#Imperium 2: Chapter 1

[alavestineneas]

i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men chapter 1 - chapter 2 word count: 6,5K

author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!

Kaitain, 10176 AG

The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.

''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''

The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''

''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''

''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''

The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.

One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''

Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.

The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene   Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.

-

The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.

YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.

''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.

''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.

YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.

YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.

Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.

YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.

When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.

God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.

-

The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.

That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.

''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.

''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"

Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.

''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."

Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''

So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.

He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.

''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.

Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."

They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''

The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''

Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''

The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being  seen  made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''

-

The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.

She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors.  ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,''  Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.

Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.

Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?

''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''

''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.

''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''

Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.

''You know I walk without guards.''

Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.

''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''

''Yes,'' her sister nods.  ''I'll take you,''  it means.

So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.

Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.

Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.

Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.

Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.

''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.

''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''

''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''

Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.

Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.

The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.

Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.

Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there.  ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,''  she whispers again and again.

She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.

The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.

''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.

Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.

The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.

''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?

''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you  done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.

Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.

-

YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?

Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.

So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.

The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.

''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.

The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.

She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.

-

"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.

Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.

"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."

The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.

YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"

Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."

YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"

"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"

She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.

-

Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.

Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.

''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.

The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''

Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.

''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''

YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.

''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''

YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.

''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''

''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''

Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''

''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''

Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.

Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.

''What is it, sister?  Speak .''

''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''

The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.

It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.

''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''

Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''

''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''

''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''

''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''

''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''

The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''

She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven In Your Eyes || Masterlist

Pairing: Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC (Heaven Lavey Shelby)

Additional content/Info: CLICK HERE

Fic Summary: He meets her at church one dreary night, guided by her singing. Her name? Heaven Lavey. White ivory hair, fair porcelain skin, and petite shape, this almost ethereal creature is Arthur's strict opposite. Yet, all it took was one dive into her heavenly eyes for him to be convinced God has sent His sweetest angel to save his bastard soul. The two lovebirds, obsessed with each other, are determined to live their love no matter people's judgments and no matter the dangers of a Peaky Blinder's life. They are together through the best and through the worst.

But behind her holy appearance and sweet facade, Heaven Lavey is dangerous. With rumors of witchcraft and murder, her shady past weighs on her shoulders. And if she is a blessing for Arthur Shelby, she will soon prove to be a curse for those who dare to stand in her and her husband's way. Even Thomas Shelby himself.

She is Arthur’s Angel, but don't get fooled by her doe eyes: for the rest of us, she is the White Devil.

And by extend, you are too.

Why? Because Heaven Lavey… It’s you.

TW: Major character death, explicit sexual content, canonical violence, graphic description of violence, blasphemy, witch trials and burning of innocent women, dependent relationship (if Arthur and Heaven are happy in their relationship, they are obsessed and possessive, which leads to bursts of violence and deifying from Arthur. By no means I am claiming their relationship is healthy, but it is what works for them)

ACT I. SACRILEGE

♢ Ch. 1 || Heaven in Your Eyes

♢ Ch. 2 || Never Did, Never Dared

♢ Ch. 3 || Something Wicked This Way Comes 🔞

♢ Ch. 4 || Dead Bird at Witchin Hour

♢ Ch. 5 || The Hell in His Eyes

♢ Ch. 6 || The One They Should Have Burned

♢ Ch. 7 || Of Matches and Gasoline 🔞

♢ Ch. 8 || Tango on Broken Dreams

ACT II. CARNAGE

♢ Ch. 9 || For Whom the Bells Toll

♢ Ch. 10 || Closer to Heaven or Closer to Hell? 🔞

♢ Ch. 11 || When The Bridges Burn

♢ Ch. 12 || As They Always Did

♢ Ch. 13 || Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

♢ Ch. 14 || Pure As a Lamb 🔞

♢ Ch. 15 || Women Like Me in a Men's World

♢ Ch. 16 || Après Moi le Déluge

♢ Ch. 17 || Our Old Friend Death (c o m i n g . . .)

♢ Ch. 18 || Il Diàvulu Biancu

♢ Ch. 19 || Empire of Lies

♢ Ch. 20 || The Fog of Silent Hills

ACT III.

♢ Ch. 21 ||

♢ Ch. 22 ||

♢ Ch. 23 ||

♢ Ch. 24 ||

♢ Ch. 25 ||

♢ Ch. 26 ||

♢ Ch. 27 ||

♢ Ch. 28 ||

♢ The series can be longer.

Some events from the show are taken and obviously reworked. Yet, except for a few quotes and scenes, everything else is imagined by the author.

Related works - in chronological order-

♢ From Blood We Will Grow

♢ To Bark and Bite

♢ Kaiser Meeting Cyril (requested)

♢ A Bone to Pick With It (requested)

♢ Perfect Lines

♢ Savage Daughter

♢ A Slice of Us (Modern!HYE)

♢ Love Ritual (@zablife's celebration)

♢ The Woods Whisper 1, 2 (Halloween Horror)

♢Little Lamb 1, 2, 3 (Yandere!AU)

Moodboards and other content

♢ Playlist

♢ Moodboard Aesthetic

♢ Moodboard Chapter 6

♢Heaven In your Eyes Act II trailer

♢ Moodboard Chapter 12

♢ Heaven in your Eyes chapter 16 trailer

Looking for more? Check out Heaven's masterlist I and II.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @cjarbo @red-riding-wood @rysko @lokigirlszendaya

[moodymisty]

𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓’𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐, 𝖆𝖘 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖘 𝖎𝖙’𝖘 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖒𝖊

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Part 1, part 2

Author’s note: Decided to have a more fleshed out version of the Cato bullying arc. This is the timeline where Titus and reader are just friendly, and it's all Sicarius/Reader. If you want a Titus/Reader/Sicarius sandwich fic, feel free to say! I'd be happy to make another fic because I have a bunch more ideas that would work for a love triangle version of this plotline. I just really wanted to do this one first, since it's kind of the original idea.

Summary: Cato Sicarius continues to fume over Primarch Guilliman's diplomat, unable to hide his disdain; But neither you or himself are wise to how he truly feels.

Relationships: Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Degradation, Sexism/misogyny, Choking, Size difference, Toxic relationship

Word count: 798 (short but don't worry chapter 2 is a doozy this is just plot)

Your steps towards Guilliman’s personal holotable are hesitant, hands knitted at your front. Your skin is mostly covered by the delicate fabric of your dress, but you still struggle to not shiver. The air of the ship is always so cold.

“You called, Lord Guilliman?”

He looks up from the sickly green glow of the table, of which makes the tired, wrinkled expression on his face more exaggerated - and raises his brows.

“Yes, I did. I have a task for you.”

It’s still daunting to speak to him, especially so casually. It is also just as daunting to have him speak so casually to you back as well, as if he doesn't even realize the magnitude of who he is.

Primarchs are- they’re demigods. Gods, to some.

But Guilliman has shown himself to be remarkably human, and you’ve tried to respect his demands be treated as such. It seems most of the time those requests have fallen on deaf ears, as he has begrudgingly remarked about the frequent prayers and prostration of Imperial priests whenever they are in his presence.

You never thought about how a god might find the dedication of his worshipers exasperating, but either way you nod and look at him expectantly.

“I need you to speak to some of the planetary officials here about using their world as a logistics hub.” You don’t need much more information to know the gist of what Guilliman is asking.

He needs worlds- an ever increasing amount of them - to produce and send materials around Ultramar and the broader Imperium. They would need to give up significant independence for that. Permanently. The likelihood of this war ending in any of your lifetimes is a wish upon dead stars.

“I am assuming this isn’t a question you’ll want a no on,” You say partly joking with a hint of a smile at the corners of your mouth. Guilliman nods.

“Convince them this is a good idea so we do not have to apply force. I would like to save the bolter ammunition, if possible.”

You’re used to this type of work, and so you nod with sufficient understanding. Guilliman shifts in his armor, briefly looking down at a blinking dot on his holotable for a moment. One of many; You wonder how he is able to absorb and remember such an overwhelming amount of information as he looks up to speak to you again.

“I will send some of Second Company with you to-“ Guilliman notices you expression sour, and you catch it too late for him to have not noticed.

“...Is there something wrong with that?”

Your hands unknit from your front to try and wave away the disrespect you thought you just showed him, pursing your lips. You were once warm, but not your face feels overwhelmingly hot.

“I’m so sorry lord Guilliman, that was immature of-“

“It’s Sicarius, isn’t it.”

You stop speaking and look away, licking your lips. Guilliman sighs and rakes a gauntlet over his dusty blonde hair, before returning them to rest on the edge of the holotable. You can hear the metal of either the table or his armor creak and groan under his strength.

“I have confronted him on his attitude once before, has he still not stopped with this nonsense?” You swallow a knot in your throat.

Sicarius looked to you with a sneer on his lips, as he faced you. His olive skin shines with a red glow from the hazard lights around the ship's cargohold.

‘I struggle to think of a reason why we need you here.’ You- perhaps naively - spoke up in response.

‘Agriworlds are important logistically and diplomatically, and they’re prime targets for e-‘ Sicarius looked at you like you were nothing more than mud on the sole of his boots.

‘Did I ask for you to speak?’

You pursed your lips, and soaked in the frigid silence of the refiltered air. All the other marines stayed out of it; They have no stake in this and want not to get involved, or know they can’t without punishment from their captain.

Sicarius sighs and shifts in his armor, looking away from you with a petulant expression.

‘It really is true that women do nothing but talk.’

Mouth pursed tightly shut, you looked away from Sicarius to Titus and an astartes beside him; They looked back with stoic, but sympathetic expressions. They can't say anything, but at least you know you aren't alone in this.

Letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the feeling offers a bit of relief; But it does little to temper the frustration you feel overall.

"No, it hasn't stopped. If anything, it seems to have only gotten worse since you spoke to him."

The primarch moves and leans away from the holotable, and you reemerge fully from your memory and speak up. Perhaps you shouldn't speak out of turn to him, but he hasn't punished you for doing so yet in your conversations with him.

“Can you not have Titus lead the retinue?” Guilliman furrows his brow and sighs. Sicarius' unfounded hatred towards you is proving to make something that should be quite simple overwhelmingly difficult; And frustrating.

“I wish to abide by the proper chain of command, but he’s experienced despite his demotion.” He places a hand on his hip. You hope that your hesitation comes across as less whiny as you think it does, but given that Guilliman broached the topic first, you assume that he is in agreement with you that Sicarius' has been, in Guilliman's words of which had made you nearly choke hearing come from the mouth of the Lord Regent:

A colossal pain in the ass.

You take a step forward, crossing your arms shrugging your shoulders at him.

“I don't need the man to like me. But his attitude is so unbearable that I struggle to think of a way where we could co-exist without him despising every moment of it."

Guilliman sighs, and you feel bad for bringing yet another problem to his plate, when he already seems so overwhelmed with it all. You are too in extension; Since Guilliman recruited you as his diplomat he has been desperate to delegate you tasks to give him breathing room. Even if they aren't entirely diplomatic in nature, he seems quite appreciative when you handle things for him.

Getting the Imperial priests to stop praying in his presence had been one of the more amusing non-diplomatic tasks he had delegated you.

"I will have Lieutenant Titus informed so he understands the situation." You try not to smile.

"Thank you for being so understanding about this. Titus is already quite aware of this situation as well." Guilliman raises his eyebrows. "As much as Captain Sicarius seems to expend significant effort in hating me personally, Titus has not been spared his wrath as well. It's why I mentioned him; I, would consider us friends."

Guilliman wears a soft smile; One while gentle, seems quite tired. That would explain why you don't use any sort of title for him, unlike Captain Sicarius.

"I am glad at least one of my men is at least somewhat well adjusted," He continues. "I have been in great shortage since waking in this new Imperium." You wonder what he means by that, as he seems to have a deeper implication than you can understand, judging by the look in his eyes.

Either way, you don't have much time to think about it as he sends you off.

"Your ship is nearly ready to depart, make your way there and I will update your retinue with the changes. Good luck."

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Courtly Love

[Part 1], [Part 2], [Part 3],

Summary: You think about leaving the Great Crusade, but suddenly you become the personal remembrancer of a talented swordsman.

Lucius The Eternal/fem!Reader(Camellia)

Warnings: no for this part

Word count: 2383

Author's note: the story would be about the fell of Emperor's Children including Istvaan V so with every chapter there would be more warnigs.

Song: Depeche Mode - Sweetest Perfection

To be born into the greatest era of humanity was a miracle. Billions of people were blessed with it. But to become part of something powerful, to contribute to the history of humanity. Only a few could dream of that. To become part of the Great Crusade especially.

Your grandfather served for many years for the good of the Imperium. You were not drafted into the Imperial Army and lived as a civilian. Became a historian and, it must be said, quite successful in your field. And you were proud of such a life and did not ask for more.

And yet, when the Emperor announced the creation of the Order of Remembrancers, you were stunned by the news. Of course, as a child, you dreamed of becoming part of the Crusade and recording the history of the defenders of the Imperium. But your family told you enough stories for you to understand an important idea. Civilians have no place in war.

But your grandfather assured you that for this very reason you were the best candidate. Even without knowing war, you already understood the seriousness of the Crusade. Besides, you studied the history of war, and swordsmanship in particular. Were you unworthy of becoming a remembrancer? The order accepted anyone who was connected with the arts, even those who knew nothing about war.

So you applied for permission anyway. And not only was it approved, but you were also able to get on board with Fulgrim himself! Many Primarchs did not want to take remembrancers, and you understood their dislike. But the Phoenician opened his arms to all connoisseurs of art. You were awaited on the Pride of the Emperor.

Could your participation in the Crusade be the best decision in your life?

***

Now you regret your decision, sadly remembering the joy of stepping aboard the Pride of the Emperor. Only a month had passed, and you already wanted to return home as soon as possible. But to leave the Crusade so soon would be to show disrespect to Fulgrim, disappoint your family, and make yourself look pathetic.

And indeed, the Primarch had fulfilled his promise. Not only were the Remembrancers given La Fenice to create and share ideas, they were allowed to visit many places that were inaccessible to Remembrancers from other Legions! Some were even granted the honor of visiting the command bridge.

But you wanted to leave the Crusade for another reason. You were lonely. You tried to make friends with other Remembrancers, but these were pathetic and pointless attempts. Many of them were real talents, wonderful people who glorified the Third Legion in all forms of art. You were simply embarrassed and even afraid to approach them.

Others were vain and vicious enough that you found it disgusting to approach them. Although perhaps you were too harsh with other remembrancers. Too petty. As if you enjoyed stewing in your own sadness and loneliness, enjoying the suffering of the soul.

Little Venice was a wonderful place where people could be inspired by other people's ideas and inspire others. A place where their own little history was made. Poetry was written, paintings were painted and philosophical debates were held. And although at times some overdid it with arguments, alcohol and flirting, it did not reach full-fledged vulgarity.

Part of you wanted to be a full member of this cultural community, but your shyness (or arrogance, as the remembrancers who disliked you said) did not allow you to cross the line. So if you visited La Fenice, you mostly kept to yourself. Much more often you spend time in your modest quarters or in the library, absorbing as many books as possible.

But one day you decided to break your gray routine. The walls of your chambers drove you crazy, La Fenice was stuffy. And you did not dare to go into the library after one incident. When one man cornered you and gave you a flower. Shame still glimmered in your heart, fettering your limbs.

Perhaps it could have been romantic, but wandering eyes and a lewd smile betrayed the man's true intentions. But it was not the lewd vulgarity that forced you to seek a new refuge. But the words with which he gave you the flower.

"There are many beautiful roses in the area, but even a camellia can catch an eye."

Even. It is clear that your "admirer" rarely really courted the ladies, and did not immediately lead them to bed. The compliment sounded like a real insult. You were quite a pretty girl. Yes, you could not afford many cosmetics or high-quality augmentations as stars like Bekqua Kinska. But that doesn't mean you were worse.

Maybe you're even better. Maybe you deserve the best. And people like that remembrancer can't understand that. They can't even imagine how great your talent is. Unlike those ignoramuses, you at least knew something about war. Who do they think they are?

You stopped halfway, ashamed by your arrogant thoughts. No, you mustn't let envy and sadness consume you. Since you were aboard the Pride of the Emperor as a historian, you must fulfill that role. For a month, you helped the archivist with his work. But first and foremost, you must glorify the Third Legion. That was your task.

And you were going to fulfill it.

The remembrancers had access to many halls. Some required special status. But some of them were still accessible to the general public. Although many connoisseurs of art did not visit them for various reasons. Apparently, many of them thought that watching the Astartes training was boring. Especially since they were allowed to visit only some halls.

But this was just right for you. The very opportunity to witness the martial skill of the Emperor's chosen was intoxicating. You thought more than once about finally entering this part of the ship, but always retreated. You did not want to be intrusive, you were afraid to interfere. Should thank the bastard from the archive, because he pissed you off enough that you finally managed to reach the right doors.

Sighing, you slowly entered the hall, trying not to make noise. Part of you wished it was empty and you would return to your quarters. But another part of you rejoiced at the characteristic sounds of battle. After a couple of steps, you finally saw the whole picture.

Your depressed face lights up with reverent admiration. And all sad thoughts evaporate in an instant as soon as the beautiful warrior repels the attack of the battle servitor again. There was no one else in the room except for the two of you, and you rejoiced at such luck.

Like all space marines, the man was tall and massive. And yet his body was built exactly like a swordsman, not a butcher. Not to mention the level of fencing. You watched with delight as the warrior's sword whistled like lightning, cutting through the air before delivering the final hit after a couple of blows.

The battle servitor falls with a crash, breaking into pieces. The young man, sweating just a little, swings his sword a couple more times. Steel cuts the air, sparks fly from the defeated servitor like fireworks. Clearly enjoying the moment of victory, the man almost gets into an appropriate pose. Before he turns his gaze in your direction.

Only at that moment did you realize that the only noise in the hall was the battle between the Marine and the Servitor. But you successfully disrupted it by starting to applaud enthusiastically. Embarrassed, you quickly stop and press your hands to your sides with force, as if they could continue to express admiration for the man's fighting skills without permission.

“Oh, apologize my lord. I'm one of the remembrancers. We were given permission to visit the training hall.” - your cheeks begin to burn as you fidget with your clothes, retreating to the saving exit. - “But I interrupted you, s-so sorry. I'll leave now-”

“Wait!” - the man hastily shouted and you stopped in place. With bated breath, you look at the swordsman, fearing anger. But seeing his face, you only gasp in surprise.

He was smiling. Not maliciously, not arrogantly. And like a little boy who saw a new toy. It was... unusual. All the Astartes exuded preterhuman, almost inhuman beauty, strength and just spirit. A different kind, which was in some way above mere mortals. But right now, one of the Emperor's Angels stood before you, smiling as a random passerby on the street might smile.

Does that mean that your idea of ​​​​Space Marines was wrong, or was the swordsman an exception?

“You liked it, huh?” - the young man only smiled more when you nodded. He immediately acquired a proud look and you couldn’t help but smile back, unable to resist his charisma. - “I am Lucius, one of the best swordsmen of the Third Legion. You are very lucky that you ran into me and not some amateur.”

You, impressed by the meeting, did not pay attention to Lucius’s arrogance. Even if he is a space marine, even immortal warriors like praise. You nodded before looking enthusiastically at the man’s exquisite sword. The familiar outlines gave away its origin.

“I recognize this style... Such swords were forged in the forges of Urals during the Unification Wars” - your voice trembled with delight, and your eyes were unable to tear themselves away from the unusually long hilt of the sword. You had only seen such weapons in books and were amazed to see that in reality they were even more beautiful than you thought.

Lucius blinks his eyes in surprise. He looks at you, at the sword, and back at you. And then he bursts into laughter as if he had heard the funniest joke in his life or seen a funny sight.

“I didn’t know that you, scribes, understood war. Or did the best of you go to the Emperor’s Children?” - your cheeks warm up from the man’s words. Pride takes over your entire being and the old doubts about your candidacy go away.

“Well, my specialty is the history of fencing, so I understand the art of war.” - you shyly fidget with your fingers, trying not to turn into a puddle. - “O-of c-course, the theory, uh. I’m not a warrior, but I would like to see all these techniques in practice.”

You froze from the words spoken out loud. The teachers were right, you need to think first and then speak. And you always followed this rule. But you forgot all about propriety the moment you saw the mastery of the sword. No, you didn't ask to be in the fighting. You asked to become his personal chronicler!

The Third Legion had assembled an entire army of remembrancers in some way. Many were much more popular and influential. Such individuals were given entire studios, not a small quarters like yours. And for a whole month, not a single one of them asked to become a personal remembrancer of a legionary. One could only dream of Fulgrim. Although if other primarchs did not bestow the attention of artists and actors, the Phoenician basked in the adoration of many of you.

And you dared not only to distract a space marine from training, but also asked to be his documentarian. You'll be lucky if he lets you go home and doesn't ridicule you. What a shame.

"Oh, sorry! I always speak before I think." - You feel your cheeks heat up, and your voice starts to tremble with shame. - “There are plenty of remembrancers on the ship, and many of them are worthy of becoming your personal chronicler. I-I was just so impressed by your swordsmanship that I stupidly blurted out-”

“YES!” - Lucius screamed so loudly and enthusiastically that you covered your ears in pain. But the swordsman didn’t even think of apologizing for the inconvenience. - “I need a personal chronicler! You have no idea how many of my exploits you’ll have to record. My brothers will be bad storytellers. With me, you’ll write the greatest book.”

It’s not like you were going to write a book, and you were more of a historian. But you didn’t want to upset the happy swordsman. Besides, you were lucky to be in the right place at the right time. So why not take advantage of this opportunity?

You bite your lip in embarrassment, looking at the completely smooth, scarless young face. Green, shining eyes resemble summer grass and you involuntarily admire the man. He is so handsome. Lucius probably knows this, but he could never understand what a loss it is that he became an Astartes, do he?

“It would be an honor for me.”

“And what an honor! Hey, so you know the styles of fencing?” - seeing your nod, the swordsman grinned from ear to ear. - “All right. I’ll use a couple of techniques now, and you have to tell me what school they are from.”

Lucius didn’t even wait for your answer. He didn’t care that you might have other things to do. If you became his personal chronicler, then you should have started your duties right now. But you were just waiting for this opportunity.

Giving in to his joy, you smiled brightly, already freely entering the training hall. You had already noticed the weapons that it would be a great lucky to study in the future. But for now, all your attention was captured by the young man playing with the sword like a toy, ready to show all the great capabilities of the Astartes for nothing.

A new combat servitor who entered the arena humbly waited for a new series of blows to be unleashed on him. Lucius throws his sword into the air, casually grabbing it, showing off his skills to you. Hearing your delighted sigh, he winks at you.

“I forgot, what's your name again?”

The Servitor falls from the first couple of hits and the hall bursts into applause again. Lucius looks back at you with delight, as if he’s happier than you are at this meeting. As if he’s been waiting for such recognition all his life. And you, enchanted by his talent, repeated your name as if bewitched.

The Crusade promised to be the best chapter in your life.

[shiyorin]

The Inquisitor knows about yandere astartes, it won't end well

Inquisitor [REDACTED] report on yandere Astartes (????)

+++ CLASSIFICATION: [LOCK]

+++ CLEARANCE: Obsidian

+++ ENCRYPTION: [LOCK]

+++ DATE: 327.M38

+++ AUTHOR: Inquisitor [REDACTED], Ordo Malleus 

+++ SUBJECT: INVESTIGATION INTO SUSPECTED GENEFLAW AFFECTING ADEPTUS ASTARTES SUBJECTS ACROSS ALL CHAPTERS AND FOUNDINGS

+++ EYES ONLY HIGHEST TRANCHESINQUISITORIAL CASE FILE [EXCISED]

Summary of Findings:

Initial reports of this suspected "Geneflaw" first reached my conclave several terran years ago. Astartes assets deployed to war zones began exhibiting highly erratic behaviors and perverse compulsions unbecoming of the Emperor's finest warriors.

Behavioral divergences included:

Unnatural emotional outbursts and loss of emotional mastery

Uncontrollable sexual urges and deviant acts

Possessive, clingy behaviors violating sacred chains of command

Irrational self-destructive and anti-imperial actions driven by object fixations

At first, these cases seemed sporadic and isolated across different Chapters. However, as more deplorable incidents piled up, a clear pattern emerged. Something grievous had gone wrong on a fundamental level.

Excerpted examples of documented cases:

[REDACTED] - BLOOD ANGELS CHAPTER Audio log of Sanguinary Priest [REDACTED]

"Some dark curse has been visited upon our Chapter. A growing number of my battle-brothers have become… afflicted with wanton hungers. No mere physical needs, but all-consuming fixations on certain mortals within our care."

"They will stop at nothing to "claim" these individuals for themselves, body and soul. Any attempt at intervention results in unthinkable acts of disobedience and violence…"

[SAMPLE ENDS]

[REDACTED] - BLACK TEMPLARS CHAPTER Thought downloading from captured Chaplain [REDACTED] upon interrogation

"The time for restraint is at an end. I can bear this throbbing in my soul no longer! She must know the depth of my unfettered desire, the fever pitch of my infatuation. If she does not return these longings, I shall shatter worlds until the God-Emperor take pity!"

*Interrogator's Note: [NEUTRALIZE]

[REDACTED] - EXCORIATOR CHAPTER Recorded pict-captures from helm-cams during incursion on [REDACTED]

-Extreme Battlefield Fraternization between crusaders and human auxiliaries -Acts of exhibitionism and self-mutilation by crusaders -Systematic execution of any battle-brother expressing disgust at above actions -Final pict: [REDACTED]

The list of astartes goes on. Worse, there appear to be no patterns in age, founding, homeworld or even primarch genealogy. These repulsive behaviors are emerging across every Adeptus Astartes chapter at random. The Imperium teeters on the brink of an catastrophic, gene-coded crisis.

Research into potential countermeasures and remedies continues. However, my conclusions thus far firmly advocate an extreme response to contain this threat.

RECOMMENDED ACTIONS:

1) Immediate executions for any Astartes subject exhibiting Geneflawed behaviors. No exceptions.

2) Full and systematic extinction-level viral bombings against all potentially compromised Chapters and fleets.

3) Pre-emptive destruction of all Astartes gene-seed repositories, along with any Adeptus Mechanicus factions and forge worlds implicating in its creation or study.

Only through the complete erasure of this genetic stock can the essence of the Adeptus Astartes be preserved for the inevitable darkness yet to come.

The Emperor's work must be done, no matter how abominable the means required.

I await your tribunal's final judgment on this matter.

Thought for the Day: "There is nothing to be gained through mercy, only fleeting weakness and eventual damnation."

-Inquisitor [REDACTED]

[toribookworm22]

Last Line ×22

So, I've been a little behind on tags... but have some of my queer superhero story in return.

Thanks: @acertainmoshke ×3 @imbrisvastatio @oh-no-another-idea ×2 @cljordan-imperium @frostedlemonwriter ×4

@angsty-prompt-hole @sunset-a-story ×2 @sarandipitywrites @flock-from-the-void @ddbirb

@surroundedbypearls @pluttskutt & any others.

Just leaving an open tag on this one. :)

Chapter 19 Excerpt:

The next article is from the following year and, apparently, a superfan. #1 across the board, the author states. Best of the heroes of the best city. They list out a few, talking on their awards and most daring missions. But they all pale in comparison to The Orchid.

What makes The Orchid so special?

Yes. What does?

As a somatic hero, she should be placed on the sidelines, or at the very least, following the mess as a healer. But The Orchid packs a double punch for she is also autosomatic! Nothing can hurt this hero that she can’t heal!

I almost scroll past the picture, thinking it has nothing to do with what I’ve been reading. Then I see the red hair. Stop. Scroll back up.

She’s dressed in all green, a suit not dissimilar to Roldan’s standing out against the rubble. Her hair is up in a ponytail, sleek straight. Blood leaks from her nose and one of her shoulders looks dislocated at best.

And she is no older than 13.

Of course, she’s no older than thirteen, because this was fifteen years again and that actually makes me older than Delian’s estimate, but seeing it like this… seeing her like this… that’s something else entirely.

She’s younger than Anny.

Nothing can hurt this hero that she can’t heal! That’s a child. Her limbs are still too long for her body and I’m just supposed to think it’s fine, because she can heal herself? If someone ever did that to someone I-

The thought violently cuts itself off as I dash to the bathroom, emptying my stomach of all the things I haven’t eaten.

I wonder what my superfan would think of me now.

[brothersspacemarinecomic]

BROTHERS: A Tale of Treachery & Doom

Fancomic Master Post & Archive

BROTHERS, A Tale of Treachery & Doom is a fancomic set in a Grimdark Future of WARHAMMER 40000, and tells the tale of the four Chapters of the Watch Charybdis, brothers struggling to protect the distant Charybdis Sector within a forgotten region of the Imperium Nihilus as the Great Rift slowly chokes out the light. The Knights Numenarie, paragon swordsmen with the bearing of Guilliman, are sworn to protect the people of the Charybdis Sector with their lives, an increasing pyrrhic task. The Guardians Culprite are descendants of Vulkan, are master smiths and engineers, desperate to maintain what remains of the sector's collapsing infrastructure. The Venators Titian, born to the lineage of Leman Russ, are trackers and raiders, harrying the many pirates and xenos forces in the sector, all while grappling with their dubious heritage and the dark maze of the sector. The Arachnia Astra, successors of Corvus Corax, operate in the shadows, using assassinations and occultism to combat heresy across the sector. Having spent centuries isolated behind enemy lines, they fear their own corruption almost as much as they fear the corruption of Charybdis. They are brave. They are mighty. They are desperate. They are doomed. THEY ARE BROTHERS.

_________________________________________________________

If you're interested in reading the full Fancomic, this post will serve as a full archive for the Comic, with links to each Episode catalogued here, as well as the silly side memes! ARC 0: PROGLOGUE COMIC 1 - LINK COMIC 2 - DROPS NOVEMBER 13TH

[zeravmeta]

thinking about which danganronpa protags would survive if they were in fate (can be any series from fsn to fgo, or whatever new setting)

makoto: survives 100% of the time - you can make a 1-1 with guda pretty easily and i wont even blame you for it but also naegi is his own special flavor of normal (insane) comparatively because he's voiced by megumi ogata and is fated to suffer more than christ on the cross due to being irresistible to murderers and freaks. ultimate luck keeps him alive specifically to make more shit happen to him that he just has to deal with. someone get this man some ibuprofen

hajime: likely dies - despite his snark he's actually less headstrong and determined than he would appear to be and while not cowardly he is more prone to giving up, which is a threat not only from enemies but can get you killed by your own servants depending on who you gacha roll. he Can survive if he gets the right servant but his odds arent good, hajime is just as unlucky as makoto but without the plot struggler armor that keeps making makoto survive just to suffer worse

izuru: likely survives, only dies by association - like 2-3 years ago i made a comparison between romani/solomon and hajime/izuru and even now i stand by it, if solomon is somehow in the game files so is izuru. that said this guy in fate would literally be human gilgamesh powerwise but not nearly as loud, so while hes not wanting for power hes also lacking in basic emotions and humanity, which could be a kick in the knees for him

komaru: likely survives - the naegi clan superpower is being irresistible to murderers and freaks but unlike makoto she is more open to fuck with said freaks freak, which in fate can shorten life expectancy but usually extends it.

toko: likely dies -

(source for these two)

kaede: true 50/50 - the idea of kaede as a survivor works just as well in tandem with kaede being one of the most tragic dr characters. ndrv3 chapter 6 trial "this guy should have died instead of kaede". anyways behold my glory listen to the thunderous applause here is the honor of the imperium like a flower in bloom open the golden theater aestus domus aurea

shuichi: survives - hes already in a fate game, its just that the game is called persona 3 and in it he is called makoto yuki. hes also in another game called persona 4 and transitioned into a girl called naoto shirogane. there is a strong possibility that holmes fgo has some dna taken from him

[thequeenandwrath]

2

Chapter 1

The Summoning...

At one point, between her conversation with Mithos and the arrival of Amon in Imperium, Abriella had considered having the meeting with Amon in the throne room.  She eventually reconsidered that idea, feeling it might be a little too formal.  If Amon was coming to request sanctuary within Imperium and vow fealty to herself and Cruz, it might be more beneficial to keep things more relaxed.  In the end, she decided that they would hold the meeting in the grand salon, where they would often spend evenings after diplomacy was completed with the insufferable royalty that seemed to never stop coming, most of the males of which were trying to convince her that they should be her King and not Cruz.  They all left with their egos significantly more deflated than when they had arrived.

When the hour arrived, Mithos summoned Amon into the room, and he arrived with an additional guest, which had Abriella’s brow rising.  She had not been advised there would be another, however she recognized him and her eyes soon narrowed as she surveyed the scene.  Arioch and Raguel were both present, having spoken with Abriella after Mithos had.  Mithos and Thinius were both there as well, not wanting a potential threat to be allowed into the realm without them both being present.  Rounding out the group in the room were the other three Horsemen, Dez, Arch and Talon.  With those she implicitly trusted, she felt more assured that everything would go smoothly than originally considered.  She had chosen not to include Adriel, for the moment, in the situation.  Sometimes he could be a little too overprotective, and she wanted things to go smoothly.

While none from Imperium were in formal court attire, the males were all in suits.  Abriella had decided on a dress that was cut perfectly to create an impressive silhouette.  For their part, the males were all imposing, looking like something out of a Godfather movie.  It would be worse to humans, since every single one of them was well over six and a half feet tall. 

Amon arrived and it was as if he had somehow gotten the memo on how to dress, as did Heath, his top General, who was at his side. Abriella had a sneaking suspicion that at least one of those who were to vouch for him had advised him on the proper attire for the occasion.  No tie for Amon, but otherwise his manner of dress matched the other males that were in attendance. Heath on the other hand was impeccably dressed, as he always was.  The two of them had met before, and Abriella wondered if the male dressed in anything else.  Even in battle the male was in a suit.  

It helped Amon feel a little more at ease to have Heath with him, and see Mithos in the room with them. That Raguel and Arioch were also present helped even more.  He knew they would back up what he was going to reveal, and vouch for his reasoning in desiring to relocate to Imperium. They had both suggested this meeting when they had been speaking extemporaneously. There was only one more he expected to see, but was absent, although knowing the Queen before him, he was sure there were reasons.

Abriella stood and motioned to Amon, “Prince Amon, you have requested audience and I have included my most trusted advisors at this time.  We will hear what it is that you have come to say.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me and hear me out, Queen Abriella.” Amon started with a low bow, trying to walk a fine line between keeping things formal and speaking freely what was on his mind.  Next to him Heath bowed far lower.  “I’m not here to start a fight, or with hostility.  I come asking for your indulgence.”  He was nervous, not only was she far more powerful than he, but he was in a room with enough powerful beings to snuff him out of existence, should they choose to.

“OH!  Here’s the party!” Jasper’s voice rang from the doorway, making Amon choke, Heath had to stifle a laugh, Cruz came to standing next to his sister, Dez almost fell out of his chair with his hand over his mouth, and Abriella  just closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose and turned her head in his direction.

“I do not remember inviting you to this meeting, Jasper.”  Her voice was even, almost soft, but there was an undercurrent of warning that could not be missed. The smile that graced her lips was not one of joy or happiness, but barely contained annoyance.

“You didn’t, your mistake, lovely.” Totally ignoring Cruz who was glaring death rays at him, Jasper draped an arm around Abriella and dropped a kiss on her cheek then kept moving forward letting his hand glance along her arm to her hand where be bowed very low to bring it to his forehead and then kiss it.  “But, I have business here,” he said as he stood up and turned towards Amon and Heath and continued to walk towards them, “so I came anyway.  You should know by now, lovely, that you can’t keep me out.”  

Again her eyes closed and she breathed deep.  Some day that demon was going to push her over the edge and her friendship with Anna, Jean Pierre, and Armaund was not going to save his ass.  “And what business could you possibly have in this room right now Jasper that warrants chancing my brother removing your limbs…again.” The threat was no longer so subtle. 

At first Jasper did not respond, and now all the laughing had stopped.  However, when he reached Heath, they clasped forearms before bringing foreheads together and doing a half hug.    Then Jasper turned to face Abriella, who now looked utterly confused.  “He’s my cousin, and I know why the big asshole he works for is here, Your Majesty.  And though I may royally piss you off, you know I won’t lie. So no matter what any other asshole in this room will say, I’m here for Heath, and the oh so wrathy one, My Queen.”  Jasper then did something NONE in the room had seen, he went down on one knee, put his right hand over his heart and bowed his head in a soldier’s salute to his sovereign.  

A slight smile graced Abriella’s lips.  His entry may not have been the most graceful or appropriate, but the demon of chaos had just redeemed himself, and impressed a few in the room.  Cruz, however, still wanted to dismember him…again. 

“Very well, Jasper, you may stay.” Abriella finally decreed, which had Cruz make a growl before he sat.  She then continued, “now that I believe that everyone that is going to show up, has, what is it that you have come to request, Amon?” Since she had been more than once reminded of his assistance during the whole Talia debacle, Abriella’s demeanor was more friendly towards him than it might otherwise have been.  She was truly curious what it was he was going to ask of her.  Neither Raguel or Arioch had wanted to be the one to speak for him, nor had Mithos, so now was Amon’s time to make his plea.

banner: @cafekitsune

[alavestineneas]

and if you are there, why do i feel alone in this room?

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, mentions of sa (!), blood and other parts of body, very non-healthy relationships chapter 1 - chapter 2 !this work is part 2 to the i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest! word count: 7,3k

author's notes: hi beautiful people! today, I have finally finished this chapter! be aware that this piece of literature is explicit and touches on some very heavy themes, including sa and child abuse. Please be mindful of it! As always, your opinions, suggestions, and critiques are welcome in the comments. Love you, and have a tasty read!

There are a lot of books stored in her memory, locked in the neurocytes safely. They are tucked into the cortex with love and tenderness that YN otherwise taught herself to suppress as a sign of her weaker self. But papers were non-living, so she felt like it was less dangerous for her to show warmth towards them; after all, if the objects can not acknowledge your love, does it really count as real? She read everything, mostly in an attempt to prepare herself for something she did not know the face of; she read to build the shield around herself, in desperate hope to be able to help at least her future self. YN read even now, although her foolish childhood desires were long gone, just to get a glimpse of the girl she was before the monsters escaped the pages.

The book she re-read the most was nothing special, nothing suiting the image she moulded herself into—a giant, relatively old encyclopaedia of animals inhabiting the furthest corners of Known Imperium. The letters inside, although faded a little, were left almost untouched by eyes—maybe it was what drew her in in the first place—to cherish something seen as unneeded. YN learned the small paragraphs almost by heart; she liked the idea of someone taking enough time to observe something as small as a roden to know its habits. She liked the idea of it happening to her one day. As it always is, it did not.

She chose her favourite animal without that much thought. Although even the notion of having something beloved was foolish, YN was made to choose; she and her sisters played the game of forest most often. The game was simple: pretend to be a creature you are not, forgetting the countless rules they had to follow. Pretending they have claws and teeth; pretending they can protect themselves not through intrigues and hidden motives but through open, bold force. Irulan was always a Katanga Lioness; she liked it because of the proximity to their house's symbol. YN did not; the grey pages of her beloved book described them as "observed to also scavenge on carrion of animals that were killed by other predators or died from natural causes''. What king of the animals steals the work of others simply to feed themselves? She did not tell Irulan that, of course—why would she?

YN chose a mountain lion for herself. Sure, she may have made a mistake thinking it was just another type of lion, but the game went too far to change anything, so she stuck with that. She even grew to love it—the drawing of the mountain lion on her character sheet, the way it prowled through the forest in her mind's eye. It had many names and many homes. Adaptive. Captivating.

She does not know why it came into her mind suddenly—maybe it was the dim light of the closed arena. The air circulated here freely, cooling through the complex systems of vents, even though it seemed to be deprived of any life—just a mechanical circle of the same molecules moving around her seated figure and returning to the hidden openings again and again. YN looked straight ahead; the two men were still sparring.

From her bench, they looked like one—two bodies moved so swiftly that one was unable to differentiate where the lines of their limbs ended. YN squinted her eyes; she was alone in the seating area, and still, she dared not move closer. The taller, thinner figure possessed skin so white it looked almost translucent underneath the cold light—YN wondered if she would be able to see the structures in his body through his clothed stomach. He moved well, almost too well for her not to press her lower row of teeth to the top one, hiding the tongue in a cave of pearl bones—she had hoped he was worse with his bare hands. YN had counted four hundred and five seconds before he made a mistake in his steps; it was a lot more than her own results, but for a man, he was good.

Feyd-Rautha had style; she had to give him that. He fought like a serpent would: calculated, precise. His fists knew the most effective targets, and his legs knew how to escape the blows of his opponent. If YN was to guess, he relied on muscle memory less than a usual fighter would, preferring to dwell in the moment instead. It made for a good show, sure, but it was not practical. She smiled to herself; of course, the na-Baron could not know what the real battle was like. How unfortunate for him—how delightful for her. YN still can't believe he let her watch his training every morning—was he really that stupid not to realise her motive? Was he too confident to consider having weaknesses?

Regardless, she saw what she needed to do - for three hours every day, she set unmovingly on the third bench in a small fighting ground, imprinting his every move in her mind. There are so many moves you can use and so many tricks you can do before she learns them all. YN did not care for the cold gaze thrown in her direction when Feyd-Rautha collapsed on the ground, taking a moment to rest before lurching onto his opponent again. She can wait.

Mountain lions are stealthy predators.

-

The days she spent here changed into months, their slow steps morphing into each other until time became a blur, a concept she did not grasp. Feyd-Rautha was a hard one to warm, but before she would mould him into something she wanted, YN needed to heat his DNA to a certain magnitude; otherwise, he would simply break. She would've gladly accepted this turn of fate too, but right now, keeping na-Baron alive is far more convenient for the Bene Gessarit. For her.

A concubine. A slap in the face: it seemed like life was determined to dissolve the small bits of her dignity in its endless pool of secrets. She was not a wife to Harkonnen na-Baron; no, she was to be his whore. If she was not too tired, she would've felt a pang of fear on her rising with oxygen lungs; a concubine's position is even lower here compared to one of a lawful wife's. YN remembers the words of her teacher as she prepared her for the union: Harkonnen concubines are killed after their first night in a position; if one is lucky enough to escape the fate by being with a child, she bears him until it's time for the baby to be born. One of the greatest honours for a Harkonnen is to take the life of his mother as soon as he enters the world.

She was to join na-Baron for breakfast today—a proposal YN waited long to receive, but part of her wishes she never did. It was worded like an invitation; YN knows it was not. Harkonnens rarely spoke when they did not give orders—a creature of habit, she supposed. So, she did what she had to: follow the slave to the chambers designated for the meal. The hem of her dress shone with a colour so foreign to the fort around her; YN needed to make herself stand out. Men are much like children, she learned—the more colourful the toy, the more likely they will want to play with it.

The walls were heavy here. They didn't bend in the shapes she was used to, preferring to stand tall. They didn't have to hide their strength underneath a complicated facade—quite the opposite. They paraded it, wearing it like the honour it is. Staying unremorsefully unbending. Maybe it's the air or a different measure of gravity; maybe it's her habit of soaking up the surroundings and letting them poison her insides, growing rotten in between the folds of her stomach tissue, but her legs are metal, stone-cold, pulling YN deeper and deeper into the floor. She tries so hard to ignore the three creatures in the corner.

They are hairless, much like the man in front of her, and dressed in matching black. YN would've mistaken them for Harkonnen royalty if it were not for the iron collars on their necks and the glowing black eyes that seemed to follow her every move. She would've been happy to have some company and not be forced into solitude with na-Baron if it were not for a still convulsing body on the floor. A body she did not recognise, but it could've easily been her own.

The creatures seemed to enjoy the involuntary moves of the soon-to-be corpse; they closed their eyes in delight and bared the sharp, black-coloured teeth in sheer pleasure as they lurched into the white flesh. They ripped it apart with only their hands, not bothering to use the prepared knives for more than a big incision from head to stomach. The sounds of chewing and gnawing filled the room, echoing off the walls and sending electric impulses down her body. YN was used to the metallic smell and the bright colour of arterial blood, but this was not a simple death. It was a show, and she was the long-awaited watcher.

Feyd-Rautha seemed unbothered by the sight near him. His hands, covered in thick streaks of blood, were deep to his elbows in the body. He dissected the corpse with precision, his eyes focused and his grip steady. He looked calm, even peaceful. Na-Baron was in good humour today. ''I must say, your arrival has graced us with much more than just the dowery; nothing could've made this union more auspicious—such a rare bird you are, daughter of our generous Emperor. A princess, yet treated no better than a common slave.''

Here it was: the thing she was thinking about all the way to this strange, garbage planet in the dress that pokes bleeding holes in her abdomen with each glass she downs. From his lips, it sounds even more bitter; even savages found the way the Emperor sold one of his daughters so easily strange. "Both of our houses have traditions far beyond our understanding," YN shrugs, scaring her thoughts away like annoying flies. Here, in a room so far from the comfort of her home, they moved too fast, bringing nausea to her throat.

She is here to secure the bloodline of House Harkonnen, to ensure the balance needed in the Imperium. YN does not notice how suddenly her gaze darkens or how tightly the hands that rested on the chair are now holding the pleated velvet of her ruby-red gown. Oh, the baby. The tiny creature inside her womb, the future head for the Baron's crown to be placed upon. The yet unconcieved child she could not feel love for. She was given no other choice but to risk its life before even giving it a chance to obtain its gift.

''Then you will find my present to be quite fitting.''

YN watches in silence as na-Baron reaches inside the rib cage of the corpse. He reaps out an organ with one swift motion, almost like plucking a harmful sprout from the garden. The organ is broun and rosewood, a weird mixture of shades that make it harder for her to focus on anything but the thing in his large hand. The gift he meant to give was a human heart.

She feels his walk long before she sees a figure departing from its place at the table; she guesses the end point of his manoeuvres too easily. It's almost funny—a cruel, senseless joke; how obvious the slight tremor in her hands is; how heavy her eyes become at the sight of Harkonnen black. The body positions itself near; if she squints, she can hear the hot breathing somewhere between her shoulder blades. His hand snakes around her neck quickly, positioning the organ right in front of her mouth. YN can detect the smell hitting her nostrils before she closes the receptors in them. She wants to scream, but the notes die in her throat. Who would she scream for? She hears the creatures hiss and whisper—the heart is a good part, from what she can make out. It did not need to be wasted on people like her.

''Will you not accept it?'' Feyd-Rautha's words are mocking, but his dark blue eyes stay virgin to the laughter. They drill small spots on her neck from behind with such force that YN can almost feel the burnt smell of her sweat-covered skin.

She takes a breath. Her own heart shrinks, its vessels beating with intensity twice as much as needed. Still alive, she notes absently. Still breathing. The feeling is natural and easy; the forced calmness in her body tingles the muscles, braiding her nerves into a pattern similar to the netting. Then, she opens her mouth.

"If I shall lick the blood of your hands, Feyd-Rautha, dare to make it your own."

That's it.

Maybe the Emperor was right to spare her none of the Sardaukars and a quarter of her dresses. She did not need more; she was not expected to survive long enough to use half of her clothes. YN chucked under her breath. Dead over diet preferences—how profound.

After a moment, the pale face behind her also twists, allowing the blackened teeth to escape the grip of thin lips. Like this, na-Baron looks less human and more like the evil he was said to be. He throws the heart to the creatures—they catch it greedily—and places a bloodied hand on her shoulder, the droplets of crimson going unnoticed on the brightly coloured cloth. ''Very well, then. Let us eat.''

YN nods. She looks around almost instinctively; nothing could make her eat a thing after the sight she just witnessed, but she refuses the na-Baron once; she is not about to do it again. The food is a lot, but her plate is almost empty: only a small amount of salad is here, sadly staring into the hunger in her eyes and a now featherless creature in an unnatural pose, suggesting its non-poetical death. The bird is small, almost delicate; its wings are pitifully glued to the body. YN does not want to let her mind draw the comparison, and does not allow her brain to admit a direct analogy; she dissects the bird with a dull knife and puts a piece in her dry mouth. The creature tastes good—almost too good to be expected in this brightly lit hall.

Most often deer is the mountain lion’s staple diet. However, they can survive preying on small animals as well.

-

The night covers Giedi Prime rather quickly; it never lingers, politely waiting for its masters to finish their daily affairs; it hits like a coward, from behind, trapping those not careful enough to hide before its arrival. The harsh, toxic waves of lazy winds hit the walls of the halls coldly lighted with a few sphears; they look like deep forest clearings, forming a system of endless options, ultimately leading to one, inevitable, end. His work chambers aren't big; he does not visit them often for them to be. The solitary metal desk before him is filled with letters, drafts of laws, and official documents, all waiting for his approval. It exhausts Feyd-Rautha to no end, the sheer stupidity of most of the advisers here; almost half of the documents were riddled with errors and inconsistencies. The forever present in his head dull migraine grows stronger when he opens the shortest letter; he almost busts his skull open when the pain heavies.

He ponders too much—the type of thoughts you can feel running on your tongue but never escaping. He is not used to being in the mist; all of his life is so painfully contrasted that no doubt of its nature can survive the sharp edge of his mind. There are things he can escape—forget, even—but some linger in his ribcage too long for them to vanish. Soon, they grow into his lungs with small, unbreakable threads, becoming him. He used to try to get them away from his heart, as if it held some value. Now, he is smarter, older, and more indifferent, he lets them pierce yet another piece of human flesh with no sorrow.

Of course, he remembered her face. The same face that haunted his sleep ever since she dared to appear before his eyes. Feyd-Rautha, naturally, found her little frolic that day. He spent an entire evening studying her work, analysing every move she could've made with her blade to achieve such outcomes. Sure, some things he would've done differently, but the sheer brutality of an animal he would not have guessed the girl possessed charmed him. Feyd-Rautha was a proud man, but he, too, held a love for beautiful things. For that, he hadn't told the Baron of the sight he discovered in the reading room. For that, he is now willing to pretend to believe her eyes when the fear fleshes in them.

Feyd-Rautha curses; she sickens. Like a bone stuck somewhere down his throat, not letting him live without a pang of mocking. She lurks, and whispers—Feyd-Rautha wants to smash her pretty head against the wall just to reveal the secrets she hides from him so he can finally understand the hold she retains. He is no stranger to the desire to own, or devour, but the fear in the back wall of his stomach is an alien in his body. He tries to hide it—to paint over it with anger or violence—but it remains a constant presence, gnawing at him from within. It's no use; the woman is a shark, designed to sense the fright. Maybe that's what brought him in in the first place—the steel eyes so similar to his own in a narrow hall all those years before. Maybe he was so used to the danger that he craved it subconsciously, looking for it to make him feel like himself again. A reoccurring childhood nightmare he can't escape; he doesn't want to escape.

Feyd-Rautha finds the chair to put his weight on and waits until the tingling, spinning sensation spreads from his temples down his neck, finding its way into his bloodstream and passing his organs one by one, until none are left uncorrupted. Of course, he expects it. The woman slipped into his brain and now chews her way into it like a parasite downs the rotten body. He knows he should be terrified, but instead, he feels a strange sense of relief. Feyd-Rautha can hear the whispers of his own mind fighting to remain the only owners of the secrets and desires buried within. He feels his eyelids heavy; a second later, the whites of his eyes are staring at the ceiling, the blue eye lenses dissolving in light.

Water. The first thing he feels is ice-cold water dripping onto his face, filling his lungs, and sending a shock through his arms. This body does not feel like his; it's too small, too narrow. His eyes are trying to adjust as fast as they can, jumping from one blurred spot to another until finally catching a glimpse of the surroundings. His brain does not have time to process the picture; his nose is filled with fluid again, and his open mouth is gasping for air but only taking in more liquid. He tries waving his hands around, but the stronger grip is firm on his nape, pulling him further down into the depths. The hand yanked him out just as he was about to fall into darkness again, the sound of water changing to loud screeching.

''How dare you hit me, devil child? Let the water wash away your dirt. Repent; beg for forgiveness for all of your rotten nature.''

The voice is unknown to him; it is harsh and filled with fury. The woman's face is twisted in anger; splashes of water on it match his. He can't tell if they are from his antics or tears. The woman's grip tightens, her nails digging into his skin. The black clothes on her figure make her status known - a Bene Gessarit witch. Feyd-Rautha tries to lurch forward and hit her back, but her strength is overwhelming. He feels panic coursing through his veins instead of oxygen—a sensation he did not think he could experience anymore. He wants to bark a response to show her that he is not afraid, but his voice catches in his throat.

Feyd-Rautha has no time to wonder what the woman wants; she brings his face to the bathtub again, and he opens his mouth involuntarily, frantically begging not to do it anymore. He says everything she wants to hear; he cries out and promises to wash his sins away. The voice does not sound like his at all. He is desperate to end this nightmare now, but some force holds him here. The woman is not satisfied; her ears are deaf to his pleas.

His face ends up on the water surface a moment later, his nose hitting the wall of the bathtub as the woman holds him down. He feels his body go limp with utter horror; this time, the shouting woman won't stop. Her voice grows quieter, replaced by the sound of small waves hitting the brim and spilling; from right to left, the water turns red, and his tongue tastes the iron he knows from sliding blades into his mouth.

''Echidna, what the fuck are you doing? Let her go; she is going to choke!''

''Get that spawn to me, for I will not let her ruin my life anymore! I must finish what I have started!''

Feyd-Rautha's head is filled with oxygen once again; his lungs take a desperate breath in, sending too much air to his blood system. He falls on his back, the world spinning. He does not care for the weeping woman in black or the chaos unfolding around him. His only thought is that everything is finally done and that the white floors are a magnificent place for drops of liquid to fall from his normally bald head's waterfall of hair.

He wakes up suddenly, the sensation long gone. His steps are heavy again; the body he inhibits no longer feels like a cage. The voices have left him for now, and the only thing on his forehead left is small drops of sweat and a pathetic, frightened, beating heart. The cold breeze from the darkened sands surrounding the city wishes to prove otherwise—it heavies and plants its spikes into his reddened cheeks. The horizon gleams at him, almost taunting; not a single star is to be seen under the imposing clouds. He will kill her; maybe he will even enjoy it. Feyd-Rautha can handle a lot, but not the shame of being seen. Not the guilt of being caught wanting.

There are only three ways to hunt a mountain lion: tracking, waiting in ambush, and with dogs.

-

The gliding motions of heavy fabrics across the wooden floors created a strange pattern of a song now centuries old. Here, in a room so long that the wind travelled through the hollows, her careful steps seemed to almost fall silent. Nothing was there for the preying eyes to see. YN closes her eyes; with that, even for a moment, the world stays still. She knows where the hollow staircase will lead her; she feels it in her stomach with every step she takes. YN knows nothing about the future, but the past lives deep in her memories, haunting her every move. She knows she shouldn't have done it. Travelling through one's mind is a sin she can't escape; she will pay the price for it in her blood, but the Bene Gesarit did not send her here to survive, so it's of no use to be afraid now. It makes no difference for the dead if you weep at their grave or not.

The burning sphere of light in the hall stops spinning; the doors open without any noise, although if the pounding eardrums had not stunned her hearing, she could've noticed the faint thuds. YN waits; there are no flashes of her happiest memories or the faces of her loved ones in her drained mind. No, in what seems to be her last moments, she thinks of what she could've been if the world had not given her a sword to turn into.

Feyd-Rautha appears in the hall; his steps aren't rushed, and his expression is stone-cold. She eyes him shamelessly: nothing. She sees nothing; she senses it deep in her crying bones. He drags her by the hair like a mother would with her misbehaving child; roughly, he pulls her towards the exit, his grip tightening with each step until the door behind them closes and her knees meet the cold ground with a nasty thud. The bruises will stain them soon, not that it matters now.

''You should've known better than to cross me,'' he hisses, his voice gruff. It's cold, chilling—the way his lips part to reveal a sinister smile. ''Now, you can think yourself vanished, little witch.''

YN does not answer—what fool would beg the deaf? The blade against her chin is sharp; she knows how attentive he is when it comes to inflicting pain. It pokes right into the Omehyoid muscle, a dull pain shooting through her body. If she has got to die, it may as well be from his skilled arms. How beautiful he is in the twisted pleasure he finds in her suffering. Unearthly, almost too perfect to be made of simple flesh and bone. Something was unnerving, unforgettable in the net of veins under his pearly skin; it was as if he were a work of art, meticulously crafted to bring physical pain and optical pleasure in equal measure. A silver glint under the defined cheekbones, a redness of lips filled with blood vessels. For a second, YN wonders what it would be like to bite into it, like an apple that lay too long under the golden sun; would the blood slip as generously as the sweet nectar? Handsome as poison, as a black sun on his forsaken planet, as death.

''Go on. Kill me, then; let me escape you once and for all.''

Under the deep sea of his eyes, something moved; his eyes dipped into her, part by part. Like the slow, deliberate dance of a predator stalking its prey, his gaze lingered on her, calculating and intense. YN lowered her head to push the knife a little deeper into the flesh. A strange thought lingered in her brain; she found herself on her knees in front of him, almost willingly. She has worshipped God all her life; who, if not her, can recognise his creation? The Devil. Lucifer. Satan. The man with horns so big they once touched the skies; a corrupt angel, fallen from grace so long ago he couldn't remember way back if he tried. They have warned her about him, but is it her fault that God has disowned her earlier than she could? Did it really matter to her, before whom to kneel, as long as she felt a sense of power and control in her submission?

All that mattered now was that he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her.

She sees the recognition flicker on his face. Caught. The blade slides quickly across her exposed neck, the blood sprouting out in a weak, painfully quick stream. Feyd-Rautha kissed her, biting her bottom lip till the stream of boldly coloured blood trickled down his chin. He did so like an animal would, baring his teeth and dragging them across the pulsating vein on her neck. YN's laughing cry echoes in the empty room; she is forced to admit that he felt good.

Never approach a mountain lion; most mountain lions prefer to avoid confrontations, so never approach them and make them feel cornered.

-

The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. The beautiful substance of her hair caught the light from the sun like a mirage in the desert, reflecting in his eyes with painful hits. The jewels, too, have found their way onto her clothes, but they were hidden beneath the layers of fabric. They shined brightly, impertinently, framing her figure in a glow that seemed to come from within.

To his surprise, the skills woman possessed spread out to politics as well, with her witch training proving useful in court. Feyd-Rautha did not miss how his advisors grew more uneasy when she entered the room, her careful eyes scanning their faces for even a hint of betrayal or deceit. Like a proud discoverer, he ached to share his new-found wonder with the blind audience, but something in him protested in a mare thought of showing the precious jewel of his eye to the cluster of unworthy. So, Feyd-Rautha did the only thing he knew how— all of his secret observations were done from afar, masterfully hidden behind the facade of casual indifference.

As he drags yet another blade across the surface of the whetstone, he thinks about her delicate hands on his neck, her ringed fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. It doesn't matter; YN is nothing of the sort. A concubine, a possession, a tool for pleasure and procreation—the Harkonnen way was simple.

''Are you done eye-fucking me now, or do you need more time with your blade?'' she sneers, her voice mocking. Only she could get away with such bold defiance in his presence, but she does not seem to care for the unusualness of it.

YN motions for him to come closer, her eyes studying the way his legs move. Feyd-Rautha has no control over them; the steps make themselves. She plays the game very well; the chase fuels something primal within him. Thirst. Hunger. It was the Harkonnen training talking to him—the wild, ancient sensation taking over his insides and imprisoning his mind in a cage of helpless desire. It spread its tentacles down to his fingertips, nesting in his abdomen. He positions himself in front of her, his body betraying him as he leans in closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Feyd-Rautha's hands repeat the ritual almost instinctively, rolling the hem of her deep purple dress up to her waist.

''Stop for a second,'' she whispers against his ear, her breath warm and inviting. ''Can I give you a piece of advice?''

Feyd-Rautha can feel the anger creeping into his body; he does not like to be refused. ''No,'' he grumbles, turning her around forcefully. "I don't need your advice," he snaps, his grip tightening on her arm.

YN does not seem to care for it. ''Don't do it. It will only lead to trouble.''

''What?'' He stops, his eyes narrowing as he absorbs the woman's words. The doubts that had lingered in the back of his mind suddenly grew louder, echoing through his mind. He releases her arm, his expression stoic. ''You are insane, woman. What are you talking about?''

''You know what I mean.''

The unease boils in his stomach. How could she know? He was careful not to slip anything; she wasn't able to cast her spells anymore either. But her knowing gaze tells him otherwise. ''You can not know the future,'' he pronounces.

''I don't need to know the future to see the truth, Feyd-Rautha. Your judgement is clouded by rage, and your mind is not as sharp as it usually is. You are not as invincible as you think you are.''

She is bluffing, he thinks. He hopes she is. Feyd-Rautha almost wished there was no cloth covering her face, nothing to hide her expressions as she lay beneath him. He catches her flamed eyes and the way they circle his face in one swift motion before settling on the ceiling above. It unnerves him, but he refuses to show it. She is no master here; she is simply a servant. That is not what power looks like, if he ever recognised one, and Feyd-Rautha knew power.

''Get out, now.''

Nothing was portrayed on her face as she curtseyed; nothing was there when she turned and walked to her rooms, leaving nothing but the ghost of the human body's warmth.

Mountain lions are more at home in brushy areas than in open prairies.

-

And then, he disappeared. Like the sound of the morning birds falling silent in the cacophony of voices of the city on her home planet, there was no trace of na-Baron in the entire Harkonnen fortress. YN thought she was slowly but surely going mad; no one but her noticed the usual place by the window empty, and no one but her seemed to care enough to know where he went. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. She looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, her eyes darting around the room in search of any sign of Feyd-Rautha's massive figure. Noon was dragged into the evening, and then night, for three, long days until she heard the long-awaited news: na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had tried to usurp his uncle and had failed.

She has told him so. A fucking brainless ram, with stubbornness bigger than his cock—why did he think he could outsmart the Baron? He will pay for his dumbness with his blood, perhaps even his limb—the thought brought nausea to YN's throat. She was lucky the Baron did not consider her important enough to be knowledgeable of such schemes; she lowered her head in the desert, hiding from the sand storms of Harkonnen politics; she waited for two long weeks until the announcement was made; Feyd-Rautha was forgiven. The celebration in honour of this news is to be today; she is to attend it. Not like his concubine, YN supposed, but more like the princess she still was.

Now, she took her time. YN chose a gown she wanted long enough to make even a tireless slave yawn, savouring each moment before their meeting. She was a victor now, in their small game of cat and mouse. He was a cat, but the mouse could still outwit him with grace and style. YN smiled at the wondering attendants; she looked good, and she was going to meet him.

The walk from her chambers to the Grand Hall wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The doors opened without a sound, revealing nothing but a mere celebration of yet another year under the reign of Harkonnens. The lines of slaves changed one another, the uneven circles of people dancing appearing and fleeing to the cheerful tone of strings. She was set somewhere between two Harkonnen lords she had no chance of knowing; she felt a sense of unease creeping up her spine as she tried to maintain a polite smile. Their gazes didn't look right; something sinister lurked inside them—hiding a secret she had no chance of knowing.

One of them turned to her, a chilling smile spreading across his face. "How are you finding the evening, lady YN? Or, what should I call you?,'' he mastered a fake confusion. ''Perhaps, darling? Concubine has a cheap wing to it; quite unworthy of a face so lovely as yours, don't you think?"

Dirt. The thing that crawled under her skin at his words was like dirt, making her feel unclean and exposed. She forced a laugh, trying to brush off his comments, the crown of her hair moving with muscles underneath her skin. "I am a princess, my Lord. Address me as such."

It would be enough every other noon, but today. The man's face twists, as if he just remembered something; he turns, the wine in his goblet splashing on the tablecloth. ''I think na-Baron wouldn't be too angry if I stole a princess for the night," he sneered, his eyes darkening with malice.

''Does it matter to you either way?''

YN watches as the smirk, so similar to Feyd-Rautha's, appears on the men's lips, although it doesn't feel the same. She fights back disgust as the man nods, biting into a hefty chunk of prey. His eyes, once focused on her, drifted away. YN chose to follow them; the string of fat streaming down the man's mouth onto the silver tablecloth made her nauseous. She looked from one unfamiliar face to another, until the cold feeling in her abdomen crept its way onto her chest.

There he was. His figure is unusually crouching as he sits on the podium reserved for members of the dynasty. The dark blue eyes are red now; the thin blood vessels in them are torn and emptied. His body seemed to suck the light out of the hall inside, casting a shadow over the room. There are no scars on his smooth face, but the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes spoke of a suffering that went beyond physical wounds. YN almost wished she saw him dead; whatever this was, it was surely much worse. He raised his eyes slowly to meet hers; something flickered in them before turning back to their empty state. Feyd-Rautha parts his dry lips to say something to her—she can't understand a word he draws with his breath.

From the place nearby, the Baron's voice booms, his low, almost whisper-like vowels mending into one. His face, covered with layers of skin and dead cells, twists into what was meant to be a welcoming smile—the corners of his paper-thin lips dance, lowering themselves only to jump higher, and his eyes travel from one corner to another, unable to be still even for a moment. He speaks of things YN knows nothing about court intrigue, power struggles, and alliances that shape the fate of their world, heavy with hidden meanings and unspoken threats. She does not listen until he gestures towards her, a scent of spice and decomposing flesh lingering.

''Sergeant Voss has served me well, and his loyalty at the right time is not to be forgotten. Here, I bestow upon him the highest honour of all; what was once mine, is now his. Do not let go of her if she screams, Sergeant; the girl is a fine one.''

No. YN almost does not recognise the hand as her own as the man drags her to the bed that appeared out of nowhere, freezing with horror as the people around her continue to watch in silence, their eyes devoid of any emotion or empathy. The tradition, she notes, is the one she learned so much about bedding in front of the entire court as a symbol of unity. She choked on her own tears as the man smiled at her pleas for help; they seemed to make him even more pleased.

YN looks, frantically, to the place she saw Feyd-Rautha sitting just a moment before. He would help; surely, he would not let them do it to her—his servant, his concubine, his. But the seat is empty. The scream echoing through the hall does not register as hers right away; he has sold her. For his own freedom, for a chance to be free from the consequences of his own stupid actions. Surely, the Harkonnens could not get rid of her openly—it would mean war—but she was not immune to the man who now owned her. His hands travelled her body with such audacity that YN wanted to cut them off—to cut her chest just so she could not feel the fingers digging into her skin. A sole reminder she was a woman first and a human second.

Mountain lions are solitary hunters.

The man undressed himself quickly; all of the soldiers were trained to do so. She should run; she should fight back, but the pair of unmoving hands pinning her wrists down was a stark reminder of her helplessness. The man lowers himself closer, his hot breath against her neck making her shudder in fear. She can feel him against her skirts; she can feel the weight of his body pressing down on her. The adrenaline is pumping through her veins; she will survive. Whatever it fucking takes, even if her body is bruised and broken, she will survive.

They prefer to ambush their prey from behind by swiftly and cleanly breaking the neck.

She bites—her teeth launch towards his cheek, feeling the warm flesh give way beneath her. She sinks them deeper, making holes big enough to draw blood. It's hot, and sickening on her tongue, but she does not have time for these thoughts; her next blow is in his stomach, with his knee jammed into his gut. She can feel his body convulse in pain, giving her a chance to throw him on the bed, his broad back facing her.

If they haven’t broken the neck, they will suffocate the animal.

There is nothing around that could serve as a knife; her captors made sure of that, and the sheets are too thin to wrap around his neck. She looks around the room, desperate for something to use, but the space around her is empty. YN curses as the man regains his composure and begins to struggle against her hold. Her elbow meets his nose with a sickening crunch, causing blood to spurt out. She takes a breath in; her hand wraps around his neck, forming a tight hold as she goes into the headlock. She chokes him, so desperately trying to live. And the man trashes against her grip, his white face turning a deep shade of purple before finally going limp in her arms.

Shame.

A thing that followed her after every life she took is now absent. Maybe the Giedi Prime's cruelty did have its effect on her; YN feels nothing but a sense of emptiness as she stands over the lifeless body.

''Do you have any more men to gift me to, Baron Vladimir? The night is still young.''

Her voice has changed. It holds a certain hiss now, a rasp that wasn't present before; it has matured and bloomed into half an octave deeper tone. It bites through the noise easily, cutting sharply.

The Baron laughs. His eyes gleam with amusement as he gestures towards the door. "Plenty more where that came from, my dear, but it's enough for today. Here,'' he throws something in her, a smirk ghosting on his lips. ''You've earned it.''

YN catches it and inspects the object in her hand. A small, golden broche catches the light, glinting in the dimly lit room. A head of the Bighorn ram stares back at her, the symbol of House Harkonnen. The taste of victory mingled with the metallic tang, leaving a bittersweet sensation in her mouth. Joy courses her veins—she isn't afraid. Finally, she is not afraid. Finally, she can look at her blood-stained hands without humiliation. Is it her fault she was born a better knife than a person?

Bighorn sheep are not a primary food source in most areas. However, when a lion does kill a sheep, they typically will continue to do so over and over again, until the herd is depleted.

tag list:

@oh-you-mean-me @juliskopf @moonsoulk @mamawiggers1980 @ashy-kit

[thegodemperorsmycopilot]

The Geese Stars.

Located along the southeastern periphery of the Imperium, it is home to the human diaspora that travel this collection of systems aboard a myriad of migratory fleets, farming cosmic resources for survival and trade from the asteroid belts, gas giants, and even surfaces of great stars.

Occasionally, they will attempt to mine or reclaim resources from planetary bodies, but the wide range of dangers and xenos threats often make these resource expeditions prone to failure.

Planets of note:

1) Kanossian-VII is an active Forge World that has suffered a Tyranid invasion and is struggling to rebuild. It is the only other currently inhabited planet in the Geese Stars.

2) Eucliktus-Omega is an abandoned Forge World due to an unknown disaster, and has descended into a feral state. It is a prime destination for expeditions to recover tech and supplies.

3) Anser Prime and its artificial moon, Cygnoides, was the Geese Stars' unofficial capital and were the victims of a catastrophe that laid waste to the planet and its orbiting moons. The rings that surrounded Anser are the remains of several moons reduced to rubble and asteroids kept in orbit around the planet. Cygnoides is a torn and seemingly hollowed out wreck, originally constructed as a naval base and network of shipyards.

Both these celestial bodies are covetted by salvage and reclamation expeditions.

4) The Astartes moon of Skein, in orbit around the gas giant Cinju Gigant, is presently under a quarantine order of unknown provenance. The Astartes Chapter whose fortress and base of operations rests upon this harsh moon, the Mist Hawks, are not very inviting.

Very little is known about the Mist Hawks and their Founding, but they have been observed to have black & yellow striping upon vambraces and greaves, winged blade heraldry and avian skulls decorating their power armour.

(Inspired by @woahspacewizards)

NOTE: May be used as a setting for Crucible 7's Wrath & Glory or Imperium Maledictum, any FFG Warhammer 40000 RPG, and your own tales of the Grim Dark.

[moodymisty]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝕸𝖊

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Author's Note: Part 2! I know it came out kinda fast, but part 3 might take a bit longer since it's a bit more heavy than these first 2 chapters. It will also feature much more of our spooky man than this one has. Either way, I hope you enjoy meeting our stinky little Night Lord.

Summary: A Night Lord becomes interested in you while you stand under the eyes of your Salamander guardian, and you find yourself stuck between two titans.

Relationships: Yandere Salamander/Fem!Reader/Yandere Night Lord

Warnings: Hints of nsfw at points, Yandere, Size differences, Very toxic suffocating relationship(s), Some knight/princess dynamics, Demeaning language, Both these guys have hero complexes, Violence blood and bruises and possibly death to say without spoilers

Word Count: 3446

You need to eat. 

When Ralkan had told you to stay you’d trusted his judgment; Staying put in your quarters. It wasn’t safe for you on your own, not with Night Lords now prowling around. At least in his eyes. You didn’t have enough information to feel either way about it, though you can't say you have no fear of astartes you don't know.

Even when you first came aboard this ship, coming face to face with astartes for the first time- even as their kind faces smiled and they gave you polite dips of their head and welcomed you aboard- you still felt the heart pounding fear of seeing towering warriors on the line between human and something else.

Floating in the vastness of space beside the Flamewrought, Night Lord ships linger around with an unnerving aura you could feel when looking out any of the large viewports. it almost was like the ships were leering, as ridiculous as such a notion sounds.

There wasn’t much you could do in hidden away in your quarters, however. You could only write so much before you could no longer avoid the growling of your stomach, and the way it aches.

You can just go to the mess hall and get something to eat, and rush back to your quarters. It's not as if you have other options in the matter; He surely hadn't expected you to just starve, or get someone to wait on your hand and foot.

You had your fill of that on Terra. You can get your own food, you aren't a child anymore. And this ship is alive and well, you aren't going to let yourself fear some invisible terror in the dark.

Having your fill of hermitry you get up from your desk chair, leaving the small quarters that have been designated as your own. It has only the basics; A bed, a desk and chair, and a few other basics for a human to live. Perhaps it isn't as grandiose as a study in your highrise on Terra, in the shadow of the gilded Imperium palace, but it is far more freeing.

Upon leaving hall was relatively empty; They hadn't felt content to put you in quarters with other baseline humans, but you were still far away from the Salamanders own barracks. You were sure Ralkan had a say in this intentional placement as your guardian.

Down adjacent halls you can sometimes see a hint of dark blue armor pass the corner of your eye as you walk, but by the time you go to look, it’s gone. You've seen glimpses of the Night Lords now that they're aboard the ship, but you've avoided a full confrontation as of yet.

Ralkan's suffocating protection has done a good job of it. However he has his duties and cannot be around you always, and you’ll take the moment to take a deep breath free of him for just a little while.

You would never say you dispised him, but his aggravating behavior has begun to make your quarters feel like a cage. You cant stay in there forever, you have to eat. You doubt he would scold you for such a thing.

When you reach the mess hall you quickly grab a heaping portion of food- anyone who notices pays no heed to the amount- and sit to quickly shovel it all down. It's less than appealing taste is like nothing else now, with how hungry you are, and you find it gone within minutes. Only crumbs are left, and finally you're full again.

You quickly get up and move to shuffle back to your quarters not moments after the last bit of food hits your belly. If you're quick and avoid too many eyes he'll never know, and you two can both continue being sweet on one another with him being none the wiser.

His heart is in the right place; It's just that his grip is far too tight.

Your feet hit the floor at a quick place, walking as fast as you can go. The halls are a bit emptier than they were earlier, but you notice your door is within sight after what feels like only a few minute trek. When you get in, you can continue to write about Commander Artellius, and your time with the Salamanders. Being in travel has made things largely uneventful, other than the edition of the new temporary allies.

You reach towards the door open it, when a voice cuts the air and nearly startles you into to the ceiling.

“Well, what is this?”

The voice is loud, with an odd accent that warps his words ever so slightly. The shadows overtaking you are massive, and they almost seem to have appeared out of nowhere.

Maybe they had been following you. You were too busy staring at your own feet to notice, worried about making it back before a fellow of Ralkan spotted you out and out.

With no other option you turn and look up, gazing over dark blue armor with dents and scratches, marked with brass edging and red accents.

Only one had spoke, but there's three here; The middle is the tallest, but the one to his right is the most scarred; And the one that spoke, judging by the way he's smiling. He's the cockiest one, clearly.

The one in the middle has skin pallid and marked, a massive, jagged scar cutting across the bridge of his nose and brow. You think his irises might be a color, brown or grey, but there’s something in them that almost seems to suck the light out of everything around him and make them almost as black as his hair. But unlike his brother, he's yet to speak a word.

Your hand hovers over the handle of your door, frozen. You've barely even looked to the third Night Lord to your right.

Stuck like prey, you jolt as you spot an armored hand begins to reach towards your face from the corner of your eye, towards your jaw, and you yelp as it clamps around your jawline. Instantly your own hands try to pull at his armored fingers, teeth gritting as he holds far too tight. The cocky one steps a bit closer and turns your face as if examining a curious trinket, before he notices something.

“She’s all bruised,” He says, his thumb shoving your cheek and pushing it.

You were? When Ralkan grabbed you last you saw him he must’ve done so too hard. You can’t feel it hurting, but you are more than used to the smattering of bruises across your skin from him. Even at his most gentle, it’s obvious he isn’t made with it in mind.

You look up at the one gripping you, watching his eyes rake over you. He laughs, a gravely chuckle that you can feel in your chest as his own rumbles. The third one simply watches, body blocking the only escape path away from the other two. He's watching, like the act of doing so is more amusing that actually joining in.

“I thought the Salamanders were supposed to be altruistic.”

The Night Lord turns your face harder, and you gasp trying to pull at his gauntlet to free yourself even a minutia. Your muscles ache, jaw yelling in pain as his gauntlet is like a vice grip around the bottom half of your face.

“Hey, careful.”

The one in the middle finally speaks up for the first time, and the one grabbing you turns to him and scowls, clicking his tongue. His nose wrinkles but he doesn't let go of you, goading his taller brother.

“What, you suddenly care? We don’t feed other people's pets.”

Reaching forward he tugs one of your hands away from your captor's gauntlet, raising it for your captor to easily see.

“Look at the clothes. I think she’s important.”

The one grabbing you scoffs and turns away, pulling you around again. His other gauntlet grabs at your other arm, and looks at your hand. His face perks considerably, and the jolt of fear it sends through you beats all others.

"Ink stains. You don't work. You're soft."

Something on his face and in his voice changes, and you try to dig your heels into the ground in some fruitless effort to stay put.

"Volya." The middle one says as your capture seems to be readying to pick you up. You can barely open your jaw to speak let alone yell, unless someone spots you, you stand no chance of getting out of where ever he's planning on taking you.

"Yeah yeah, she's important; What important person is shoved back here by all the serfs and storage? They won't notice."

You yelp digging your heels deeper, and briefly look at the one who has voiced even the tiniest bit of concern for you. He catches your gaze, and something changes in his eyes as your hands pull at the fingers that hold you.

Moments later he grabs at his battle brother’s gauntlet, the ceramite clanking against each other as armor plates collide. Your captor looks at the taller one like he's furious at just being touched.

“We’re already far out-numbered on this ship. Just leave it. Find a less important one to toy with.”

He looks at his brother for a moment, nose wrinkled and teeth barred, and you can feel the air change like a fight is brewing; But he lets you go.

“Fine.”

Taking his fellow with him the two Night Lords leave you and the tallest of the three, the one who stood up for you, alone. You rub your jaw and look up at him. He watches with an unreadable expression on his unkempt face.

“...Thank you,”

You say, and you’re surprised by the way he reacts to it. Though his surprise fades away, as he smiles. It feels like his teeth are too big for his mouth, his two sharp fangs press against the inside of his upper lip.

“It talks? A surprise.”

Whereas Ralkan is stoic and mindful, this man is the opposite; His smile is cocky and posture relaxed even in his hulking armor. His arms cross, but given the size of his chestplate, the closest he can get to fully doing so is gripping his forearms with the opposite hand.

You swallow the knot in your throat. You know that while he did chase the other two away, it's very well possible it's only because he wanted you to himself.

Though maybe it's that curiosity in you- the thing that Ralkan seems so irritated by- that has you prying for answers rather than just crying and pleading for him to let you leave.

“What is your name? You’re the first of your Legion I’ve met.” 

That wasn’t the question he expected to hear, you suppose. His face perks with surprise and curiosity not unlike a child.

“Lev.”

Ralkan told you they enjoy terrorizing the weak, only picking fights that they know they can win by overwhelming odds. You'd say if you didn't cower like prey maybe he would leave you alone, but that's impossible when Lev is a terrifying example of just how little of a thing you are, in comparison to these giants.

But he doesn't seem like how Ralkan described them on first impression, however. Perhaps he’s just hiding it so you let your guard down. Though why would he risk a fight with his battle brothers if that was the case?

“We didn't know they had any of you studious types on board. Do they keep you all locked up?” 

You're sure Ralkan would like to, if he had his way with it. Had he been less inclined to take your opinion seriously, you'd probably be chained somewhere in your quarters, right about now.

"I was, informed, to stay in my quarters until you all left the ship."

Lev snorts, his smirk lopsided. Before he has a chance to say anything more, you notice that he has blood coming from one nostril, down his lip. It’s dry, but you wonder if he was in a fight and broke his nose not long ago. The bruising around it and dipping underneath his eyes adds to the theory.

“You’re bleeding…”

You say, gesturing to your own nose. He brushes his gauntlet against his upper lip, and watches dried blood fall to the ground. He licks his upper lip, and more of the blood wipes away. You find yourself more distracted by the gesture than one would like.

“Ahh, one of your Salamanders saying things he shouldn’t have; He could throw a punch, but couldn’t take one.” He smiles at you again.

“I didn’t kill him, if you’re worried about him.” "Believe me, I wanted to. All these overgrown lot are a bunch of stuck up types. You think they'd learn to keep their mouths shut before I take something from it."

You get the hint that he's joking, as odd as that is; Salamanders don't often joke. But you also get the hint that the only reason he didn't kill the man, was that as he mentioned before, he's greatly outnumbered on the Flamewrought.

You hadn't been thinking about the Salamander oddly enough however, too focused on the purple and blue bruising scattered across the hump of his nose. Your eyebrows raise, back still pressed against the wall.

“But, are you ok?”

You mumble, watching his eyes look over you. It almost looks like he thinks you're messing with him, until he seems to realize you were serious, and his expression mellows a bit. He uncrosses his arms and reaches a hand for you, and unlike his battle brother, you don't shirk away from his gauntlet nearly as much.

He grabs your jaw much in the same way his battle brother had earlier, but soft enough that it doesn't hurt.

"You stink like one of them," He remarks, and you assume he's referring to the Salamanders. His fingers grip your chin and pull it upward, exposing more of your neck.

He looked as if he was going to open his mouth and speak more, but a voice cuts through the air and stops him dead.

“Do you not have somewhere to be, Night Lord?”

Ralkan's voice makes your heart nearly stop, though you can’t manage to pull your eyes away from the Night Lord even as he approaches with thundering footfall. Lev however does, and looks towards the Salamander who stands no more than a meter to his right. You can see his face sour as he’s forced to drop his hand.

“Perhaps. But I believe on our arrival you said we were welcome guests, can I not wander?”

Ralkan steps forward, just short of trying to shove his slightly larger body between the both of you. He reaches for you, a massive green gauntlet landing on your shoulder.

“Move along, Son of Curze.”

He gives Ralkan a look. One that while irritated, is pleased that he managed to get under the Salamander’s skin.

But the Night Lord still hesitates to leave, watching as you shrink under the shadow of your returned guardian. For a moment you fear he might start something, with the way he looks at you and follows the arm trailing up your shoulder to Ralkan.

But recognizing the fight isn't one that he's sure he'll be able to win, Lev turns away from your overbearing knight to look down at you with the same smirk he'd given you earlier.

"Another time, little Salamander."

Lev leaves. He walks past the Salamander with not even a look, and just barely they manage to not slam pauldrons as he turns away. 

When he is safely out of earshot, Ralkan looks down at you; His expression is still stoic, but you can see the anger hidden beneath it.

“I told you to stay out of their sight,” He says, gripping your shoulder tight. You attempt lightly to pull away, his grip painful, but make little progress.

“I, I’m sorry Ralkan but I had to eat. Did you want me to just starve in there?”

His gaze softens ever so slightly, but you can still tell he’s more than a little bit angry. At you, and himself. Even if he wasn’t at all angry at you, his emotions weigh still on you like lead. He takes this whole protecting you duty that he has been given so incredibly seriously, you wonder how much worse it's going to get until someone else might have to protect you from him.

Ralkan takes a kneel, coming eye to eye with you. Both of his hands now cup the sides of your shoulders, and he looks at you like he's almost pleading at you.

“Now that he has his sights on you there’s nothing that’s going to stop him until he has you.” 

Despite his unnerving look, the blood on his face from a fight that put a Salamander on an apothecary table, he didn’t seem to be the way that Ralkan had described them. 

Maybe he's lying, maybe Lev is faking it.

“It wasn't like he was going to carve me up; By the Throne, Ralkan he saved me. There was more of them, but he chased them off.” Ralkan lightly shakes you.

“They enjoy toying with things like you. Don’t assume anything.”

You take in a deep breath, your face beginning to get hot with anger. You'd said earlier that this ship was more freeing than Terra, but not that's beginning to not be the case.

“He didn’t do anything, just-“ Ralkan’s brow knits in anger and he cuts you off, speaking angrier than you think you've ever heard him. Astartes voices are booming, and his hits you in the chest as he raises his voice.

“There are Salamanders already injured because of them. I asked you to stay here because I trusted you to heed my warning, if you won’t, then I can bring you to my own quarters and lock you inside.”

You look at him surprised at his anger, and your mouth clamps shut. You're angry at him for threatening such a thing, as much as your not surprised by it, but you can't fight him. Not realistically. You look away from him and try to swallow a knot in your throat at suddenly appeared.

Ralkan, realizing he’s upset you, softens his expression and sighs. His hands slide down from your shoulders to hold your hands in his massive gauntlets. The gesture doesn't go unseen, as you look down at them for a moment. The ceramite is cold and rough on your skin.

“I want you safe. It is my duty now yes, but,”

He hesitates for a moment, before removing one of his hands from your own and cupping the side of your face. You hate that the gesture melts away some of the anger you have welled inside of you.

“I would be beside myself if anything were to happen to you. I want you to be safe for your sake and my own.”

He leans closer. In your personal space, breath fanning across your skin, he closes the gap and presses his lips against yours. You don't move for a moment, before you gently exhale and lean closer to him. His nose presses against your cheek, and you can feel the small scars of his skin brush against yours. With him so close you realizes just how warm he is, astartes always run hot but it's like his blood is fire, your lips and face feel so warm. Though it could be your own flush, body heating up.

When he pulls away from you lips separating with a soft pop, you feel some of that stuffy heat dissipate, but the burn over your face remains.

“I must remove my armor first but, will you return to my quarters with me? I will tell you all about Nocturne. You can rest there as well, if you’d like.”

He’s trying to make it up to you, you can tell. He may not be directly apologizing, but he's trying to give you something he knows you want in an attempt to be sweet on you again. You hate how well it works. If only it didn't feel like he had you trapped in a cage, bars getting tighter and tighter.

With the warmth of his lips still on your own, you nod.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Ralkan smiles and rises to his feet. He gestures for you to walk beside him and takes your hand in his gauntlet once more, and you both leave your quarters for his own.

[daitranscripts]

Under Her Skin Pt. 7

The Pencil Sketch

Under Her Skin Masterpost First: Vicinius Previous: Shrine of Dumat

The party enters the final chamber, where a figure sits in the center of a large prison of light.

Erasthenes: The light. Light the… the burner. Add a teaspoon of cinnabar… “He came down in fire and splendor”—chapter nine, verse one.

Party comments:

Vivienne: That’s a spell of containment. A powerful one.

Dorian: Look at that containment spell–it would hold a dozen pride demons.

Solas: The barrier holding him is impressive. He is no threat to us, if he ever was.

The PC approaches.

PC: What is this? Who are you?

Erasthenes: Magister Erasthenes am I. A scholar of Tevinter. To Corypheus I am bound, to answer every question—gaah! (Sobs.) For Calpernia’s sake, I am lost.

The prison appears to hurt him as he speaks.

Dialogue options:

General: We could help each other. [1]

General: For Calpernia’s sake? [2]

General: Start talking about Corypheus. [3]

1 - General: We could help each other. PC: I need information. You’d like to be free. We could negotiate. Erasthenes: Oh. To be freed—you see what he has made of me? [4]

2 - General: For Calpernia’s sake? PC: Corypheus did this to you—on Calpernia’s behalf? Erasthenes: She knows not. Unnh! I am a ruin, the jeweled husk when the butterfly leaves. [4]

3 - General: Start talking about Corypheus. PC: In that case, tell me everything you know about Corypheus. [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Erasthenes: I was the greatest scholar of the Old Gods in Minrathous–no, in the Imperium. One night, he came to my door. For my relics, I thought. My writings and runes… But instead, my slave went to his side. Calpernia. To become the Vessel, and save Tevinter.

5 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: A vessel for what? [6] Investigate: She wants to save Tevinter? [7] General: Help me stop them. [8] General: Why did he bind you like this? [9] General: I need specifics. [10]

6 - Investigate: A vessel for what? PC: If Calpernia’s this Vessel, what are the contents going to be? Erasthenes: I do not know–unhh! Power, it must be some sort of power. Power like Urthemiel’s, arisen in flame… [back to 5]

7 - Investigate: She wants to save Tevinter? PC: Is that why Calpernia joined Corypheus? To save your empire? Erasthenes: Yes. She seeks a leader—Corypheus—to shape Tevinter’s rebirth… Unnh! She would raise up the slaves, as she was raised. Bring a new order, with a heart of steel. She could do it. If she were not the Vessel. [back to 5]

8 - General: Help me stop them. PC: Now Corypheus and Calpernia threaten us all. Stand against them, with me. Erasthenes: No, no. It is Calpernia who will be destroyed. [11]

9 - General: Why did he bind you like this? PC: If Calpernia’s the one who Corypheus wanted, why do this to you? Erasthenes: For practice. I… [11]

10 - General: I need specifics. PC: When is Calpernia becoming the Vessel? How? Where? Erasthenes: I do not know those answers. Unnh! But after… [11]

11 - Scene continues.

Erasthenes: Corypheus crafts a Vessel, for whatever power he seeks. Yes. But he does not need his Vessel to have free will. About her these same chains will fall. Iron, to cage lightning. My binding is the poor pencil sketch. Calpernia will be the masterpiece.

Dialogue options:

General: She’ll be a mindless weapon. [12] General: That’s why Corypheus hid you. [13] General: She’d turn on him if she knew. [14]

12 - General: She’ll be a mindless weapon. PC: Power without free will. That’s her role as the Vessel. Erasthenes: Yoked like a Qunari mage, a saarebas, a circumscribed sycophant. [15]

13 - General: That’s why Corypheus hid you. PC: Corypheus couldn’t risk Calpernia’s spies bringing her the truth. Erasthenes: No fool, he. Nor she. [15]

14 - General: She’d turn on him if she knew. PC: She’d reconsider being Corypheus’s pet magister, if she found out. Erasthenes: Hers is a cold rage, to rival the wrath of Corypheus. [15]

15 - Scene continues.

Erasthenes: Unnh! This chain has broken me, friend. No wings can raise my mind. Please. Breach the circle—its wards will trigger. I will be dust and light. Free.

Party comments:

Cassandra: Or it will kill us. Corypheus is not above placing such a trap. Erasthenes: Corypheus’s circle will hold its destruction within, tight, tight. No fear. Only freedom.

Vivienne: And we lose a source of intelligence on our greatest enemy. Erasthenes: I am bound, chained, nailed to the truth. I told it!

Dorian: In his place, I’d be begging for it to end. Erasthenes: Corypheus’s circle will hold its destruction within, tight, tight. No fear. Only freedom.

Dialogue options.

I’ll free you from your pain. (Kill Erasthenes.) [16] +Sera slightly approves +Dorian slightly approves +Cole approves -Cassandra slightly disapproves

Your death will be a message. (Kill Erasthenes.) [17] +Vivienne slightly approves +Iron Bull slightly approves +Solas approves -Sera slightly disapproves -Cole disapproves -Dorian greatly disapproves

You’re too useful to kill. (Let Erasthenes live) [18] +Cassandra slightly approves +Iron Bull approves -Cole disapproves -Sera disapproves -Blackwall disapproves

Mage: I can make you Tranquil. [19] +Cassandra slightly approves +Cole approves +Iron Bull approves -Sera slightly disapproves -Dorian disapproves -Blackwall disapproves -Vivienne greatly disapproves -Solas greatly disapproves

16 - I’ll free you from your pain. PC: All right. You seem honest, and you’ve suffered enough. Erasthenes: Light a lamp, would you, Calpernia? Everything’s so dark. [20]

17 - Your death will be a message. PC: With you dead, Corypheus will know that not even his innermost sanctum is safe. Erasthenes: Light a lamp, would you, Calpernia? Everything’s so dark. [20]

18 - You’re too useful to kill. PC: I can’t waste your knowledge. Leliana should question you. My agents will secure this place. Maybe they can undo that circle somehow. Erasthenes: You would make of me what he makes of Calpernia. What shall I make of that? [20]

19 - I can make you Tranquil. PC: We need the information you have, but you don’t have to suffer. If I make you Tranquil, you can still help us. There will be no more pain. Erasthenes: To mind my mind… what is left. Yes. Fetch your mages. I will take silence at last. [20]

20 - Scene continues.

The PC leaves.

Next: Results

[shiyorin]

I'm just wondering how the High Lords of Terra will react to the Inquisitor's report on Yandere Astartes

Sure it won't end well but they know what to do.

+++ HIGHEST SEAL - HIGH LORDS OF TERRA

+++ SUBJECT: RE - INVESTIGATION INTO SUSPECTED ADEPTUS ASTARTES GENEFLAW

FROM THE THRONES OF THE HIGH LORDS OF TERRA:

Let the record reflect that Inquisitor [REDACTED]'s findings have been received and carefully analyzed by this most esteemed conclave. We commend your diligence in identifying this supposed "Geneflaw" affecting our vaunted transhuman warriors.

However, we must respectfully disagree with the Inquisitor's dire assessments and recommendations. To advocate the systematic extermination of countless Astartes Chapters, and thus weaken our Imperium at so tenuous a juncture, would be unforgivably shortsighted.

Instead, we propose an alternative stratagem to weaponize and harness these new "urges" infecting the Adeptus Astartes.

Based on the documented cases, it is now clear these divergent behaviors all stem from overpowering obsessions and perverse fixations towards certain unaugmented humans. Whether driven by abhorrent lust, deranged infatuation or utter self-destructive piety, the underlying essence seems a primal, animalistic drive to "possess" these individuals.

We must accept this metamorphosis as an opportunity, not a flaw. Just imagine the vast strategic potential of such unwavering, all-consuming devotion!

If provided "regulated doses" of these subjects, we could conceivably drive entire companies of Astartes into suicidal frenzies of zeal and ferocious protectiveness. Their battle-disciplines would be reinforced through the biological imperative to defend their "Obsessions" from harm.

A theoretical approach is outlined below:

1) Identify and indoctrinate vast stocks of psycho-bombinally suitable mortal humans to serve as "Fixation Targets"

2) Embed these "Fixation Units" within key Astartes deployments as "Distress Bait"

3) When Astartes succumb to these new gene-coded hungers, allow "bonding" under highly regulated circumstances

4) Closely monitor Astartes unit efficiency and combat fervency, providing "Fixation Targets" on a reward-basis

5) Deploy newly dedicated hunter-killer Astartes squads to priority war zones reinforce as needed with replenished "Fixation Units"

Properly implemented, this "Obsession Doctrine" would transform our Astartes into perfect weapon of fanatical, borderline psychotic intensity.

Casualties from "casualties of passion" would be relatively minor compared to the renewed slaughter they could inflict upon our foes. Even if entire Astartes assets are spent in the process, their sacrifices would be accepted as the highest honors.

This is the price of victory. The tormented spirits of these unaugmented mortals are a small cost to bear for the future dominance of Holy Imperium.

[ATTACHED: Proposal for funding "Fixation Unit" indoctrination camps on feral, non-compliant worlds. Methods for triggering and reinforcing selected psychosis strains…]

Let the Imperium's enemies fear the consequences of our newly unfettered wrath.

For the Emperor, no sacrifice is too unthinkable.

The High Lords of Terra shall catalogue your counsel under the highest seal.

Thought for the Day: "The path of virtue is narrow and sown with graven thorns. It is our eternal struggle to walk its bloody miles."

-High Lord of Terra

[toribookworm22]

One Big:

Whatcha Been Writing

In the spirit of actually cleaning up my hoarded tags, I am combining not 1 but 52 Last Lines, Heads Up Seven Ups, and other miscellaneous related tags into a mega-share.

Thanks @thepedanticbohemian @writeintrees ×2 @saltysupercomputer ×2 @winterandwords ×3 @oh-no-another-idea ×3 @writernopal @pluttskutt @late-to-the-fandom @akiwitch ×3 @ashen-crest @sunset-a-story @ashwithapen @briannaswords @flock-from-the-void @bubbles-the-banshee ×2 @kaiusvnoir @scifimagpie @chainsaw-raven @axl-ul @primroseprime2019 ×3 @acertainmoshke @magic-is-something-we-create @rubywrite @reading-by-the-pale-moonlight @sam-glade @galactic-mystics-writes ×2 @authoralexharvey @frankensteinshimbo @sergeantnarwhalwrites @surroundedbypearls @frostedlemonwriter ×2 @theunboundwriter @sparrow-orion-writes @forthesanityofstorytellers @buffythevampirelover @digital-chance ×2 @cljordan-imperium @olivescales3 for all your tags!

I am just leaving one giant OPEN TAG!! ♥️

And for my share, have an excerpt from Chapter 10 of the second book of my Secondary Series. 🙃

The guards stationed at the entrance barely have time to see us before J has a knife in each of their throats. She retrieves them before they’re even dead as Vieve forces the doors open.

I want to be angry. Or shocked.

But all I can see is Edward frantically trying to save me while I died on some expensive rug. He’s the only person who’s actively and always chosen me.

Who has ever chosen him?

The wind is even fiercer than before. But before I can even dread the trek back to our safe house, there’s a vehicle pulling up and a voice calling out, “Get in!”

“Courtney?” I dare to ask.

Her bright head of hair appears from the driver’s side as the back is opened up. “Hey, there. Let’s catch up on the road, barkeep.”

We all collapse against the thin walls of the transport, a woman in white reattaching the flap before calling out to Courtney, “All clear, let’s go.” The engine revs, and we start an angry path forward. 

The sudden movement rolls my stomach and I fall onto my hands, spitting up more bile and poison. After a couple of heaves, I feel a hand softly press into my spine. It almost makes me feel safe. A gentle hand when I’m hurting, a soft towel wiping at my mouth, two voices I never get to hear again. Then I throw up again.

“Hey. You’re alright.” I glance up at Edward, his legs thrown out beside me. His face is already scarred from where the gag dug in. I want to say something, but I can’t figure out what. I’m just seeing him fall into the grass and seeing his sister get up and never come back and taking one last look at his sleeping form in his bed. “We made it out.”

The woman in white kneels in front of me with a scrap of something and starts cleaning up my mess. I stop her with a quivering hand. “I got it,” I say.

She smiles at me, even if her bright star-shaped eyes are almost empty. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do anymore. Courtney helped me. Let me help you.”

The fabric rustles and shifts, revealing the front of the vehicle and Courtney’s back. “Seriously. What were you guys doing there? I didn’t think you were going to make it out. Especially after Ani went down.”

“Supply run,” Casa tells her.

“You went to Alswik for supplies?” Courtney asks, incredulous. “Don’t you still have a contact at the base?”

Edward’s hand falls from me. “Don’t work with them anymore. And you’d be smart to do the same before it gets you killed.” He watches Ani kick the vomit-stained fabric into the corner of the vehicle. “You and the people you love.”

Without slowing down, Courtney takes a long look back at us. “Thanks for the concern.” She looks back at the road. Ani walks carefully to the front to sit as close to her as possible. “Now where am I dropping you off?”

…

I offer to help Ani hide the vehicle under a cover of leaves and brush as best as possible while the others plan routes to the safe house and the ship. It’s not safe to travel in a big pack when Alswik could possibly have people after us. Or Insignia could have people on their way. While we work, I hear Edward pull Courtney aside, his voice low but insistent. “Listen. You are more than welcome to stay the night on my ship before you keep moving. But you breathe a word of this to Kat and I’ll have you boxed up and sent to Adenrore.”

“I just came to get Ani, Rescue. I’m not here on her orders. Or anyone’s.”

“I can’t risk you traveling with us.” He glances at the woods we’ve stopped in, halting on me for a moment. I snap my gaze back to the brush I’m pulling over the wheels. “And you shouldn’t risk it either.”

J and Vieve take the woods, Edward and Casa following the stream nearby. I offer to travel with Courtney and Ani through the overpass.

There’s still something in my system, even as the daylight fades away. I’ll probably be throwing up through the night, too. But at least the last thing I saw wasn’t the terror in Edward’s eyes. Seeing him worried like that is a fate worse than death. But it’s all I can think about as we walk over dirt and grass and rocks. All I can think about is how Imre made sure Edward was always front and center in front of him, how desperate he seemed to ignore everyone else. How badly I failed at keeping him safe.

“He’s going to get you killed,” Courtney says.

The sun has just begun to set and I can see the cabin Edward calls their safehouse emerging from the thick of the trees below us. I think of all the times Edward has been the one at my side, wrong or right or everything in between. “I’d follow him anywhere,” I whisper into the wind.

Courtney just sighs. Like that’s the response she expected. Dreaded. Something else. I don’t know what kind of history they have, I don’t know who Kat is or why neither of them seem to be working for her anymore. But I do know Edward. “And that’s why.”

[deimos-awaits]

Ironsong Initiate Two

Some time has passed and Theophilus is more advanced now

Theophilus Attaliates was no longer a child. He was now a psalti, having undergone years of training, blessed indoctrination, and the ritualized surgeries of the Ironsong. He could recognize himself now in the morrow when he looked, violet eyes flaked with brown and a shaved head. He couldn't quite remember what he looked like before the neural ports and other changes that had happened to him.

Theophilus Attaliates was scared. He remembered vaguely how that felt but now mainly just recognized it as something to be categorized and put away for later. “Fear Cat 2 - mortal peril, useless at current moment to be felt fully later” After all it would be silly not to be fearful when orks were firing in your general direction. “Arrogance Cat. 1 : orks might be lucky and shit my armor. Would hate to have to do my purple paint if it gets scratched.” All psalti were required up to a certain degree to care for the upkeep of their armor and were taught various rituals to placate its machine spirit.

The psalti was not alone. He was operating with the rest of the advance squad. Nine of his other brothers and sisters as well as a small detachment of mechanicus ground troops. He had worked before alongside mechanicus skitarii rangers before. One of the principle lessons that the Ironsong strove to indoctrinate into all recruits was the benefits of cooperation on the battlefield and as such their neophytes often went side by side with scouting units from their closest allies.

He turned to look at the hooded ranger. “Distance to objective?”

The blue robbed skitarii blurted out a string of static that hurt the ear. “Annoyance Cat. 1 Can't the tech priests just let them speak still?” His helmet translated it to, <<Approximately 42 kilometers Psalti-Hypostrategos Attaliates.>>

At roughly 17 standard years old, Theophilus was the most advanced and oldest of the psalti he had been leading. He already by this point had most of the supplemental organs installed and had gone through that strange misma that affected all the Ironsingers. Thus he was the leader of this group. Theophilus once heard another of his number refer to it as the oldest child leading children which wasn't exactly wrong but also left him feeling some sort of way.

He had talked to the Strategos of the Themata regarding this point of view. Siderenia head dispensed some decent amount of wisdom that while it was true, some soldiers also even space Marines needed ways to reduce stress and humor was a window to that for some.

Theophilus smiled. He was not one given to rousing speeches at least not yet nor was he given to suicidal charges. He looked around at the other aspiring members of the Irosong chapter. Words reportedly attributed to both Commissars Gaunt and Cain came to mind. Heros of the Imperium them both. “Children of the Omnissiah!” For that is what they were, even him with solely his metallic hand, “Do you want to live forever!’

“No, sir, no!” Came the chorus of replies. It was after all better to die for the emperor then to live in cowardice.

“Then let's go! Skitarii Ranger Alpha RAX-XIX, provide cover fire!” Theophilus made sure that his bolter was loaded. You made one quick look from behind the shelter that they had taken behind a set of crumbling walls. Their mission was to help place down sensor arrays as close to enemy lines as possible and report back the size of the Waaaaaagh. The skitarius let out a burst of static that Theophilus knew by well meant yes or affirmative translation was not the easiest but he was definitely familiar enough to recognize what it meant.

He would ensure that both objectives were done. He led the charge into the breach of what was one some kind of manufactorrum while galvanic rifle fire pelted the air around the squad. Theophilus did not need to look back to know that his squad mates were following him; the footsteps behind were proof enough. Theophilus felt worried. “Worry Cat 3 if this does not go well then most of the squad will be eliminated or worse by Orks. Their geneseed and implants would have been wasted.”

Theophilus did not like fighting orcs if he could be said to enjoy fighting xenoa at all. T’au weee perfidious and unhonorable, Votann Leagues woul just like backstab him, and Eldar strangely had a more than negative relationship with his chapter though he had not ever been informed as to why. He had never fought dhrukari and did not think that he wanted too. Most of this was based on what he had been taught as well. He'd only ever seen orks.

Those thoughts were distracting him from the current mission ahead he categorized them aside for later just as taught in the hypno conditioning. Now you had to face accuracy was never their strong suit however they more than often made up for that in sheer volume of fire. Thankfully his allies had much better aim volley after volley of galvanic fire was clearing out all visible orks in the manufactorum.

Words from the Forge-Priests came to him, to not allow arrogance, pride, or hubris consume them. Theophilus slowed as the entrance to the rubble was discovered. The skitarii processing cover fire quickly advanced with a mechanical precision he was jealous of admittedly. “Jealousy Cat 1 other servants of the machine god are blessed in ways I will never be. Forge-Priest Justinian's words, that we too are blessed by the machine god to be a unison of flesh and steel in our own myriad ways.”

Theophilus made a simple hand signal to one of his squadmates. Psalti Anastasia Thermopili used her vox array to signal back to the base that the way had been cleared. As of yet in this sector the ork Waaaaaaaaaagh did not seem to have large forces present in this area. They had taken down twenty full sized boyz already. It was a slog. They seemed to be contained to the first floor of the ruins.

From then on it was a relatively simple mission climbing to the top of the ruins and with the precision fire eliminating any orks that laid in wait. When they were about halfway up the building, Theophilus turned back to look at his troops. Most of them seemed to be in good spirits. The skitarii were as always silent, most likely communicating through the noosphere. Their goggles were cute. “Unclear emotion Cat 3 warmth in chest observing skitarii’s actions.”

He looked at Anastasia. The strange warmness did not go away. “If the biggest issue we have from here on out is climbing then, I think we shall be asked to be spared from the battle feast honors, no?”

Anastasia laughed. It was like her voice: deep and beautiful. Theophilus liked it almost as much as he enjoyed watching her shave her face. See of course could not see her face due to the helmet she was wearing but he's seen it enough times before. The rest of his squad laughed with her as well. The skitarii stayed silent as they did often throughout most missions.

Anastasia was the only one to respond back, “I hope not sir! We have bolters blessed to kill xenos! Besides, sir, battle feasts are always the best!”

As they continued up to the roof of the factorum they began to receive scattered updates with regard to the greater battle. Ork forces had pushed forward in a charge most suicidal and therefore for them fun and directly into the line of Fourth Themata artillery. As the battle kept going, orks became sparser and sparser in this part of the front line. They ran towards the obvious sounds of fighting. The small squad of scouts and rangers was able to mount the box array on the top of the ruins providing full data for the local airspace.

Theophilus felt so very scared in the feast hall though he did not know why.