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[bitchofsteel]

"You and I are in need of armor."

Grythan had not yet earned his own armor, that would come in time. That would come at the end of augmentation, when he proved his worth on the battlefield and returned with the heads of his foes. For now, he'd be kitted in the many of every Neophyte of the Noosemen, in leather and steel, decorated with trophies of his own make. Freyja, on the other hand, was to be bedecked in a suit of ancient power armor worn down by and repaired from thousands of battles. Walking to a palm scanner near the door, she laid a gloved hand atop its surface. Even in a body glove, it would recognize her unique genetic signature and call forth her thralls. When it scanned the appendage, what little light in the room that wasn't candlelight turned blood red. That was the signal. Only a moment later, her thralls arrived, serfs and slaves collected in war who owed generational debts to her people. All of these men and women she'd collected herself. Those collected by her predecessor were long dead, for her own reign as Mistress had already lasted a century and a half. The slaves hurried into the room, fearful of what would happen if they were even a moment late.

With painstakingly practiced skill, they pulled plate after plate from the racks and laid it atop their Mistress. She did not even have to pull Venom from the wall; the largest among them, a hairy mutant with the face of an ape retrieved it for her. Drawing a knife, he ran it atop his own hand and rubbed the bloodied appendage all over the weapon's blade.

"FIRST BLOOD!" He bellowed, and his fellow thralls repeated.

Then he sliced open an artery, one easy to sew closed, but ripe enough to bleed profusely. Freyja knelt down to his level and opened her mouth, allowing her servant's blood to coat her lips.

"For the Hunt." He said.

"May the Aspects guide your blade."

"What about him?" Said Freyja, motioning to the Neophyte as her slaves fitted her prosthetic arm to its socket.

"Him? Have I not given enough? He's too young!"

"More!" Demanded Freyja, and without so much as waiting for her thrall to refuse her, she drew a knife and opened the ape's throat.

Cupping her hand, she collected his life's blood.

"Grythan!" She demanded.

"Drink! For the hunt!"

"Freyja! Cousin!" Grythan cried out as he ran towards his elder cousin with something wrapped in a cloth burlap, what ever laid beneath it hidden from his cousin's view. "I brought my art and surgiacal tools, like you asked!" The boy exclaimed excited to having his lesson tutoured by Frejya for once.

"Welcome, little Cousin!" Said Freyja.

She waited for her young protege with open arms, eager to help transform him into a waking nightmare. She would make him into a terror, another man-eating monster to loose against the Imperium like an arrow.

She never felt that way about it, about rearing little brothers, sisters, and cousins. In her mind, she was molding heroes, champions of the Gods who would bring bloody vengeance against their enemies.

Grythan was the first of many, a trade of youths between the Nooseman and the Minstrels. If they trained together, their fire-forged bonds would be near-unbreakable. The allaince between the two warbands would prosper on the backs of the generations to come. "You're my dear Cousin Matthew's kicthen boy, aren't you? Come, child, I have a lesson for you. Today we're going to do some meat carving."

Freyja motioned for the Neophyte to follow, leading him into a rather plain looking room within the Sanctum's high black walls. Within, fresh meat laid on a slab; the carcass of a filthy Loyalist lapdog cleaved in two. Bloody holes were ripped out of his chest and neck where his progenoids had been reclaimed.

"I believe you knew this man, didn't you?"

@cookingintheeye

[bitchofsteel]

Reblog if u want anonymous dms and asks :)

[bitchofsteel]

Her ancient weapons hung on the wall before them and her armor was stored beneath their feet, ready to be mounted plate by plate when she called upon her thralls to arm her.

Before the two of them were two axes of archaic make, both of which were relics of a bygone era. To their right, Venom, a power axe taken from the worthless carcass of a so-called brother who would have betrayed her had he not been slain in the early days of the Long War. Now it barely resembled the weapon she looted from that corpse. She's made it her own, carving Chaotic runes into its surface and wrapping its handle in strips of human leather.

And beside it laid Mercy, her brutal chainaxe, liberated from the grip of a dead World Eater that very same day. It had a name before her, one long forgotten, for it was now Mercy. It was the only mercy she would grant her enemies. It's chain was studded with monomolecular metal 'dragon's teeth', and it's housing painted in the jade, brass, black, and deep blue of her warband. Upon its housing, it bore a vulgar threat scrawled in her native tongue.

Fetyo Andane!

Your face here!

Freyja gently plucked Mercy from her rack as if cradling an especially delicate child. She knew the weapon to be a sturdy thing; it had lasted her this long, after all. Yet that didn't stop her from treating the sacred tool of righteous vengeance like her pride and joy. And then she handed Mercy off to Grythan. "I will shadow you when we arrive. Mercy will protect you where I can't. I trust she's in capable hands."

"Freyja! Cousin!" Grythan cried out as he ran towards his elder cousin with something wrapped in a cloth burlap, what ever laid beneath it hidden from his cousin's view. "I brought my art and surgiacal tools, like you asked!" The boy exclaimed excited to having his lesson tutoured by Frejya for once.

"Welcome, little Cousin!" Said Freyja.

She waited for her young protege with open arms, eager to help transform him into a waking nightmare. She would make him into a terror, another man-eating monster to loose against the Imperium like an arrow.

She never felt that way about it, about rearing little brothers, sisters, and cousins. In her mind, she was molding heroes, champions of the Gods who would bring bloody vengeance against their enemies.

Grythan was the first of many, a trade of youths between the Nooseman and the Minstrels. If they trained together, their fire-forged bonds would be near-unbreakable. The allaince between the two warbands would prosper on the backs of the generations to come. "You're my dear Cousin Matthew's kicthen boy, aren't you? Come, child, I have a lesson for you. Today we're going to do some meat carving."

Freyja motioned for the Neophyte to follow, leading him into a rather plain looking room within the Sanctum's high black walls. Within, fresh meat laid on a slab; the carcass of a filthy Loyalist lapdog cleaved in two. Bloody holes were ripped out of his chest and neck where his progenoids had been reclaimed.

"I believe you knew this man, didn't you?"

@cookingintheeye

[bitchofsteel]

@bitchofsteel ‘s Freyja

[bitchofsteel]

Moon Maidens color Schemes by Ranks, and (My take on) the anatomy guide of the Female Astartes

[bitchofsteel]

(visibly shaking and covered in blood) yeah its just been kind of a long week haha

[bitchofsteel]

Have a drink with my muse!

Send an emoji for our muses to enjoy a wild night out!

🍸 - for a drinking contest between our muses

🍷 - for our muses to have an honest conversation about life while drinking

🫗 - for our muses to spill their secrets while drunk

🎯 - for a drunk darts game

🥤 - for a game of beer pong

🎱 - for a pool game

🪩 - for our muses to go dancing while drunk

🎤 - for our muses to sing karaoke while drunk

👊 - for our muses to start a fight while drunk

🧱 - for our muses to do some crime while drunk

🫂 - for our muses to try and get home after a night of drinking

📱 - for my muse to call yours to pick them up after drinking too much

📵 - for your muse to call mine to pick them up after drinking too much

🛏️ - for our muses to wake up in the same bed after a night out (can be platonic or romantic)

[bitchofsteel]

Send me a “🥞“ for your muse to throw some pancakes at my muse.

[bitchofsteel]

send me 🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character.

[bitchofsteel]

"Did you know?" Asked Freyja, her voice growing sharper with every passing word.

She so desperately wanted to trust Skalagrim. That man was the only creature among his band of cutthroats who, so far, had made no move to dupe her or use her. She owed the man her life twice over, so why now would he turn on her?

Why now would he sell her out to one who would gladly see her discarded and forgotten.

But could he even be trusted anymore?

He was the other, a disciple of her betrayer. He had come to take her head, hadn't he, to ensure the deed was done?

"Or is your master too great a coward to end me himself?"

She can feel the guest in her flesh grow restless. She can feel her clawed fingers involuntarily twitching. Her haunted hand was like a dog licking its chops.

Blood!

Flesh!

Chaos!

The daemon would have his due. They only had to wait, to lure the betrayers into their snare.

"You may yet be the only one to survive this." She warned.

"But if you lie, I will show you no mercy!"

"Your people ruined me!" Freyja accused, pointing to incision scars along her right arm that could have only been the handiwork of a third legion Apothecary.

"Your underlings gave me this affliction and you will undo it!"

Her flesh was marred by hundreds of self afflicted scars, memories of lacerations and puncture wounds she'd wrought in an attempt to relieve her thirst for pain. Thousands of years ago, she'd been spared the shame of a dishonorable death.

This was the cost.

@bitchofsteel

It is rare to get an emotional response from the Chief Apothecary. He tends to be almost notoriously secretive and his will to deny Slaanesh even the slightest sacrifice in the form of feelings is ironclad. But this time he seems to allow himself an exception. A smile as if cut into his face with a scalpel shows amusement. He puts his fingertips together and rests his chin on them. "Do you know the old Terran tale of the people who wanted to eradicate a nick by cutting it away? That's the perfect analogy for your situation. Of course I can cut off your arm and replace it with a weapon of your - or better: my - choice. This is no more than a finger exercise. But what exactly is the point?"

[bitchofsteel]

Female Sons of Horus

Art by Octosoup

[bitchofsteel]

[bitchofsteel]

This is the Consortium frigate Vesalius. Ready for rendezvous on the station. Are there any problems?

The Consortium?

Here?

After they had sent her to her doom?!

Not even the familiar voice of her brother among them could put the beastess's mind at ease. Had Skalagrim known about this plot? Was he in on it? Was he aware that his master had knowingly disposed of her? What little trust of hers he'd gained was quickly wearing thin. Even still, she trusted a son of Father Horus far more than she trusted any of his colleagues.

He at least had the benefit of a blood-tie on his side and had the bragging rights of not being affiliated with the Usurper and his Black Legion.

"Did you know about this?" Freyja answered.

In her hearts she hoped to have at least one ally on that accursed ship, one innocent she'd leave alive once she'd slaughtered all the rest.

In her gut she already had her answer, and it was one she didn't like.

"Are you surprised to find me breathing, brother?!"

"Your people ruined me!" Freyja accused, pointing to incision scars along her right arm that could have only been the handiwork of a third legion Apothecary.

"Your underlings gave me this affliction and you will undo it!"

Her flesh was marred by hundreds of self afflicted scars, memories of lacerations and puncture wounds she'd wrought in an attempt to relieve her thirst for pain. Thousands of years ago, she'd been spared the shame of a dishonorable death.

This was the cost.

@bitchofsteel

It is rare to get an emotional response from the Chief Apothecary. He tends to be almost notoriously secretive and his will to deny Slaanesh even the slightest sacrifice in the form of feelings is ironclad. But this time he seems to allow himself an exception. A smile as if cut into his face with a scalpel shows amusement. He puts his fingertips together and rests his chin on them. "Do you know the old Terran tale of the people who wanted to eradicate a nick by cutting it away? That's the perfect analogy for your situation. Of course I can cut off your arm and replace it with a weapon of your - or better: my - choice. This is no more than a finger exercise. But what exactly is the point?"

[bitchofsteel]

Veterans of the Long War

by Adrian Smith

[bitchofsteel]

Send “📂“ for a random yet completely useless headcanon I have

[bitchofsteel]

It wasn't long before Freyja became aware of them herself. Her new companion sensed them before she saw them, a crew of two thousand souls, two thousand flickering lights in the distance, some brighter than others.

Was this the Sight?

Was this how her spirit-patron perceived its reality, every soul a spark in a roaring fire? One spark flew from the cluster with great haste. It was coming to her, nearing her. It would take hours for it to find her, but something within her warned her of its danger.

Then it appeared on the auspex, a ship larger than the abandoned voidstation itself. From here she had no way of knowing who or what had come to join her, but paranoia told her that someone or something else was seeking the power she had only recently gained.

And they wouldn't have it.

She was chosen.

She was favored by the Gods!

She, and no one else!

So she waited like a long-jawed worm in the ocean sand. Whatever was coming would feel the bite.

"Your people ruined me!" Freyja accused, pointing to incision scars along her right arm that could have only been the handiwork of a third legion Apothecary.

"Your underlings gave me this affliction and you will undo it!"

Her flesh was marred by hundreds of self afflicted scars, memories of lacerations and puncture wounds she'd wrought in an attempt to relieve her thirst for pain. Thousands of years ago, she'd been spared the shame of a dishonorable death.

This was the cost.

@bitchofsteel

It is rare to get an emotional response from the Chief Apothecary. He tends to be almost notoriously secretive and his will to deny Slaanesh even the slightest sacrifice in the form of feelings is ironclad. But this time he seems to allow himself an exception. A smile as if cut into his face with a scalpel shows amusement. He puts his fingertips together and rests his chin on them. "Do you know the old Terran tale of the people who wanted to eradicate a nick by cutting it away? That's the perfect analogy for your situation. Of course I can cut off your arm and replace it with a weapon of your - or better: my - choice. This is no more than a finger exercise. But what exactly is the point?"

[bitchofsteel]

The creature slipped into her blood like a disease, worming its way into every vein and nerve ending. The feeling was sublime, like diving into a frozen pond with nothing but the skin on your bones. There was shock, the ice of pure emotion crystallizing within, the nausea setting into like a rock in her gut. There was clarity, cold and slick like a knife's edge, a glimpse beyond the infinite. For a moment she lost herself, all perceptions, all sense, all feeling and was thrown to the wolf that waited in the dark beyond the cosmos themselves. She could see into eternity, into a many-eyed abyss. Eternity stared back, its gaze piercing her spirit. For a moment she knew all there was to know, every secret, every lie, every word of every curse in every tome ever written. And when she breathed again, it was all gone. She could no longer hear him, the one called Krazzsh.

She could feel him.

She could feel him as keenly as she could feel her own arms and legs. And she could still feel herself. Thank the Four, she could still feel herself! He was a daemon of his word, a rarity for a son of the Changer. More importantly, she could feel its power in her veins like fresh lava pouring from a wound in the earth. With little more than a thought, she could unleash this fire upon anyone who'd dare stand in her way. Was this what it was like? Was this what it was like to hold the gifts of the Gods in her hands? Was this what she'd valued, what she'd envied of those who shared a closer connection to the Spirit Realm than she? And was it really this easy? Just make a mutually beneficial pact with a daemon and that was it, the power was hers? "We leave!" Said Freyja in a voice that was hers but not quite hers. Something else had layered itself into the intonations, something deeper and darker like the benthic depths.

Was she really still Freyja?

She felt like Freyja.

She looked like Freyja.

But there was something else there now, another intelligence behind those emerald eyes.

"Your people ruined me!" Freyja accused, pointing to incision scars along her right arm that could have only been the handiwork of a third legion Apothecary.

"Your underlings gave me this affliction and you will undo it!"

Her flesh was marred by hundreds of self afflicted scars, memories of lacerations and puncture wounds she'd wrought in an attempt to relieve her thirst for pain. Thousands of years ago, she'd been spared the shame of a dishonorable death.

This was the cost.

@bitchofsteel

It is rare to get an emotional response from the Chief Apothecary. He tends to be almost notoriously secretive and his will to deny Slaanesh even the slightest sacrifice in the form of feelings is ironclad. But this time he seems to allow himself an exception. A smile as if cut into his face with a scalpel shows amusement. He puts his fingertips together and rests his chin on them. "Do you know the old Terran tale of the people who wanted to eradicate a nick by cutting it away? That's the perfect analogy for your situation. Of course I can cut off your arm and replace it with a weapon of your - or better: my - choice. This is no more than a finger exercise. But what exactly is the point?"