#khorne felt something

[rainbowgod666]

So basically

Rich people need suffering

...

@rounderhouse, @the-metaphysician and all other SCP authors i call upon y'all cause GUESS WHAT I FOUND

US labor is learning they have more value and more power with each union strike.

Collective bargaining and worker solidarity are the antidote to corporate tyranny and worker exploitation.

[kit-williams]

Happy Baby

Hey... who wants more angst? In the Husbandry tag?

Zharth Erenor looked around the warband as he was hearing a baby cry. "Slax." His brother in question looked to him and hummed, "Is there a Night Lord with us?"

"No brother Zharth... Shall you go collect it or I?" Slax said boredly as the two looked to the now empty drug den as in the distance were screaming humans or their bodies laid littered at their feet.

"I'll go collect it. Or kill it... who knows?" He said as they both laughed at the whimsy in which Zharth said it.

He looked around as he walked up the steps and heading to a back room seeing a body looking quite blue most likely dead before they even arrived. The screaming infant was in here as they cried for a dead mother. Probably would be more merciful to put it out of its misery but this would be a fine sac-

Zharth blinked as he looked down at the baby and something inside of him shifted. His thoughts stopped and changed from how the baby would be a good offering to the dark gods to... why was his charge cold... Zharth didn't even register what had happened as he delicately picked up the small human and looked around. Slax would be outside...

"Zharth?" The Black Legionary called inside now worried. He moved with slow steps heading up the stairs and looked at Zharth's back as he could hear Zharth's unmodified voice trying to soothe the human baby. "Not you..." Slax said with his shoulders slumping.

It felt like losing a brother to the zombie plague... it just happened sometime but Zharth and Slax had been together since they were Sons of Horus. Zharth spun around bolter drawn. "Slax..."

Slax looked at Zharth and there was a strange look in his eyes a sudden ferocity... a feral like quality to them... a madness blessed by Khorne almost... a tenderness brought on by Nurgle... he had Bonded as the Prophet was calling the madness. "Brother... give me the mortal." He said softly holding out his hand.

Zharth backed away holding the baby close, having half wrapped the fur cloak around the infant. "Brother... leave me be."

"I can't do that Zharth... give me the mortal." He pleaded before Zharth fled smashing through the wall with ease and rushing out into the snowy night. Slax got on his vox to the rest of the warband, "It's Zharth! He bonded! Please try not to kill him!" Slax ordered pushing his weight around with the warband.

------

It was a long night for Zharth as he limped along the side of the road as black blood dripped onto the concrete below him. He had already snarled and postured himself enough but he was getting tired and he had no idea where he was going just he needed to keep his charge safe.

"Brother." A voice behind him bellowed and he looked over his shoulder at the approaching Black Legionary, "You look like you've seen better days." The unknown Legionary said as he was wary having heard a feral was suddenly in his territory. "Don't you know whose territory you are trespassing on? Which Warband holds these lands?" He approached with a click of his tongue until the infant started to scream again. Zharth snarled getting aggressive again but the other held up his hand. "Come with me brother my charge will know what to do."

Zharth followed the other coming to a home as some woman came out and she looked to Zharth concerned till his charge was pointed at and she rushed over and Zharth's instinct was to grab his bolter but the unknown Legionary stopped him. "My charge is a human medic. Your charge looks unhealthy and must be cold... tiny ones do not survive long... you don't want to lose your charge?"

Zharth was in such a daze as he shook his head and turned over his charge to the woman. Zharth was in such a daze he didn't notice how he was being guided after his charge by two apothecaries and the warlord was prying information from the dazed brother.

Zharth lifted his head, "My battle brother Slax... do not kill him."

"Hmmm?" The warlord tilted his head, "What makes you-"

"Do not play a Slannshi's game with me." Zharth hissed as his black and bronze armor was taken off of him.

The Warlord sighed, "Fine I shall retrieve your brother for you. Rest brother and pray to the dark gods your charge survives the coming days. The Apothecaries will take care of you."

[jellyfishinajamjar]

Okay I’ve got a crackpot theory. Be’lakor was a Necron’tyr. Here’s my evidence:

Be’lakor is the first Daemon Prince ever, meaning he had to have come from a very early era in the galaxy. The War in Heaven is as far back as the lore goes

Be’lakor has the favor of all chaos gods, something that would have been easier to get when they were smaller, such as at the very tail end of the War in Heaven with the deaths of the Old Ones keeping the warp at bay

The Necron’tyr have aspects that could feed into all of the Chaos Gods. They get sick and die at a very young age, playing into Nurgle. They went through biotransferance, a galaxy spanning act of change into a new and horrifying state, hyping up Tzeentch. And the War in Heaven was canonically the bloodiest and most devastating war to ever occur, so plenty of blood was spilt for Khorn. A very active and skilled Necron’tyr general or champion could easily have attracted the attention of one or perhaps all of the gods. Perhaps one who slew the beings keeping them contained and weakend might be rewarded, and with Chaos now a major power in the galaxy, rewarded handsomely

Now admittedly there are some holes. Nothing about the Necron’tyr in general makes me think Slannesh, though Be’lakor could have had some shit going on we just don’t know about. Also Slannesh wasn’t born till long after the war, though afterwords she had always existed, so it’s still possible. Be’lakor is the Deamon Prince of Chaos Undivided, not one god specifically, so it’s possible that his deal with Chaos as one entity also retroactively included all ‘new’ Chaos gods, such that when she was born she had already made the deal just as a causal requirement for existing, even if she wouldn’t have agreed to it had she been sentient then

Necron’tyr are supposed to have had weak souls, though I imagine with the sudden rush of power they felt being freed they could have made a rock into a Deamon Prince if it had been an especially attractive rock

Also the War in Heaven was at its bloodiest after biotransferance, which I imagine makes accession to Daemonhood impossible on account of the lack of a soul. Perhaps he was thrown to the forges and the gods pulled him out into his Daemonhood rather than losing his soul?

[kharrneth]

Lore often explicitly maintains that the only emotions Khorne is capable of is a constant state of rage. However, this is inconsistent with what we actually see and it would be accurate to say (and has been said) that Khorne spends most of his time in some kind of discontent or negative affect. Khorne is fully capable of complex emotions; these are just often consumed by anger. Then of course there are his daemons, namely his greater ones; as avatars of Khorne, they too offer insight into Khorne's emotional range.

List of Emotions Khorne has canonically felt:

Fear

Several sources recount a secret terror felt by all Chaos Gods towards Slaanesh, due to his aspect being truly never ending.

Satisfaction

Khorne is described as feeling a satisfaction that nearly overcoming his all-consuming rage after the acquisition of his weapon, the Ebon Blade. He won Nurgle to his side, then vanquished Tzeentch and Slaanesh to acquire this weapon, which is his preferred armament. I like to think it's a source of pride, maybe even comfort.

Affection / Passion

Khorne is flatly stated to feel nothing for the vast majority of his followers, however lore suggest that not only does he feel affection for Valkia but that this affection is passionate in nature. Even when she was human, Khorne was said to feel something like fondness for her. The only other being he was angered to the degree he was when Valkia was killed over was his dog, Karanak, slain by one of Slaanesh's daemons. This suggest a similar affection for his Flesh Hound.

Khorne's attention is never far from Valkia, even when she's not killing, which says a lot for a god who's whole thing is ceaseless murder forever.

Pleasure

Khorne is commonly described as delighted, pleased, and favouring of the bloodiest of his soldiers. The only time his pleasure isn't battle-related is when it's surrounding Valkia, his wife (and even then-- she's usually fighting and/or leading his armies, so yeah).

(Grim) Amusement

Khorne laughs at Skarbrand and Skarbrand's offering after the Ursun plot...then maintains his eternal exile. Definitely some Schadenfreude / Sadism going on there.

Enthrallment

The Masque is noted among Slaaneshi daemons as the perform so flawlessly as to enthrall the very gods themselves-- this includes Khorne. The fact is also includes Slaanesh seems to suggest there isn't supernatural influence at work.

Arousal

Here's a fun one. The lore never denies Khorne's ability to feel aroused, only stating that he feels it's a waste of time. In fact, he feels it towards Slaanesh, like all the gods do. It's worth noting that these are emotions Slaanesh induces in his brother gods and so they might not be endogenic to Khorne....however, "Blood Raven" features a very sensuous Valkia and Valkia is often described as "Khorne's desire made flesh" (literally; he remade her and she is largely unchanged from her human form, which was beautiful enough to make Locephax act stupid). Do with all this what you will.

Brooding

Khorne is described in several sources as "broody". Interestingly enough, brooding isn't really a sub-category of aggression (though there is some overlap between this and being irritated). This is likely his lowest "setting" as far as his rage.

[thefouraboveall]

" I've searched high and I've searched low, but this world does not have what we seek, my brothers." Nurgle spoke with faux exasperation as he hauled his bulk Convening Chamber (creatively christened by the Blood God Khorne). He glanced between his siblings, the red disappointed and angry and the pale silent and bored.

" No beasts roam here. Only weak mortal-things for the Prince to amuse himself with." Khorne snarled, lashing out and killing one of those very same mortals without so much as looking. The death did little to stir the others, who were prostrated around Slaanesh. The Dark Prince hardly reacted to the murder. If anything, he seemed to sympathize.

" I too grow tired of this world, both its monsters and it's mortal. Let us continue our hunt elsewhere. Somewhere more lively, perhaps." Offered the serpent. Khorne gave a curt nod, arms crossed. Both looked at Nurgle, who summoned all of his will power and his strength when he sure they were each on the same page. The vines helping to hold the bastion-manse together became animate, squirming about like the arms of a cephalopod and hauling the massive unnatural structure to and from. They ripped themselves from the ground and slowly, the edifice began to move.

Slaanesh stood. He turned to his adoring flock, commanding his least adored to kneel before Kharneth with their heads bent and their necks exposed. With a flippant gesture, the Prince sauntered off to the round room's margins, leaving the rest of the grim work to Kharneth, who also rose and surveyed the offerings.

Opening the warp was no easy task and their was a power that required life -- and death. And there was death, brought at the end of Khorne's claws and he scythed heads from necks and loosed souls from their mortal shells. The blood would strengthen him, the fear and twisted excitement at the prospect of death would empower Slaanesh, and together they would rip a hole in the very face of reality to haul their castle through. All they need was a tear-- they could force it wider, if need be.

By the time the last head had been taken, the bastion-manse had breached, tearing it's way in inexorably into the not-place that was the Warp. Reality and it's restrictions gave way and the gods were soon bathed in the sea of souls, nourished by it's primal chaos. Those servants of chaos who had been spared rejoiced to be taken to the Kingdoms of their master (and having avoided Khorne's talons...), and the Bastion-Manse, with it's vine and entrail tendrils, swam through the soul-sea like a great abyssal creature. But it was not the only creature and the Hunter Kharneth was the first to notice.

" SILENCE!" he roared over the jubilations, his thunderous voice drowning out all others and bullying them into quiet. Nurgle winced and so did the the tendrils for a moment. Slaanesh bristled, glaring daggers at Khorne and making to offer him some surely sharp sentiments, but then he felt it too and hesitated. In the dark place in his mind, that was born sense-sensitive and keen as only the weakest of the four could be, the Prince froze and looked about.

" What? What is it, Kharneth?" Nurgle urged his oldest sibling. Having dedicated his senses to piloting the Bastion-Manse, he was blind to minutia of the inner happenings.

"Something--" Slaanesh didn't get to finish the thought. The Manse had been rocked, juddered to the side like a broadsided ship. Something had slammed into them and sent all aboard scattering. Some of the servants went flying and the great creature quickly hoovered them into it's great maw before fleeing. The Prince hissed upon seeing this and Khorne growled as being so brazenly attacked. The creature swam in dolphin-like arcs, away and away, but then it turned and it charged.

Coming headlong, brazen and violent, Khorne recognized it for what it was immediately. A god-beast. A primal predator of the Warp and no doubt it had seen the and scented them, drawn in by the prospect of a meal. A monster fit for the Powers themself to track and hunt and slay, for glory and other reasons.

But the four were not as they were before. They were not even four gods.

" Retreat! Nurgleth, get us clear of that-- that thing!" Slaanesh cried to the Plague Lord, who was working frantically to move out it's path. Not quickly enough, Kharneth quickly deduced. He charged, leapt from the towers of the cobbled-together tower, and summoned forth the fiery rage in his chest into a wide-ranging swathe of flame. The God-Beast shrieked and changed course, glancing the castle with it's bulk. Khorne felt the tendrils of the Bastion-Manse wrap about him, tethering him.

"Nurgleth!" Slaanesh urged once more, indignant. The Plaguelord snarled back, " I am going as quickly as I can! Your caterwauling is not helping, Slaanesh!"

Khorne ignored the pair of them the best he could. Escape was not an option, not really. Getting out of the warp was as tricky as getting in and they weren't outrunning this thing, which was shaking off it's burns and surprise and roaring it's outrage.

" Nurgleth." Khorne's voice cut through the chaos. The Plaguelord's webbed ears perked and when the Blood God was sure he'd been heard he continue. " When next the beast draws close--

"-- grab it and hold it."

[slobozan-shitposting]

Nisha Andrasta's suicide was preventable. After a conversation with Lorgar no one would feel any desire to live, this man is annoying. But it was obvious, how lonely and lost she was - Nisha was losing her only beacon of hope in her life (literally the astronomican) and felt like she was participating in something she shouldn't participate in. If Lotara had taken the role of a leader (and was more than a mere military functionary) and ideologically guided Nisha through her crisis, everything would've been fine. It was stated, that Nisha liked her and they had quite warm relationship, so I think it would've worked. If only Lotara knew what she's fighting for... True daughter of Khorne, wages war for the sake of war.

[downwithpeople]

rogue trader

on the whole a very good game. still my favourite wh40k thing i've played. i love tooling around the koronus expanse with my gang of miscellaneous shitheads.

i think splitting up the game into arbitrary arcs was either a mistake or something that was probably a holdover from an earlier version of the game that had more stuff in it. the big story stuff takes a back-seat in part 3 with the whole 'abducted by dark elves' thing. most of part 4 feels like tying up loose ends and part 5 is just kind of like, two companion quests and the final boss. it's nice that you get to see a huge swathe of the setting but the game probably should have stuck to three enigmatic enemies instead of like, five. you meet your rival rogue traders twice and in the second meeting you kill them.

the companions are very good. this cast is so much better than any bioware cast you care to mention. dragon age companions vacillate wildly between boring, annoying and desperate to suck your dick. the worst companion in this game is heinrix, because he's a cop, but that's only when you compare him to someone genuinely fascinating like marazhai or ulfar.

that's just in terms of personality though. in terms of mechanical usefulness i always had abelard and cassia and i was normally extremely reluctant to cycle argenta out of the party. abelard tanks and cassia and argenta completely depopulate the screen. both characters have been significantly nerfed since release but they're both incredible powerhouses.

some of these classes are not like the others. soldier/arch-militant is rightfully touted as an extremely powerful class that combos well with the officer; the arch-militant takes out three enemies per round and the officer gives them the extra turns they need to bring that number up to six. the operative felt like such a finicky waste of time, especially since applying debuffs felt like a waste of time compared to something like, cassia's notch of purpose + unblinking gaze combo that would drag every enemy into a 3x3 grid to get the ark of the covenant treatment. it's entirely possible that the normal difficulty is just tuned a bit low.

spaceship combat and exploration was tedious busywork. supposedly one of the upcoming dlcs is gonna massively expand those systems but we'll see. colony management was a fine bit of background spreadsheet tinkering but it would sometimes require you to travel to the colony in-person, which would require you to hope from star system to star system and deal with pointless encounters along the way.

i'm replaying the game on dogmatic and i'll be interested to see how that changes things. apparently heretic is fairly lame which doesn't surprise me. the rogue trader is a one-man east india company and that gives you all the delicious evil you could want. kowtowing to khorne or what have you isn't gonna add much more and apparently it also costs you almost all of your companions. so fuck that

[offrozenmemoirs-old]

You hummed to yourself as you sat inside of the room that you claimed as your own at Lenora's old mansion. It felt good to be back in Ingora after such a long time away, but outside of the cloister, this place had become a home away from home. It made you chuckle sometimes, thinking back to when you wanted to run away from it all, and find your father. Would it have helped? Maybe temporarily, but you know that it would only lead you to having regrets for abandoning the friends you made along the way. You weren't the type to flee, even when the path ahead was hard.

You stare into the mirror, observing the scars along your body, to think, before all of this, you didn't have any wounds at all, or lasting ones...Now you looked like someone well traveled, paired with the white hair, people thought you were older than you actually were. You don't think you're very sensitive about your age, but you definitely find it odd that some people think you're an old man. You continue observing until the image in your mirror is no longer your own, but one eerily similar to your friend Sino, but you know that this is her counterpart, Maisie Doscedar. You quickly throw on a top, covering up, and stare at the gnome.

"Miss Doscedar, I presume? Were you trying to reach Makoto? I've been trying to reach him myself but..."

You frown, thinking of Makoto's mental state and the headaches that come with his bouts of anger. They're often marked with Khorne's voice growing louder, not enough to affect you beyond discomfort, but nothing that meditation can't fix.

"Something's preventing me from talking with him. Can you tell me why he's been so...angry lately?"

@allthatisleftinthedark

[2lim3rz]

Imagine being from a world in Warhammer 30k which was sort of like Lorgars world where they worshipped the Chaos gods, but instead of worshipping them the Reader and their clan instead have honed and perfected the art of summoning and subjugating the various types of Chaos daemons. Like to the point where Nurgle daemons are used to improve fertility in cattle/crops, Khorne daemons are used as guard/attack dogs, and so on. How would the Primarchs/Big E react to their s/o being capable of this?

This definitely fits with my sorta view that.. I mean, Chaos does have its inevitable place in the world. And it has been established that with the whole belief system, there are minor 'gods' that sort of exist. But Chaos is a culmination of everything (and it happens in grimdark dystopia that it all sucks)

But we have been shown good sides of Chaos (or at least told OF them). With Slaanesh's pleasure (and pain does have its place in the world) [with Steeds being a good example because.. I mean they don't really actively do anything malicious, they're just curious titty raptors that like to vibe]; Khorne's honor (and bloodshed, because he IS the Warrior god) [and most things I see of Khorne are low-key pretty mechanical as well]; Tzeentch is ambition and psychic powers (both of which are important in the society of 30/30k and general life); and Nurgle's mortality (as well as disease having its place) [as well as rot and decay i.e mushrooms having its belonging in the food chain]

I'd imagine there's an UNDIVIDED tribe/settlement (going with tribe in assuming this is also a nomadic world similar to Colchis) as well as a tribe corresponding to each separate god (I can elaborate more but tl:dr: the khornate god takes in exiles/willing followers and uphold the Dedications of the Blood in which they attack the other tribes while dressing themselves similar to the daemons this also aids [unintentionally] in keeping the population down)

In saying this, I'd probably say it'd function closer to this: Nurgle - Sacrificial uses are plant based and generally the end of a life (i.e composition n such) while not many of his daemons are used, he's certainly revered enough

Slaanesh - The arts generally, but daemons are used to aid in performances or even arcetecture however you spell it lmao. No sacrifices so much as dedications and performances

Khorne - Sacrifices and Dedications. Honor aspect is leaning towards upholding laws.. in a sense. Laws being more eye-for-an-eye in this case. Daemons are used to aid in combat and transportation

Tzeentch - Lowkey.. a lot of things sort of goes with Tzeentch. Daemons are very versatile with this one. Sometimes takes sacrifices, sometimes dedications. Very unsure?

Note: Just Leman, Magnus,and Lorgar this go around cause I just had ideas for them and for simplicity's sake, the planet is called.. Let's call it Asybor (a-SIGH-boar)

Your world.. was one of peace. Similar to many worlds and yet.. oh was it so different. For the taint of the warp was upon it, so they said.

You were a Fraslen; a Sky Speaker. Runes were both carved and tattooed into your body.. yet they were artful and done with precision. A curling ball of flame upon your head, a horned triangle of sorts upon your breast alongside three loops with three coiled arrows and upon your back was a circle with a semicircle arrow split in half with another semicircle. These were only the largest however.. All of them curling into each other like beautiful holding hands.

You were nearly barren of clothes this time of year. Loose transparent cloths floated akin to ghosts on your body, with golden sandals protecting the soles of your feet across the hard ground.

You heard it; the songs, the cheers.

You saw it; the blaze of piercing light in the air, the sight of something falling into your planet.

You felt it; as if you were dipped into one of the warming rivers in the northern passes, a feeling washing over your mind.

Something was there..

LEMAN RUSS

It's the great crusade and.. admittedly even this planet was a bit out of his reach. Yet something told him that he needed to be here. It had to be seen. It was a yet to be conquered planet and scans deemed it to be.. suspiciously empty. There were readings of some animals but little else.. and upon a planet so green and clearly rich with life? It was off.

Until he and his ship of Space Wolves landed. Of course, all you knew was that you had to welcome this.. whatever it was. And at first your eyes and your mind were at war with each other. In fact, you had fallen to your knees the moment you beheld the men in strange armors.. their height rivalled the Kortons, their regality was unmatched to those of the Slaniths.

They had surprise as well. Scans showed nothing of human presence; yet here one was.. bearing symbols that made the mind ache.. the soul wander dangerously. Leman Russ.. was having none of it

But.. he was curious. And Curiosity was a dangerous thing. Being the closest thing to the planet's ambassador, you would lead them. And gladly tell them of everything. Why should anything be secret to your brothers of the stars?

You were greeted with skepticism, when you had shown them the elegantly made tents of the Cliff Treaders with their mounts of great winged beasts, they were astounded. Even more shocked when the burden-beasts could even carry one of the warriors upon its back

Yet the Giant one, the Wolf as he called himself was wary.. if not interested in what you had to show. What dangers there were. The only threat upon them was a foolish pack of Kortons that had challenged them. It was a joyous moment to discover how similar aspects of your cultures were: myths, foods, the nomadic traveling of your natures, the worship of nature with respect and wary fear.

You spent most of your time with the Great Wolf; the Star Hunter, Leman Russ..

Enough to gift him with a hand painted figure upon a sky-stone. A gleaming figure of him with painfully bartered paints from the Slaniths. The gifts of Fraslens were extremely few since they had to be Neutral in most things. Especially upon a stone only taken from upon one of the Pilgrimages

There was pain in his eyes when he accepted it

And you couldn't fathom why as he turned his back upon you. Not knowing just how you and your planet's entire precious culture would have to be disintegrated, less they faced His wrath.

MAGNUS THE RED

The primarch that had arrived.. stole your breath away. Where in Leman's case, you were overwhelmed by the presence of such withheld ferocity and the appearance of primality contained.. with Magnus it is conflicting. Massive and regal, but at the same time something was innately Off about him. His soldiers were of similar..

Yet unlike the other primarchs (with exception to perhaps Konrad or Perturabo), with Magnus you felt.. as if there was a chance.

Magnus, and many of the Thousand Sons no doubt (tell me if this is wrong because I am not a Magnus expert) is a scholar. The usage of the.. Warp in natural day-to-day life was astounding! It was..

It was similar to his home. The feeling of.. magic everywhere. Permeating the very soils of the ground itself. Even if he had to get used to the fact that his first meeting with the inhabitants was.. very nude

You lead him everywhere you could, equally fascinated by the technologies he brought with him. He took great interest in the song-tales of the Slaniths, and the story-weavers of the Za'leech.

He was even more interested in the patterns across your body. Struggling to ignore the way that his staring eye made you want to shiver and hide yourself in the most curious of ways. Interested in how each rune, each symbol and picture.. was a testament of your trials and story. Everything from your birth to your current time was put upon you in excruciating detail

Fraslens held no secrets of who they were

So he was stunned when you offered yourself to be an 'Ambassador' of your people. You had already done so much, translating his alien words to your people (with the help of other called-upon Fraslens and exception to the Slaniths and Za'leech who seemed to already Know his words just as much as you did)

You would leave your planet? Abandon everything to represent your people?

It hurt Magnus. It tore him in two. He needed to bring this planet into compliance. To record it but- To do that would shred everything apart.. everything was so harmonious and.. why it was..

All planets took compliance differently. Some peaceful, some not. Some by force and some by underhanded means and.. Why did this world make him so hesitant? Was it the feeling of a home away from home?

Either way. It was a difficult choice. And one had to be made.

LORGAR AURELIAN

It was not the massive deserts of home, nor was it Khur but.. it was a beauty in its own right. Sprawling greenery stretched out before him, segregated by rings of mountains as though many hands eons ago had carved many bowls into its surface

You were the first to greet him.. and he was stunned perhaps just as much as you were. It wasn't every day that someone walked around naked and he had gotten used to the different culture of the Imperium.

Lorgar was silent through the first time he was lead about. Marching with ginger steps with Kor Phaeron and Erebus as you spoke. Multiple times he had to silence his compatriots.. well just Kor Phaeron. Erebus was silent. Lurking. Leering.. planning. His son was always.. off

You were showing him the peaceful and the wrathful. Explaining it all. The Kortons upon their metal-backed land beasts as they ravaged a splinter group that had sought to sow chaos upon the lands. Slanith performances in the evenings and celebrating.. everything; from the births of life, to even just the rains that the Four had blessed them with. The Norngat with their meanderings ponderous ways. Slow; displaying the dedications to caring for the land and unchanging will of nature. The Za'leech, with their mystery and intrigue cause of it. Sparkling the sky with elaborate displaces of wonderous images or serving as the wise soothsayers

Everything was a fascination to Lorgar. No blade of grass was left unexplained

Even if your time was unknowingly threatened to be cut short.. this.. this peace..

It couldn't be had.

It couldn't last.

Not if he could help it. Yet.. No.. he could always turn this further against the Emperor. To sate the lust his Gods had to ruin the formidable Enemy.

After all... is Chaos.. is the warp really so bad if humanity could so clearly live peacefully beside it? Isn't this what Lorgar and the Cult preached?

[skxrbrand]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐒 - 𝐈

Siege bells rung.

Men ran, either with weapons in hand to man the battlements or to herd their families indoors, aware from the carnage-to-be. Knights, men-at-arms, whatever the Border Princes -- not as well-defended as the Empire -- could muster to defend itself, rushed to the direction of captains and commanders. But Myrmidens was a capital city yet; taking it would not be a simple matter.

Outside of the high walls, surging forward in a murderous tide, was the Daemon Host that mounted scouts and displaced families had been warning about for weeks. Red skinned, horned, and full of hate. Brazen-bladed, iron-shoed, and battle-hungry. These were the sons of Khorne, the Reapers of the Bloody Harvest, come to collect their heads for the Brass Lord of Slaughter.

Cannons fired, cannonballs landing in the middle of the daemon-horde and banishing a few luckless infernals outright, but it didn't shake the other monsters. They didn't so much as glance at the fates of their brethren, driven on if anything by the gory demises nearest to them. The air stunk of sulfur, of fear, and of gunpowder. On the walls of the City, men drew bows and unleashed a hail of iron-tipped arrows upon the intruders; it barely slowed them.

It certainly didn't phase the abominations leading them.

Va'rrick charged with powerful wingbeats to the fore, grinning and guffawing at the feeble efforts of the Bordermen. The electric thrill of battle seemed to enliven him, the deaths of both friend and foe stoking his own bloodlust just that much more. Behind him were his allies, another Bloodthirster and the GoreQueen herself. Valkia the Bloody had come down from her paramour's side to see this city turned to rubble and ash, a punishment for the men of Myr and warning for all those who might think to harbor Khorne's enemies.

And if Valkia was here, that meant Kharneth was too. That meant the Blood God's himself would witness everything that took place under this crimson sky; ever body to hit the dirt, ever skull snatched from its fleshy perch. He would be here to witness Va'rrick's glory!

But there was something else too, throbbing next to Va'rrick's murderous excitement like his own hellish heart. Something he couldn't name, but it was deep, and black and ancient and hateful. They had found Khade's ichor shed around the city, etched into Herdstones, and he had felt it then too. But then it had only been a whisper. Now it was a headache, gnawing on his temple incessantly like a nest of flesh hungry insects.

Had Khade manifested? The thought gave him the briefest of pauses, even as he landed atop the walls, crushing tiny mortals underfoot. Even as he swept out his axe, destroying cannons and hacking down towers as if they were stone trees. He was so lost in his reverie that he didn't see it. Didn't see her. And it was almost too late when he did. But Great Va'rrick, the Rage of the Storm, had battle and slain too many of Slaanesh's slayers, daemons altogether more quick and lithe, than the likes of the them to be killed by something as simple as a sneak attack.

" SLOW!" He barked, wrenched from his thoughts back into the present by the challenger. He felt her claws skin him by the merest amount and grabbed her as she sailed past him. But her skin, black like a starless night, burned him. It was slick with substance that stung at him like acid and such was the pain that Va'rrick yelped and released her. This she took advantage of; her second strike stole the sight from one of his eyes. Roaring in pain and rage, the Bloodthirster belched forth a gout of flame, forcing distance between himself and his attacker.

Before him stood an Anarche of Malal. Sābon faced him down, her talons dripping with his oily, black blood, his mushed eyeball gripped in her taloned fist.

" Abomination," The felid Bloodthirster levelled his weapon at her. " Wretch! Heresy in Flesh! You were not meant to be. I will scrub you from the face of all existence!"

" Not meant to be?" Sābon snorted, her multiple eyes slitted. She tossed away his ruined eye and licked his bloody from her palm. " We are the result of your father's indiscretions. Kharneth lay will the snake, and now my master suffers for it, O' Honorable One."

" Then let me set it right." Va'rrick growled through gritted teeth, eyes blazing. With a flap of his great wings, he hurled himself at Sābon, and the great dance between greater daemons had begun!

[slaanxsh]

Prev / Prev | Slaanesh's Domain, Palace of Pleasure, 6th Circle of Seduction

The courts of the Prince of Pleasure were aflame, the children of Slaanesh riding on the rich seam of hatred that the Ruinous Power leeched into the very fabric of his kingdom. The gentle lilac sky took on a reddish hue, the mellow ponds and rivers dotted about the rings stirring and chopping in the storm of the Prince's emotions. Between the bright magenta and bloody sangria, one could be forgiven if they mistook the principality for the ruddy wasteland Khorne called home.

Only, there was a conspicuous lack of Blood Daemons. Plenty of Nurglish daemons though; luckless wretches that had been plucked from Grandfather's garden to endure all manner of torment. Nurgle's creations could not feel, but torment went far beyond the physical as they were discovering. Their endurance meant naught but that these cruel games could go on at length and when they were done, the bodies of the slain could be used to fertilize the Prince's own gardens.

All for the death of their prince, S'ríash, killed for the sake of Nurgle's Great experiment. Not only had the Plaguefather lied about his involvement, he was refusing the grieving Slaanesh the closure of giving his child a proper burial. Instead of rituals and rites to preserve his beauty, even in death, S'ríash would rot and decay deep in the heart of the Plaguelands and that Slaanesh could not bear even the thought of. So he had lashed out, putting the Plague Legions entirely on the defensive for Slaanesh was by-far a more warlike god than Nurgle.

Only news of another deity lumbering through his realm drew Slaanesh's attention away. Even the Prince's favorites were not so presumptuous as to call upon their patron during this time. From his satin throne, the Pleasure-Lord glared down at the shivering daemonette chosen to break the news. Who could be so foolish, so impetuous and insensitive, as to invite his attentions?

Hating them before seeing them proper, Slaanesh watched the being stride before his chamber, dark fur start against the spotless ivory of his throne room. Heavy antlers. Pale Green eyes glittering with uncertainty and no small amount of apprehension and terror. It was him. Forgotten about in the throes of the Prince's rage, it was the Master of the Seasons. Ïshtaran.

Several emotions play over the Prince's face-- disbelief softening into adoration then hardened into rage. Something icy and sharp, like an impossibly fine blade. Ïshtaran found himself staring, especially struck by the splendor of his once-paramour after having not seen it for an age. Slaanesh was beautiful and wrath only made him moreso, the Prince of Perversity wearing anger in a way no other being, not even mighty Khorne, ever could.

" 𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴?" Slaanesh had risen in one fluid motion, pastel robe flowing behind him. For the moment, his heart had chosen anger as the emotion to indulge and it made the sharp planes of his face even sharper. Even more beautiful. Before Ïshtaran had knew it, Slaanesh was before him and he soon became aware of hot sensation on his face. Dripping on the pristine white floor.

Slaanesh had struck him, the God's ichor dripping from the Prince's talons. He bore his teeth, heaving with fury. Ïshtaran had barely felt it.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥? 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦?"

The chimeric god had moved then, quicker than any seneschal could intervene, but not to retaliate. He threaded claws through the silver-gold mane framing the Prince's face and came to cup his cheek, looking down at the smaller deity. One of his eyes was ruined, one side of his face leaking blood. Ïshtaran's smile was only slightly pained

"𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝙰𝚕íí𝚕í𝚕í𝚜𝚑."

Slaanesh's eyes drifted closed. He held tight to his anger. He hissed a command for his daemons to leave, which they obeyed with haste. Only once they did, he looked again at his once-consort, eyes glittering with so many things Ïshtaran could not pick out any one thing. Aside from the tears that threatened to spill, anyway. The second of Ïshtaran's soft, strong hands rose to join the first and that proved to be death of whatever ire the Prince was clinging to.

Melodramatic as always, the Dark Prince all but collapsed in the brawny bulk of the Master of the Seasons. For the moment, he had but one desire, one none of his most skilled handmaidens could satisfy at the moment. To be held.

Ïshtaran allowed Slaanesh to cry into his fur. To hide his face and so shield his great pride, even if only he was there to witness anything. But he also felt the prickle of the Dark Prince's claws, still gorey with his blood. How they gripped at him, greedy and wanting. Always wanting. A chill rolled through him; even the Pleasure Lord's perfume could not suppress it nor dull Ïshtaran's mind to what he knew would come from being in the Prince's grasp again.

Perhaps coming back here was a mistake. Ïshtaran thought, looking down on the young Slaanesh, who even now was reaching up perfect fingers, dabbing away at the bloody ruin of his face with his own soft robes. Worry, concern. As if he hadn't wrought the wound. And even then, in the corner of the Prince's depthless lavender eyes, Ïshtaran could see the hardness behind the concern. The anger, abated but not gone. The punishment for his absence would be allayed, maybe, but he knew well enough than to expect a pardon.

Gently, the Dark Prince pulled him along, fistfuls of mane in his hands, and with one flick of his eyes, Ïshtaran knew where they were going. The boudoir of Slaanesh, to make up for lost time and -- in Slaanesh's case -- soothe a great hurt. Soft lips pressed against Ïshtaran own, any objections he might've raised were blasted away immediately.

[memurfevur-archive]

M!A: Khorne has his old body back for the next 72 hours, and is free from control of the mold for that time.

Everything before was muffled, as if floating under water barely aware of the tide. Free flowing, but never free thinking; as uncontrollable and unpredictable as the waves themselves shaped by the winds and rains.

But then, as if plucked by a giant hand in the sky, he was no longer under water. Everything could be heard, the filtered muffle was gone. He felt as if he had just awoken from sleep, and the sights of the world around him, so dull and familiar, were vibrant and alien. The stalks no longer spoke to him. He was no longer filled with the constant thrum of voices, whispers, and screams. His children were simply limp bodies on crosses, no longer an army of grotesque fungus.

What startled him most was the need for breath.

Khorne gasped, drawing in the air that burned his lungs. He hadn't needed to breathe for such a long time, he must have forgotten how to. In a fit of coughs, his limbs untangled from the wooden post and he fell to the yellowed grass beneath. When the coughing fit subsided, he sat back upon his knees. His clothes were now too large for him, his shirt constantly slipping from his shoulders and his patchy pants slipping from his skinny waist. His body was riddled with scars, traces of his now-past incisions and threads. He ran his fingers over them, then probed his fingers into his mouth to check for mold, and came out clean. He stared at his hands, no longer deformed, and with all of their proper, normal, mortal Troll proportions. He observed the inked patterns on them, all the bandings and symbols he once commissioned someone to do. He flexed his fingers, and no tears or holes were seen.

What astounded him most was that... while he was aware of what he had been before, he was made even more aware of who he was before it. Khorne. Khorne Walker. Not Werecrow, but an infamous rock metal musician who spoke of truths and criticisms of Alternia and its systems. He remembered being captured and imprisoned for his treason. He remembered being shipped off to a white sterile building. He remembered the screams of the other subjects, the other tested.... the other experiments, before being subjected with something lethal in his veins. Before becoming one of *them.*

He felt something drip onto his hands. He looked down to find an olive-tinted liquid on his skin. Tears. Tears! He rubbed at his face, his eyes now tired and bloodshot, and he could not control the sobs that came forth. He wanted to. He wanted to stop this ugly sound, but it flooded his ears-- all these pathetic whimpers and wailing, gutteral screams. He hugged himself and curled over, shivering in the sun's dying light, his body wracked with snivels and hiccups. And through these cries, through the stiff-limbed paralysis of traumatic memories, only one word croaked from his lips and rolling off his tongue with such indescribable sadness that it could hardly be thought of as a word at all.

"...S-Sovi..."

[nurrgleth]

Previous / The Garden of Blight

It wasn't often Slaanesh requested an audience with him.

Usually, it was Khorne or even Tzeentch, the former with designs on war and the latter with designs on who knew what. And honestly who cared; Nurgle rarely entertained the insane, lie-riddled nattering of the Supreme Lord of Change. Even Khorne's abrasive personality could try the Plague Patriarch's patience.

But Slaanesh's company was rare indeed, rare enough to warrant curiosity and ultimately an audience from the Lord of Pestilence. Nurgle wasn't a fool however. Something was amiss...and the Prince off. His sociable bearing was just the slightest bit stiff and sharp, more like militaristic Khorne and less like the fluid, whimsical Prince of Perversions Nurgleth had come to know and loathe over the eons. More curious still was the emotion that hung about him, half-cloaked by the God's ever-present musk, but this scent couldn't be hidden from the Lord of Decay.

He knew it too well; the deep grieving of bereavement. Of a parent watching their child waste away and being unable to do anything to prevent it. But, despite Nurgle's attempts to steer their conversations towards that topic, Slaanesh remained guarded and vague and he eventually bid the Plaguelord adieu, sweeping off through the Garden of Blight, his dainty hooves hovering above the filth covered soil.

Odd. But nothing about it had threatened or hinted at the onslaught of pleasure daemons that would assail his home shortly afterwards.

Through the twisting jungle of his garden, Seekers raced on their steeds, cutting down plague daemons with expertly placed flicks of their pincers. Daemonettes followed suit, racing through the ranks or borne atop Steed-drawn flayers. Keepers had even been sent, chained Woehounds on the end of leashes belching Khornate flames onto the foliage, destroying what the Plaguelord had meticulously cultivated.

Nurgle had been outraged. He had demanded an explanation, but his daemons were slain before they set putrid foot into Slaanesh's pristine home. And so he turned to his children, noting how the the Daemons of Slaanesh were assailing one particularly labyrinthine knot of his garden. What did they hope to find there?

Whatever it was, the Plaguelord endeavored to get their first and hold whatever it was over the Prince's head. But what his daemons brought him was far from a bargaining chip. Dug up by Slimehounds and transported with the utmost care by his loyal Plaguebearers was a body, half-decayed and bearing the stigmata of the Sangrene Pox he had created recently. No daemon, but a god, and at first Nurgle felt pride that his creation had so utterly killed this deity!

But then curiosity. Who was this, beneath the decay? And what was their connection to Slaanesh? At first, Nurgle thought it some Asur god that the Pleasure Lord had laid claim to and this unprovoked attack a retaliation for Nurgle's phage slaying them first...but surely if a Elven god had fallen, all of the Warp would know?

Nurgle leaned his massive bulk down, looking at the shriveled, diseased ravaged body in the middle of the fungus ridden floor of his manse. He picked them up, as gently as a Fly Lord would it's own Nurgling, and let the beard of tentacles of hanging from his face poke and probe. Mountainous brows drew together, quizzical and concerned...then came the realization.

The Keepers. The stench of paternal loss upon the Pleasure God. The few strands of fine, flaxen hair clinging to the otherwise ruined body.

This was one of Slaanesh's whelps.

" 𝙊𝙝, 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧."

[ainlifun]

Another sage had been found.

The legions of Malal were celebrating with food and drink, just as they did at Ermon’s success; flesh from rival daemons and their ichor too, drained from bodies to fill cups of bone and solidified darkness. Their gloomy god was in a rare good mood and that mood swept the length of the land and deeper. Even @vermaux​’s verminlords dared partake, albeit at the fringes of these gatherings.

Xögrym, the seeker and collector of the latest Sage, Idonea the Scarlet, was the daemon of the hour. Plied with food, drink, and compliments, the Greater Daemon had his fill of all and then prepared to slip into the shadows as was his nature. Not a party creature by any means, his sister Arlaêy was quick to steal the spotlight. Yes, Old ‘Grym had found the sage, but she had crossed swords with the Castigator!

“ Had it not been for me, Xögrym would have had Khorne’s first Daemon Prince on his tail! By Malaneth, he would no longer have a tail!”

They laughed, even Xögrym did behind his drink, though he noted that she had left out the bit where the ancient daemon prince had her on the ropes. She had left out the end, where Eydis had sent her and her legions scattering in retreat. But it was fine, for the Malicious was not a being afflicted by massive pride as many of his siblings or even their father. He graciously allowed her to steal the attention of everyone there, slipping off into the wider realms with a cooked haunch of a Slaaneshi Steed.

Everywhere he passed, daemons cavorted. It was nice to see the comradery, something so often lacking in their cousins. Only one place did the celebrations not reach; the Tower of Penance. It was here Xögrym headed, the sentinels of the great black tower bowing as he passed them by. They had known him by now and seen him frequently ever since Freysin had been sentenced here and stripped of his toy by Malal himself.

Freysin. Xögrym had keenly felt the absence of his brother, even if the Greater Daemon was rarely in a mood to have visitors. Today was one such day, the daemon huddled in a corner, shame and fury pouring off of him. He flinched, recognizing Xögrym’s tell-tale footsteps, curling more into himself. Further into the darkness.

Ever since being demoted in form to a mere Heretic of Malal, he didn’t wish to be seen. Not even by Xögrym. Especially not by him.

“Come to brag?” Freysin hissed before the Malicious One could even speak a word. It seemed the news, if not the celebrations, had made it out here.

Xögrym grunted lightly, “ Bragging is more your thing.” He settled himself against the bars of Freysin’s cell. Ordinarily, neither daemon would have any trouble oozing out of such confinement, but powerful wards set down by the God of Anarchy himself had prevented it. Not that either would risk Malal’s wrath even if the wards were not there.

“ Why are you here? What do you want?”

“ I cannot check on my baby brother?”

“ I am not a whelp! I do not need your supervision!” Freysin sent a barrage of black quills at Xögrym, but they melted at the threshold of the cell. The Malicious One didn’t take his anger seriously (though he wondered, not for the first time, if their titles shouldn’t be switched...)

“ Yes, well, I am here regardless of your wants.”

Freysin snarled again and a silence fell between them for a time. But eventually, whatever ire the Deathshadow had managed to summon forth died away. For the most part.

“ Are you so useless in the field that you cannot function without my presence?”

Xögrym shrugged. The comment would’ve rankled another daemon, but he merely pushed the cooked daemon-meat he had burgled from one of the gatherings through the bars of Freysin’s cell and continue to lean upon it, sighing. Exasperated. 

“ Maybe I am.”

[offrozenmemoirs]

Staring down the meant-to-be-strange but familiar dirt road of a world a hundred years ago, Maisie Doscedar is in the company of arid wafts that scratch her cheeks and right hand. Finding the gnome without her deep blue on is a strange sight. She is only in her long and black underdress that reaches her ankles. The skirt ripples like tides in the ocean as it sways in the midnight wind. Although the fabric is dark and rivals the shades of the void, the white moonlight illuminates her still silhouette, making it visible against the darkness.

Those irises, bright as the sun, have been losing their proud glow for quite some time. The deterioration was passive, so one could not pinpoint the exact moment when it started. But the shimmer and color seemed to have faded on the night that Severia Sarrane was recovered, its hue now colder than its initial warm shade.

All it was was a string of words that slipped, "They didn't believe a word I said." Not whom it was addressed to, when it began, or where it started, it was a matter-of-fact as her blank, unfocused eyes stared out to an empty field.

/ Maisie -> Makoto; beginning when they're in Salphan's world; for the meme :3c.

Unprompted Asks || Always Accepting! @allthatisleftinthedark

Makoto himself was still adjusting to being within the new world. He had a bit of a headache, and admittedly, something felt...off about himself right now. As if something important was missing. But he would put that out of his mind for the time being. Checking on Maisie, and noticing that her eyes were...dimmer than he remembered them. He places a hand on her shoulder, frowning.

"Maisie...I hope you're not blaming yourself for the state of things. You can't help if people won't listen to you, so it's not your burden to bear. Taking on the woes of the world will only ensure that you'll be crushed beneath them."

Makoto supposes that he can't talk too much, given that his strategy to keep losses down is to throw himself into the fray and risk his own life to protect the soldiers under his command. Being a leader was hard, and he knew that there were many things he needed to learn. Perhaps he could be more open to his troops, instead of keeping his distance. He knows that he's protective of them, but the reality is that he can't say he knows them. Sure, he knows their names, but...what did they know about him? He doesn't fight for the sake of revenge, but he knows that he hasn't tempered himself well enough to allow Khorne's influence to be ignored. The god of blood was more than pleased with how much he spilled. "A worthy tithe" he said.

"We'll help set things right. And you'll have my support every step of the way."

For the time being, he put that odd feeling away. He needed to focus, because Maisie and Salphan needed him to be at his best. Otherwise, he would be more a burden than a help...And he refused to allow himself to be a burden again like he was back in the tower. Never again would he allow his rage to control him.

[akhenaten-imhotep]

The next logs documented what happened after the departure of Lekan Quim. The chaos cults had attracted the lost and the damned like flies to carrion. The dark apostle wasn’t the only one. Soon other chaos lords appeared, each wishing to stake their claim on the blighted planet. And one of them was a rival to Lekan Quim. Khuzak the Gnasher. A cruel man at the front of the Bloodstalkers. A warband known for their patience and gunnery, for they believed if they lived longer then they could claim more skulls for Khorne.

As the mercenary kept speaking of the several warbands it became obvious she knew some of the chaos lords’ crimes weren’t new to her. Khuzak was one of them. She knew fighting wouldn’t be easy. Sometimes, the Bloodfather would bless his followers with inmunity to magic. And Khuzak was one of them. The mercenary knew there was a chance she would die.

The merc then did whatever she could to destroy the warband from the inside. Sabotage, turning people agaisnt each other, spreading rumors.... But it semt it wasn’t that easy to uproot them. Khuzak was smart. And he suspected someone was trying to make his underlings do the work for them. What were the chances the hand of the Changer was behind this?

And so he went to hunt a rat....

The merc and the warlord’s confrontation became a game of cat and mouse as the mercenary attempted to avoid a khornate that wasn’t a frothing berserker. And the woman’s fear increased as it became clear that one way or another he would find her, he would get her. Eventually, she drew him to place where she could use the terrain to her advantage. A mountainous place. She did her best to make him waste ammo and lose his cool, even if she knew that when the Nails bit chances were he would kill her. It didn’t matter to her. If death came, she was ready.

And so the moment came when the two crossed blades. The narrator spared to detail to how brutal the confrontation was. It was like wresting a bear who was trying its best to kill you. Every wound the merc got was described in such way there was no mistake to how much it hurt. Something must have happened to narrator, for it she felt the rope around her neck then she fought like a beast. In the end, only the merc remained.

But she had been greatly wounded, and so she was forced to drag herself to the nearest town. A saturnine place, where misery reigned. How her voiced choked as she drowned in her sorrow at being forced to gorge on the people’s pain to heal!

And the narrator cursed it all. The Imperium and its agents for its cruelty. And chaos for kicking the world when it was down. She hoped them all died screaming.

The next item was a series of audiologs numbered from 1 to 5. They documented the arrival of a Dark Apostle and his entourage to the planet. Once Alethea pressed the play button, a tired voice would sound. A voice full of memories, and anger.

“I never expected this planet to go to hell. I came here to deliver my mercenary services to a family of pampered nobles. Well, next thing I know they get dragged into the streets for being offered in sacrifice to some fucking lunatic. Luckily I managed to hide in the cellar before being caught. Currently I am having a smoke after clearing a room of cultists. To think some of them used to be my friends. This isn’t the first nor will it be the last time I’ll go through this. To top it all off now I have to think about how I will get rid of Lekan Quim. I should have known a dark apostle would have had the Four on their side. No wonder why she survived a melta bomb. But such is life I guess. I think I’ll have to let loose this time. Not hold anything back. Whatever love I had for her died years ago.”

The log went on to document how the speaker got rid of the dark apostle. It involved magic, sorcery, a good dose of liquor, and a bunch of real angry ghosts.

The dark apostle escaped, but they would always carry the scars from the attack.