Well. To start I posted some Fallout based fiction, not two days ago. However, after a whimiscal re-think I converted such a story into one of a more 40k like nature (Death Korps - check Tale of 4 Gamers fluff... if you actually
want to read it..
And, seeing how, for some generally random reason, I was inspired by the cover art of 'Path of the Warrior' I thought Id add yet another
plot to my growing story...
Okay. So I did this, its my
version of the Birth of an Avatar of Khaine, and incase your somewhat confused, it is before
the actual Prince + Chamber + Statue of Khaine = Avatar of Khaine/ '' Oops... there`s always next year''
Chapter II - Rituals of Blood and Brass - Avatar of the Bloody-Handed-God - The Path of Khaine awaits thee
The crescendo of such hoarse magnitude reached its gore-stained peak at last.
After countless days of well-wrought tradition, upon yet more days of devout custom, never ceasing, never ending, just existing and writhing as if alive, the ritual continued. Through starry night and sunny day. Sleep, they said, was for the weak and the unfaithful.
The multitude of noises: Feverent screams from bloodily cultistic lips, bathed within the regal blood of self-sacrificed Eldar Princes and flowing with the ancient songs of their once so zealous race - Proudly depicting glorious triumphs of martialle skill and technological guile, defeats to hordes vile traitors or uncivilised and ill-mannered alien filth, and of course. The Fall
. With it the mass-harvesting of billions of bright souls by the agonising birth-throes of She Who Eternally Thirsts
-; heavy drums of brass smitten to a timely rhythm, producing a constant death-not as crimson hooded priests thumped skull topped cudgels upon their well balanced rims; and finally, the cruel hiss of steam as it poured almost liquefied, through elongated vents like the gaping maws gibbering daemons, from the runic gate before them all.
Thus it stood. The immense gate of thick, hell-forged brass and gilded with blackened, vein-riddled marble. Dripping tacky black ichor as a wounded beast would lifeblood, the lesser metals adorning it were molten, oozing down its righteous surface like the salty tears of a forlorn lover. The Godly power entombed within throbbing with psychic notes, weaved intricately to an almost conscience like state, whispering long-lost runes of purest death and brightest blood, speaking of glorious to-be victories to any whom desireth such petty material wealth. Though last of all, it pulsated as if alive to all who lurked the chamber: Priests, zealots, the Eldar aristocracy, cult-leaders and still-living sacrifices of succulent flesh and coppery blood – Thirsting for running crimson and the ectasous tang of ripe souls.
From the darkened reaches of the naturally grown - or skillfully sung - wraithbone hall, a flicker of shadow exerted its minimalistic presence upon the mortal plane. Barely identifiable to all those intoxicated by Khaine`s temptations and fiery wrath; like an interface of adrenal-like hunger. However, he saw it. Kaolir`s orange-tinged and turquoise-hued, deep glassy spheres for eyes saw it, as if the theatrical act had been enacted within a hall of mirrored light, build specifically to encompass Asuryan`s generous mortal blessing.
A delicately built elf, sporting a weak frame wrapped in scraps of muscle and cloth. Though reeking of a hidden strength, a hyperbole of true arrogance and pretence innocence, his guise one masked so expertly even a trained shadow hunter such as Kaolir vainly struggled to pierce this opaque curtain of illusion. His years many, countless human life-spans crudely sewn into a morbidly long silver chain that drearily represented his own boundless life. Though most bewildering of all was his psyche. Powerful. Potent. Mysterious as it was lethal, his presence hindered by daemons at every step, lost within the path of the Farseer, and the fickle master of an all-knowing wisdom.
He approached one of the fixated interlopers; a slavering cult-Priest, bearing some rank within the paradox that was Eldar society, who manically watched the once in a millennia ritual and outright devotion to the Bloody-Handed God. Khaine. His self-contained and strictly suppressed urges released in a single flowing tide of debaucherous emotion; dancing around the plasma-like fires like blissful children would a virgin meadow.
The noble, his garb silken, inlaid with dense rubies and bulging sapphires, shimmering spirit stones and shaped runes of dragon bone. Perfectly broke from the shallow conversation and cursory elven greetings with the gaping Priest – in turn fixated and enraptured by the visceral of religious butchery. The stranger approached silently, almost gliding upon soft feet towards he.
'' Kaohlir... Centuries pass, and lo, we duth seeketh each other’s company littler and lesser. The wraithbone towers of the Garden of Isha`s Blessing had barely bloomed since our last passing. And now? What are they are but colossal sentinels within her bountiful temple. How so?'', finished the newcomer, his tone regal and perfectly tuned, the epitome of his career as a Farseer.
Such soft words reminding Kaolir of fragile flocks of multi-coloured birds who, upon gentle summer’s eves and the faint windy gusts, would sing to their feathered ends. Their song as bemusing as it was relaxing to a tired and pleasantly charmed listener. Though he, whether by supposed accident or cunning fate, would often speak of such events before their passing; twas his enhanced and converted gift of foresight. Though Thalandros, credit be given to he, beautifully concealing his true, baleful demeanour he so chose to deny at such religious festivities.
'' What can I say? '', started Kaolir, shifting his ponderous stance to one of a more rigid, albeit formal nature, as he dreamt up fantastical and not all true ways of answering the Farseer`s somewhat blunted and certainly unexpected question, his stoic gaze burning into Kaolir with immaterial fury.
'' Well... unlike thou, thy do not make war upon the barbarity made manifest that is the Alien, with cursed strength of the mind, nor the limited blessings of the Warp. My gene`s herald no such fortunate gifts as thee, so oh alas! I must fight with true aim of my arm and sting of my biting blade. Or so the Scorpion Lords preach '', the merest glint of a vague smile visible upon his tight lips, the slight arch of his high cheek bones and raised brow testimony to this. He had, to a milder extent avoided the Farseer`s question, using skill of tongue and the old, forgotten practice of humour to savour his words and attempt to dissuade Thalandros from his true and veiled intentions.
Before the robed Eldar could reply to such a turn of phrase, a piercing scream sliced through the hushed, secret-spilling words. Bursting from one of the sacrifices scorched lips, cutting through Kaolir`s highly strung soul, like frost-bound knives forged of ice upon a harsh winter morn. Thalandros felt it more, his tuned soul the antagonist. His pounce like footing momentarily swayed, small ochre globes of witch fire soldering his iron-like retina`s from the partial disturbance in the Webway and breaching of the Warp. The pain-wracked soul of the young male was wrenched greedily from his heart by the raging fires of Khaine out yonder, to a chorus of animalistic yelps and other, fouler, guttural-like noises by those crawling around his grief frothing broken body to sup his spilt half-boiled blood.
His spasmodically writhing body, pinned to the smoothly-hewn floor by stern manacles of diamond, as the God of Hate devoured the sweet eddies of his soul, leaving naught but a charred husk in its godly wake. The unwitting victim, a sacrifice for the ever-hungry predations of Khaine and to most, whom still held any shards of civilised decency about their person, unfortunate to meet such a blood spattered end. Though chosen
be the term proper, denounced by the Priests of the Temple. To be as lucky as to be intertwined with the shattered spirit of Khaela-Mensha-Khaine, an end, not gore-stricken nor bone-crunching as one may see firsthand, but satisfying in the outright, and gifting immortality to the so-called slain one.
The gore-dripping spectacle ended aghast to a wave of a thousand inhuman moans of desperate despair. The cultists bellying away from their short-lived sport, sulking like spoilt children at the ragged ruin of their entertainment. Braying their complaint, scuttling towards still living sacrifices with a renewed canabalistic hunger. Devoid at the lack of blood letting, or religious purpose, Thalandros swung around to meet Khaolir`s eyes once more. His flaming cornea`s wielding such electrifying might, making the Scorpion almost ashamed of his paltry martialle prowess.
His robe of deep scarlet, and clashing rivulets of regal blue too snaked around to greet the Elf, almost with a superflous distaste at his prescense, lagging behind their clad master barely heartbeat, though still noticeable to Khaolir. With it, his bauble like trinkets of carved bone runes jingled slightly, an ghostly chime of death about their core, tolling within the dank recesses of the Warp, like distant thunder. Khaolir noticed one such decoration, slightly larger than the rest, though the forbodding malice it so joyously played, bit ravenous at his soul. The Scorpion stooped to see past the unnatural fog clouding its sillouette, coiling about its marrored surface.
The rune of Khaine...
He shuddered to himself, baiting a subtle perk from Thalandros` ashen brow, telling the Scorpion everything he already knew in the most crudest, yet beautifully simplest of ways. The symbol of Khaine: An ornate spear thrusting to the pale sky. A weapon forged to fight eternally, to relentlessly stab, to draw the pungent tang of blood, to bring the cold void of death. For such a cruel God, such an anti-climatical sigil seemed almost paltry and insulting . However, unlike the rest of his ever-so despised pantheon, he cared little for overcomplexity, caring only for that which was simple. Perfectly carassing and reflecting Khaine`s ample desires of utter hate, jealously and ultimate gain, turbulently blended into his methods of butchery and bloodshed.
Khaolir stared, transfixed by its apparation that assailed his watery hemispheres for eyes, burning its ugly, hate-made sigil into the backs of his retinas, bursting capillarous vessels. Thin streams of viscous blood cascading from his sharply cuved eyes, running down his pale cheeks, tears of bloody mourning.
'' Common is this tradjedy, to witness a Stalker of the Shadows bemused and ruled by thy whims of Khaine? His wrath-spitting token a rune of cold death that crush thou heart in a bloodest of grips? '', started the Farseer, his jibes tactile yet smothered in flatterous charm.
Not finished.. shall finish it when.... Im less tired....