spiteful Peaks and the squalid lairs therein. Those who survive return to Ghrond with prisoners in tow -- Bloodwrack Medusae, their claws bound and their faces masked. At Morathi's direction, the captives are chained to Atharti's great Bloodwrack Shrines and propelled by Dark Magic to the very forefront of the assembled armies.[1a]
A Bloodwrack Medusa's gaze is a fearsome weapon; should a victim's eyes lock with hers for even a second, his lifeblood violently rebels, flooding from every pore until his body collapses into a pool of its own gore. It is to guard against this that the shrinekeepers -- priestesses so beguiled by their goddess that the act of worship has become their chief pleasure -- wear masks polished to a mirror-like sheen. Worse still, all who fight near a Bloodwrack Shrine find their minds twisted by an echo of the Medusa's endless despair. All save the Dark Elves, that is; to them, the scent of suffering is akin to the finest perfume -- a heady brew when mixed with the tang of fresh-spilt blood.[1a]
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