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post #27 of (permalink) Old 05-13-12, 10:21 PM
andygorn
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Was struck by a second set of concepts this month, I hope you enjoy:
******
One last request
(1093 words, not including title)

The battle has gone well, inflicting heavy casualties for only light losses, yet Alluriad of Iyanden deliberately remains behind, traitorously derelicting his duty to his species.

Unheeding of the danger, he remains motionless as the creatures approach.
There are already too many foes, but he has chosen to die by the claws of the first: this one could offer no more agony than any of the others. Fighting will merely prolong the inevitable.
After only a century of combat, Alluriad is already tired of running, exhausted from fighting The Endless War.

Hands at his sides, powered blade and shuriken catapult lifeless in his grasp, Alluriad does not even glance upwards as the thing delicately plucks the largest gems out of his armour.

Teasingly delaying itself the ultimate taste, the Daemon Prince extends it’s tongue to lick the warm material of the enemy’s soulstones, attempting to taste the life-force and histories inside.

No matter how many times this ritual has been repeated, regardless of how many lives Shaelron reaps, there can be no comparison between now and the final release of absorption.
Yet the daemon cannot help but torment itself with the indulgence.

Using a gentleness the once-man never knew in mortal life (the very reason he turned to Chaos), wizened claws slowly close, crushing the smooth gems above it’s head.
Thousands of cyan fragments and shards rain down upon the beast, each one is a snapshot of time...a battle here, a lost love there.

All drawn to it’s essence, many are just left where they lie upon the daemon’s fractured skin, callously ignored yet to be sampled and perhaps fought over at some later stage.

Others fizz and pop along the former Marine’s sticky tongue, impacting the roof of his mouth; even the briefest of remembrances sharply burns his delicate flesh.

The rest even catch between it’s teeth, hotly chafing against welcoming gums; deliciously annoying treasures to be savoured later.

As the monster’s shadow falls across him, Alluriad recalls the old Farseer’s comments from the last time he stood in the Dome of Seers, stunned into shock and silence by the sheer volume of thoughts and consciousnesses contained there:

“And there shall be a time for summer rains, washing all away, yet it will be also a time for stillness and you will know it when such time comes. Woe to us all if you shy away, but I sense that you shall instead stand tall...even though you cannot comprehend it’s effects.”

Oblivious to his prey’s last moment, Shaelron’s toothy maw closes around Alluriad's weeping head, finally ending his lifelong pain.
Carnality and savagery abate as the daemons put the remaining Eldar to the sword, the Daemon Prince stands immobile to better appreciate the Dire Avenger’s flavours.
The familiar honey-like viscosity of the soul dribbles down it’s throat, further warming his insides as Slaanesh takes his latest victim through Shaelron’s mutated form.

Turning to face his jubilant followers, this last morsel is especially satisfying and the warm glow becomes a slow-burn, suffusing it’s entire body. The portal opens to Shaelron’s realm and they return to the Palace of Sighs to await the next summoning.

None of them could have known that the now-headless Avenger’s armour had disguised one who was the last of his Autarch-born lineage.

None amongst the foe would have stopped to consider...let alone care...that Alluriad carried the remaining soulstones of his noble ancestry, each saturated with their race’s fury and vengeance, yet such was shielded from enemy attentions.

Even Shaelron, consumer of the last of the Fialderann name, believes the heat is just another pain. Over centuries, he has been subject to far greater discomfort from the Corpse-Emperor’s followers and necrotic toxins from the Tyranid beasts-of-the-field.

Reclining on his throne beneath azure skies, breezes flit coquettishly through jade pillars carved with obscene images. The shamelessly entwined naked bodies depicted are vulgarly holed; winds carry the myriad voices of former enemies and lovers through these jutting instruments.

Shifting restlessly, the enraptured voices no longer soothe his soul as they once did, so he calls instead for his closest handmaidens. Attending swiftly, they hiss and bare too many rows of sharpened teeth in triumph at the rest; each seeks the choicest part of his body, attempting to cool his now-fevered skin with their kisses and various fragrant greases.

A rapidly approaching pleasure-barge carries visitors from his former Legion, a cabal of Chief Sorcerors come to fawn and tempt him to their cause with their own bared flesh and narcotics from mortal planets as yet beyond his grasp.

As the sailboat docks, vast caskets of gold and rare woods are manhandled ashore by straining oiled servitors. Their bloody combat-shears and rusted pliers speak of new tastes carried from afar. Such things pique Shaelron’s interest a lot more than the contents ever could.

However, like an itch which cannot be scratched, the heat continues through his veins, becoming increasingly irritating.
The thin, reedy voice of the first ‘negotiator’ only adds to his torment.
With his lovers’ ministrations similarly providing no relief, he lashes out with a barbed and taloned arm, beheading the spokesperson as well as two nearby courtiers.
The rest run shrieking from his presence, yet he cannot concentrate, for the heat is now unbearable, even for one such as him.

“Detecting spike in psychic energy...” warns one of the conjurers, turning to run.
Yet it is too late for any of them, as Shaelron explodes in a blast of azure bolts, torn asunder by the power of a dying race.

Fragrant daemon-blood showers those nearby, covering them in acidic downpour, before they too are crushed by the massive shockwaves of mind-shredding energies.

+++
From his decaying mansion across the yellow pustulent seas, the diseased maggot form of Grandfather Derzdek Gatrog Nurgle softly chuckles in liquescent mirth, watching as clouds of cerulean stars envelope the former Palace of Sighs.
His eyes burn brightly as he urges his familial underlings to also witness the cascading explosion of psychic power, raining down like the mortal deluges he himself once loved.


+++
Back in the realms of mortals, an ancient Eldar psyker shakes his head as the stones fade from view.
For the first time in years, he finds the strength to stand without his attendants’ help.
His eyes burn strong and bright at the sacrifice he ordered, tears staining his pale robes for only the fourth time in his life.
He regrets the loss of lives present and past, yet feels grateful to have been able to fulfil the last wishes of a coward’s family.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.

Last edited by andygorn; 05-13-12 at 10:26 PM.
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