#plot point
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You’re running low on money so decide to squat in apartments. Starting with the pastel apartments
#polyvore plot point#plot point#polyvore story#apartment collection#pastel#rainbow#blue#pink#yellow#green#purple#vintage Americans#coquette#doelette
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Plot vs. Pinch Points
In a typical 3-act story structure, there are stages called plot points and pinch points. These can be easily defined as key scenes or areas where your protagonist takes major steps that serve to drive the plot and story forward, both internally and externally.
These story beats had taken a while for me to truly grasp, as they both come across as so similar yet so distinct from each other. In this post, I want to dive a little deeper into their differences between these two points within a story structure and how they are linked.
Let’s take a look:
Plot Points
A helpful thing to remember is that plot points are external factors in the story. They serve as spots of action: the main decisions, incidents, or short-term goals that the protagonist makes or receives that alters the course or direction of the story.
They are significant scenes: Plot points are pivotal moments or events that drive the story forward and mark significant changes in the narrative.
They can be structural milestones: Plot points help structure the overall arc of the story and are crucial for maintaining pacing and keeping the reader engaged.
They also advance the plot: In essence, plot points often lead from one major moment to the next, such as the inciting incident, major revelations, climax, and resolution.
Pinch Points
Pinch points are areas that are built off of the plot points: a-la, the internal reactions. These are places where the antagonistic force, conflict, tension, and stakes need to be felt not just by the characters, but by the reader, as well. They can also be spots of action in of themselves, but the main takeaway here is if the protagonist fails (or perhaps succeeds) as a result and what they’ve learned or acquired from it.
They assert the antagonistic force: Pinch points re-establish the antagonistic force's presence, motivation, or impact on the protagonist's journey.
They’re used to reinforce tension: Pinch points serve as reminders of the looming conflict or threat — increasing the stakes for the protagonist.
They emphasize conflict or revelations: In a way, they act as sort of a “check-in” to see how the protagonist is faring along their journey — emphasizing their reactions to every threat and highlighting what next course of action they must take to counter them.
In essence, plot points are major structural beats that drive the story forward externally, whereas pinch points specifically highlight or intensify the conflict and antagonistic pressures. Both are essential for creating a well-paced and engaging narrative, but they serve different functions within the overall plot structure.
Here are some useful sites that have really opened my eyes and helped me to understand plot and pinch points:
#writing tips#writing advice#writing#on writing#creative writing#plot point#pinch point#story structure#plotting#writing resources#writing tools#writing help
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Prev / N'kari's Palace, Island of Ulthuan, Dungeons
₪ 𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.
The voice of the Red God echoed off the the dungeons of N'kari's Palace, the dim, spacious chamber misted with Slaaneshi narcotics. Skarbrand flinched visibly when he heard it, when he realized he had been spotted, despite his careful steps. The Unmaker's voice was not as before; it's power and majesty restrained by a prison of flesh. No, the recent surfeit of souls and death had prompted the god-strand to slip his binds and now there he was in his full, leonine magnificence.
Even with all his size and presence, Skarbrand could not make him out will among the shadows which he quickly determined to be unnatural. All he could see was a dark shape of large suggestion and eyes, far too many of them, leering at him from the dark. There was a rhythmic rumble, which he came to realize was the deity's breathing, pattering off the dark, smooth bricks like gentle rain.
₪ 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃, 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐓. Khade lifted a massive limb, tipped with long, crimson claws. Skarbrand tensed and willed himself not to retreat anymore than the single step he'd taken. But the god only pointed in the direction of civilized lands.
₪ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐘.
" I know which way south lies."
₪ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄. Khade shifted, his tone ponderous. Skarbrand watched him closely, ignoring the way his pulse sped up. 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑-𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐃𝐎𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑𝐒. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊, 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.
" We made no formal accords. No pacts of blood were made to bind us together." Skarbrand growled defensively. " You have gained power in my absence. You have slithered into the mind of my brother, whilst I was away." The Reaper stood straighter, angry the other god had encroached on his brother's soul in such a way.
" I tire of the lands of men. Of the cities of elves." Skarbrand snarled, " And I have sprung you from one of your prisons, to no reward. Can you not free your other selves, or are you a babe I must accompany and watch over?"
Khade moved, quick as a flash. There was a sound like a clap of thunder and the very walls and earth seemed to shake. A great hand had slammed down mere inches from the Bloodthirster and, on reflex, the Reaper's axes were in hand. He found himself staring into the brilliant blue gaze of his father's brother, lit with indignant fury. White fangs glinted at him and whatever shadow magic that had been laid upon the dungeons seemed to abate if only to give Skarbrand a better look at the Red God threatening him.
₪ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑. 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐓.
Skarbrand's face rather suggested he disagreed with that and indeed, even Khade knew he was broken quite literally into pieces. And one of those pieces were gone. The Bloodthirster snorted, smoke issuing from his nostrils.
" And I am not your daemon. Kha'xanzyr might've surrendered his name to you, but I am not yours to command."
₪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐌𝐄? Khade's tone was dangerous. Skarbrand grimaced.
"You are a god. You should not need aid, 'o feared Unmaker."
The chamber rung with another growl from Khade, but his fury was restrained to just that sound. It was there, and then gone like a flash of light, smothered behind a shadowy look of consideration.
₪ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑. The Panthera God drawled at last, pulling his hand-paw back into the inky, unnatural darkness. 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐃, 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑. Khade could not help but lilt the last sentence, sneering and bemused.
₪ 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐎.
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Vask had raged. She had raged at everyone, but mostly at her youngest, Itêila. How could you fall short of a warm-blood? Hissed the Praetorii, her fury joined by the judgement and disappointment of her sisters. Already proven, already established. Itêila had yet to do any of those things...and had failed to do the one thing she was assigned to do.
Vask's anger had more than just words. Running talons down the side of her face, Itêila only winced the slightest bit at the pain that bloomed beneath her fingers. The claw marks weren't yet healed. She sat there, on that miserable planet, cloaked in branches and shadows, hating the golden brat and the white hairball he'd chosen to be sweet on in lieu of them.
And then, she stood and slithered from her hiding place. A Tshekge's hate was no impotent thing. And she was done licking her wounds.
---
Far away, in the Imperial grounds of the Prime Administrative Circles, the Prince and his beau were blissfully unaware of the things their union had set in motion. They were thinking only of a bright future, a big family, and braving the challenges of life together.
The current challenge being the issue of what to wear for their wedding.
" They'll have to measure you, among other things." Xaallo says, almost warningly. He knew what his mate was like. " Unless you'd rather do it yourself?" He gave a sigh. Big political events like this were so tiring, especially when Kaldane was insisting everything be perfect and properly ostentatious in proportion to the importance of it all.
He mutters to himself, " You nervous?" He asked, projecting his own nerves in truth.
@apexulansis
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Nobody:
Absolutely nobody:
Me: *makes the Gavinners a major AA5 plot point*
#ace attorney#fanfiction#booksivewritten#dual destinies#special project: cykes#the gavinners#plot point
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It has been literal days... maybe even a week or so, since the defense that Qhi held against Zhubon and his host. Skarbrand was still nowhere to be seen. Khazaan was apparently slain. And Kha'xanzyr was kept at N'kari's palace, awaiting his own siege. And meanwhile he was stuck commanding Infernius. It laid as a heavy burden on his mind, even if all he had to do was to occasionally shift into his Bloodthirster form and march around the grounds to make sure no mutiny was taking place between the Khornate and Slaaneshi forces.
Qhi'zhek had very little time for his studies recently. Had very little time to just sit around and ponder on his hordes of knowledge. But at least it was a welcome distraction, so as to not be consumed by his own work, literally. His fingers and talons gently played with the self-fashioned talisman of Vhiarn's axe, thinking about it...
"... Why do I still feel guilt? I should not. She died a warrior's death, as Khornates always do. But I..." he allows himself to mumble into the loneliness of his quarters. His fingers finally falter away from the chain, as it dangles off his neck... it felt heavy. As if he had a boulder attached, rather than a miniscule trinket. He'd glance towards his own talons.
"I... I could've done more. I should've..." he could feel that familiar feeling boiling up in his veins again; that alien feeling of rage. Ever since he chose to serve the Exiles, the concentrated presence of Khornates had gotten to him. His mood fluctuating every day, slowly becoming more easily agitated, more easily brought to anger, to raise his voice... but now, that rage was directed at himself.
"... I should've done SOMETHING! ANYTHING! I could've saved her from her fate! I--" Fate. Destiny. The things his father dealt and dabbled in constantly. Could he have been stronger, if he was still in his father's throng of servants? Could he have reversed the strands of fate to save her? The frustrations gnawed at him, until finally with a fierce screech he'd slam his hands into the wooden table, talons raking fine threads of wood in their wake as they'd scrape along the surface. Something fell from his body, and onto the table.
Feathers. His feathers.
Was he... was he molting?
The feathers that fell from him were not the same dark navy blue that his coat usually was. They had begun to turn red at the base. As shining crimson as fresh blood. Some of the feathers were half-way red, and a couple were even fully cast in that bright crimson. He just stared at one such feather... before he scoffed and brushed them aside, stepping up to walk out to get some fresh air.
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Realm of Chaos, Plague-Manse
"𝙃𝙤𝙝𝙤! 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙖 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙩!"
Nurgle laughed, even as he pained, and that in itself was a thing of note. The Great Plaguelord was as insensate as any of his children, yet his latest brew bit along his tongue like a school of ravenous flesh eating fish. It set fire to his throat, a tingle to the base of his rotten, conical teeth, and as the the foul sludge slopped it's way down his throat, into his stomach, and beyond, he felt the persistent heat of it.
"𝙔𝙚𝙨, 𝙮𝙚𝙨! 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩! 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚!" Nurgle declared in a jubilant sing-song, his good humor spreading to all his daemons excepting the ever-stoic Plaguebearers. He took another ladle full of the frothing, angry liquid, the color of diseased blood, and his grinning face twisted into a grimace. Then he nodded to himself, pleased.
"𝘿𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙛𝙪𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙤-- 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙝 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙆𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙧𝙣." Nurgle had remarked, both with humor and disappointment. It had taken the last of his acquired sample of Khorne's horn to make this brew. He put a blackened finger to his chin, stroking his parasite ridden beard of hair.
"𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨?" Nurgleth mused to himself, picking up yet another ladle full. But this one he didn't drink. Instead, he turned to the caged deity hanging in the corner of the Great Cauldron's room. Within, sat the forlorn form of Poxfulcrum, slave and test subject of the Plague God. Nurgle's jovial grin turned sharp.
"𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚? 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨, 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚-𝙛𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧? 𝙎𝙠𝙪𝙡𝙡-𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙯𝙮? 𝙆𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚'𝙨 𝙍𝙤𝙩?"
With each suggestion, he came closer, Poxfulcrum eyeing the foul concoction in terror. The reddish brown liquid bubbled over the edges of the ladle. Within it's depths, she could see skull shapes, blood worms, and rancid crimson steam rising up from it. Long had the deity languished in Nurgle's "service", but even after so many brews consumed, she was terrified of anything wrought from the Blood God. Nurgle's grin never faltered.
"𝙄 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨! 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙋𝙤𝙭𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙢?"
#muse status;#long post#plot point#nurgle#warhammer fantasy#//poxfulcrum isnt nurgle's daughter#she is actually the god Isha who he captured ('surprise adopted') and calls his daughter
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We've definitely lost the plot now. Too many people are getting enemies to lovers and rivals to lovers confused. Enemies to lovers is like we're on two opposite sides that hate each other and I hate you too and will KILL YOU. Rivals to lovers is like we're on the same team/ go to the same school and while we are not killing each other I still want to beat you/be better at this Thing then you are.
#books#fandoms#enemies to lovers#rivals to lovers#enemies to friends trope#tropes#cliche#plot point#movies#tv#bookblr#booktok#literature#dark academia
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Status update on Sulfur
So he is now the property of a demon, not fun...
Gordon was sympathetic and is looking for a way to free him, Sulfur's also looking for a way to free himself or kill Khazaan, or trap him.
Runic follows him around more, doesn't try to eat him, and reliably comes when called. He uses her for ALL of his errands to get used to riding, since he's so dependent on her in combat.
He avoids Khazaan at all costs, or places they could reach him. But Runic brings the rat to him whenever she's told to...
Gordon's the reason Sulfur has his axe at all times, and he was a real whiney bitch about the soreness in his back and shoulders from carrying it around at first... Gordon drags Sulfur to training every single day for three hours. He doesn't want Sulfur to be Khazaan's, but he doesn't want them to die.
Runic takes Sulfur hunting, and if Khazaan orders it, she makes sure Sulfur looks like he did well on the battlefield. He spends a lot of time healing after each fight. Runic knows Sulfur is going to get too big for her, so she needs an heir to take her place as his steed as soon as possible. And for him to be able to fight without her as soon as possible.
But Sulfur HAS improved. He has visible muscle now, better reflexes. He cries less easy and keeps a cool head a bit better.
He complains about injuries and pain less and fights through it better. He can finally hold his axe properly.
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My current project is a fic focusing on Eddie’s mom, because I can see her and she needs her story told. I call her, Winnie. In my head, she is Wayne’s sister. And today I’m plotting some upcoming events and these are my notes:
- Chuck takes Eddie to pickpocket at bar
- Wayne is alone
- Winnie & Mary (Are they gay? Yes. Do they know it? Who knows.)
This is unlike anything I have ever written. And I’m so close to sharing the first part. There will be plenty of Wayne and Eddie, especially very young Eddie. And I know we all have an image of Eddie’s parents in our heads, and maybe this won’t be exactly how you picture his mom but I am really excited to share my version of her. I will explain more when the time comes. Anyway…
Can’t wait to introduce you to Winnie. 💙
#eddie munson#stranger things#appalachain gothic#appalachian eddie#head cannon#wayne munson#steve harrington#steddie#stobbin#fanfic#wip tag#wip stuff#plot point#bisexaul#gay panic#Winnie Munson#get ready#Appalachian wayne#obsession
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Hi, it's me again. Sorry for bothering. Just need to ask these simple questions.
1. Is it alright if I use your character for my animatic? (I'll credit you don't worry)
2. Are Warverse!Nightmare's power still the same or did he have an upgrade? (No one's going to die but I cannot promise that-)
Sorry for bothering you again. Have a nice day!
That's about the limitations with Nightmare- thing is this idiot tends to never sleep so he's bound to turn bitty with his soul wanting to retract his form to save stamina- however thankful that the Battleground is just pouring with negativity!
Also you're noth bothering at all man! Ask away <3 I'm excited to see what you make (even though by now I've already seen a sneak peak!)
A tiny context behind Nightmare if needed--v
Nightmare lives within HearthStone with Cross and a horse (Cross got it bc of course he did) named Milky ( I didn't name the horse). Nightmare isn't after Dream anymore because he feels no need to as there is enough negativity for him. Peoples feelings and shit does not rely on the two any more, so one good thing from the Fall is the two aren't caged by their old duties.
Still they have their whole emotional effects n shit yadda yadda but Nightmares goal is to find out how this all happened- Dream acting weird is what sparked the whole curiosity. So Nightmares first step is to try and convince Abyss to assist him as Abyss has connections to the Control force, an organization that aims to protect the people of Kojo and planning to spread to HearthStone.
Yet Abyss doesn't budge as he thinks Nm is just paranoid and that there are more important things to worry about. Nightmares goal isn't to make the BattleGround better, hell no, but if there is a larger threat that made the Fall he wants to be aware of it and prepared if something catastrophic happens again.
Despite Abyss refusing to assist Nightmare finds a lead between Dream and Blue, but the two keep their mouth zip :)
That's the rough starting layout for Nightmare
#Warverse#QNA#I felt this was urgent to answer so FEDSWHj#ToxArt#Dream#Nightmare#powers n stuff#yeah of course you can use stuff from Warverse go right ahead man <3#as long as there's credit ^^#I shall wait with anticipation ++#//#info dump#toxtalk#plot point#damn spillin shit that happens
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Previous / Realm of Slaanesh, Palace of Pleasure
Slaanesh the Resplendent, the Dark and Perfect Prince of Chaos, did not beg. He did not go scrapping or kneeling to anyone, not even his much more powerful Brothers in Darkness. It was others who kneeled to him, who debased themselves for even a second of his notice, a moment of his endless time.
But with Ïshtaran it was different. No words, but still a desperation, intermingled with anger. Stay. A plea and a command both, the Prince acting them out with acts both sensual and innocent. Days spent frolicking through the endless perfumed gardens, chasing one another over the sandy beaches. Nights spent in the Dark Prince's chambers, grabbing at each other, adding their voices to chorus of pleasure and terror echoing off the pristine walls.
Snares. All of them. Ïshtaran hadn't seen it before, when the world was new and untouched, but the Prince was a daemon of which he was familiar now. The heady musk of the palace fogged the edges of his mind and made his limbs heavy. It made his will soft, malleable...but it didn't break him. Didn't sway him from vows made before setting foot here in this hell dimension.
All was quiet, a rare lull in the pleasure games where indolence swept over all in the alcazar. The Prince lay on his body, chest to his own, drawing his sigil Ïshtaran's fur with one perfectly manicured talon. The Master of Seasons in turn petted the Dark Prince's glorious mane, combing his thick claws through the fine, flaxen strands. Ïshtaran steeled his nerves, squeezing shut his eyes, then casting a hard stare at the Prince.
"𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘."
The Chimeric god's voice echoed off the chamber walls. He felt the gently writhing god atop him stop suddenly. The finger ceased and when he looked down, one lavender eye was clapped onto him in alarm. Anger. Much of Ïshtaran resolve's withered then.
"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯��𝘰𝘯 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯?"
"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙰 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎."
Slaanesh's face creased, incredulity joining his anger. He planted both of his fine hands into Ïshtaran's broad chest and pushed himself up, looking down at his paramour in displeasure. The Seasonal God could see serpentine fangs peeking out from his upper lip and felt the wounds about his neck and thighs hiss in dull pain from previous bites made.
"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦?"
"𝙽𝚘. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎��𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍." The Deity answered quickly with a shake of his head. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜."
Slaanesh thought. Then, he sunk down on his elbows, much -- but not all -- of his rage flagging.
"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦."
Ïshtaran nodded. "𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜."
Slaanesh's snout came out of joint for a second. But the growing rage passed, tempered by his love for the deity beneath him. Charmed, even, by the pathetic predicament the Prince of Monochrome had found himself in. The Prince made a short, amused sound.
"𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵."
Ïshtaran doubted Hjallmarr would be interested in any such thing. Slaanesh pulled himself off of his paramour, donning and tying his robes. Though the Chimeras presence had been a welcomed relief from the Game's sudden ill-fortunes, he still had a war to win and punishments to dispense for his child's death. His gaze lingered on Ïshtaran as he sauntered off, stepping over the bodies of his children.
"𝘋𝘰, 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬."
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Malal brooded upon his throne, but not too loudly or obviously. He would not dare to do so after the Unnamable One had shoved it’s way in his realm, the Kingdom of Black and White and began shaping it to it’s whims and wants. It had been a construction of considerable size before the Warp-Entity had come along, but now it was massive. The Unnamable One had seen to such so that it could contain all it was. So that they could begin marshalling their armies to do war against the Chaos Gods.
This did not help Malal’s mood, which the God of Anarchy suspected the Beast knew about anyway. It simply did not care for the Godlings ire. If Malal was that large and that powerful, he suspected he would feel similarly. However, when the Entity began carving into Aethyr space, that realm belonging to the gods that Malal had been oh so careful about avoiding lest he and his be found and ended, that was when the godling could stay silent no more.
“ They will find us. They will find me. And they will destroy us all!”
“🇭🇦🇻🇪 🇾🇴🇺 🇸🇴 🇱🇮🇹🇹🇱🇪 🇫🇦🇮🇹🇭 🇮🇳 🇲🇪, 🇬🇴🇩🇱🇮🇳🇬 🇴🇫 🇹🇷🇺🇪-🇩🇪🇦🇹🇭?” Came voice of the Beast, it’s claws scratching against that inter-realm barrier. Malal bristled.
“ You expect me to have faith after what you did mere days ago?”
At this, the beast merely laughed, tutting and shook it’s great head. “🇾🇴🇺 🇦🇷🇪 🇸🇹🇮🇱🇱 🇺🇵🇸🇪🇹 🇦🇧🇴🇺🇹 🇹🇭🇦🇹. 🇴🇭, 🇨🇭🇮🇱🇩 🇴🇫 🇲🇮🇳🇪. 🇮 🇳🇪🇻🇪🇷 🇲🇦🇩🇪 🇦🇳🇾 🇵🇷🇴🇲🇮🇸🇪🇸 🇦🇧🇴🇺🇹 🇹🇭🇪 🇸🇭🇦🇷🇮🇳🇬 🇴🇫 🇹🇭🇪 🇵🇴🇼🇪🇷.” It pointed out lightly, as if Malal was just a silly babe, new to the world and it’s rules. Malal couldn’t argue that fact, nor was he keen to bother the overlarge Beast too much.
“🇧🇺🇹 🇮🇹 🇲🇦🇹🇹🇪🇷🇸 🇳🇴🇹. 🇾🇴🇺 🇩🇼🇪🇱🇱 🇴🇳 🇹🇭🇪 🇵🇦🇸🇹 🇦🇳🇩 🇴🇳 🇸🇺🇨🇭 🇵🇪🇹🇹🇾 🇹🇭🇮🇳🇬🇸 🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇹🇭🇪 🇫🇺🇹🇺🇷🇪 🇭🇴🇱🇩🇸 🇸🇴 🇲🇺🇨🇭 🇲🇴🇷🇪. 🇮🇫 🇾🇴🇺 🇱🇮🇸🇹🇪🇳 🇹🇴 🇲🇪. 🇹🇭🇪 🇷🇴🇩🇪🇳🇹 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇴🇫🇫 🇴🇳 🇭🇮🇸 🇲🇮🇸🇸🇮🇴🇳, 🇾🇪🇹 🇾🇴🇺 🇱🇦🇳🇬🇺🇮🇸🇭 🇭🇪🇷🇪, 🇮🇳 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇨🇦🇻🇪, 🇧🇷🇴🇴🇩🇮🇳🇬 🇱🇮🇰🇪 🇦 🇾🇴🇺🇳🇬 🇲🇴🇷🇹🇦🇱.”
“ Pardon me for wanting to keep an eye on the stranger who barged into my home.” Malal rejoined. The Beast merely sighed, teasing it’s claws against the fabrics of this realm once more.
“🇾🇴🇺 🇷🇪🇦🇱🇲 🇮🇸 🇹🇭🇪 🇫🇦🇸🇹🇪🇸🇹 🇨🇴🇺🇷🇸🇪 🇹🇴 🇹🇭🇪 🇷🇪🇦🇱🇲🇸 🇴🇫 🇨🇭🇦🇴🇸. 🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇮 🇦🇲 🇯🇴🇮🇳🇪🇩 🇼🇮🇹🇭 🇹🇭🇪 🇷🇪🇸🇹 🇴🇫 🇲🇾 🇧🇴🇩🇾, 🇮 🇸🇭🇦🇱🇱 🇬🇷🇴🇼 🇸🇹🇷🇴🇳🇬. 🇦🇳🇩 🇴🇳🇨🇪 🇮 🇩🇴, 🇮 🇼🇮🇱🇱 🇦🇱🇴🇹 🇸🇴🇲🇪 🇴🇫 🇹🇭🇦🇹 🇵🇴🇼🇪🇷 🇹🇴 🇾🇴🇺 🇦🇳🇩 🇻🇪🇷🇲🇦🇺🇽. 🇾🇴🇺 🇭🇦🇻🇪 🇲🇾 🇼🇴🇷🇩. 🇲🇾 🇼🇴🇷🇩, 🇼🇭🇮🇨🇭 🇮 🇭🇦🇻🇪 🇳🇴🇹 🇧🇷🇴🇰🇪🇳 🇾🇪🇹.”
Colossal talons flex. The tiniest of seams rip in the Realm of Black and White and behind the tear, lies the Realm of Chaos. A thread of fear lances through Malal, who backs away. The Beast looks at him with it’s four silver eyes.
“🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇫🇦🇹🇭🇪🇷 🇦🇳🇩 🇮 🇦🇷🇪 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇴 🇸🇵🇪🇦🇰.”
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Prev / Bloodfire Falls, Chaos Wastes
Even through mounting wounds, Kha'xanzyr was anything but an easy mark. The Huntsmaster was younger, with Khorne's determination burning in his eyes, but the Architect had experience. And sheer rage. Not the conflagratory fury of before, but a laser-guided hatred. The razor-sharpened blade, the fired arrow; Sure, implacable, deadly.
He had given up any notion of victory, but Ka'Bandha would not leave here without knowing he had seen battle.
The two Deathbringers, spent from hours of battle, sized each other up, each taking stock of the other's injuries. The Huntsmaster had lost an eye for his troubles, half of his nose cleaved from his face and deep rents scored in his armor. Deeper gouges were carved in his skin, the brass-flesh torn along his back and sides where the Artificer had managed to flank him. Electric figures were burned into his skin, along the lines of his veins, smoking the flesh of his wings. Kha'xanzyr had even done him the kindness of docking his tail.
" Now you look a true warrior instead of a mouthy whelp." The Architect had spat around a mouthful of blood, tossing the limb aside and rejoining the battle in earnest.
But he was not without his pains. One of his arms was broken. Several of his teeth, including one of his fearsome tusks, were gone, trampled to dust somewhere on the battlefield. There was an open wound in his gut, from which entrails threatened to spill. Standing upright had become a slim proposition and the Bloodthirster relied on his axe and remaining good arm to stay aloft. It hurt. But the pain was nothing to the satisfaction of seeing the younger daemon, once so assured and swaggering and disrespectful, humbled and not so certain of his victory. There was hatred there, but also due respect.
" I would leave you your remaining arm." Ka'Bandha started, answered by a growl from Kha'xanzyr. The battle was not yet over, he had not been put in the dirt, his head cleaved from his neck...but what other outcome could there be? In his state? With great reluctance, the Deathbringer willed the electrical storm brewing in his gullet to cease. He spat a gobbet off to the side, brass blood mixed with black saliva. The pool of liquid sparked.
The older Bloodthirster slipped from his bowed stand to one knee. He cast a lingering glance at Havoc, his treasured Wrath-Axe, but in the next moment he felt only hatred for it. What he could not visit on the Keeper of Secrets, he visited on her prison instead, all but throwing the weapon at Ka'Bandha's hooves. With his free hand, he covered the hole in his gut instead, hearing the daemon-metal skip over the earth before his opponent.
With bloody hands, the Huntsmaster swept down with his arm, picking up the heavy Great-Axe with some effort. Then he looked at the other warrior, finding blue eyes boring back into him. No warrior should have to suffer the indignities of what a Slaaneshi could visit upon a defeated foe, but the Huntsmaster had given his word and he intended to keep it.
And Khorne, not at all known for his patience, was waiting.
The connection ended with the turn of Ka'Bandha's heel, the Huntsdaemon sweeping the Greataxe over his shoulder. Over the din of battle, he could hear the other Bloodthirster commanding his forces to move on.
Steadily, the clang of swords died away. The ripping of flesh stopped. Overhead, the Chaos Furies and Harpies gave excited screeches at the meal to come. Kha'xanzyr heard the enemy army approach. Felt them walk past him, heard them sneer, and flared out his rage-born electricity whenever anyone came too close. Ka'Bandha might be able to fell him, but to them he was still quite dangerous, even in defeat. And then they were gone and he could hear the sounds of his own men, the daemons and mortals and beasts who had survived, regrouping.
Then they were gone to. They had spared Kha'xanzyr the dishonor of their offered assistance...or perhaps they thought him dead. No matter. He had only the Furies and Harpies for company now, hearing them battle over the choicest bits of flesh. Kha'xanzyr snorted.
How long do you plan to drag this out?
He lifted his head and, as if right on cue, the imposing figure of Tanakhuill stood far enough to be recognized and close enough that their approach would inspire terror. The Architect had been treated to many of their toothy, self-satisfied smirks in his dreams, but the grin she wore now was the widest he'd ever seen. Painfully broad.
" A killjoy as always." Purred the Keeper of Secrets. She came closer, each step punctuated by a hoofbeat. Slow, unhurried, clearly planning to savor this. To wring the Bloodthirster of each and every agony and luxuriate in each one. Her pincers clacked, held down at a threatening angle. She was practically salivating at the prospect of her revenge, her desire dripping on the ground behind her.
But she would find herself disappointed.
Kha'xanzyr took his good arm, moving it away from his wound and letting his entrails drop into a steaming mass upon the chaos-tainted earth. With gore-coated hands, he produced the pearlescent orb that Revel had given him after his ordeal with the much more dangerous N'kari.
Ignoring the wrothful screech that had emanated from Tanakhuill's direction, the Bloodthirster threw the orb to the ground. It was tiny in his claws, but did it's job, ripping a portal beneath the red daemon and into the Palace of the Arch-Tempter.
He looked up, just soon enough to catch a glimpse of the Keeper of Secret's beautiful taurine features twisting into a mask of rage and disbelief. She was quick, as all Slaanesh's brood were, but her kill-stroke hadn't come quick enough. Kha'xanzyr felt the razor edge of her pincers cut across his brow and even into one of his horns, but it had only grazed him. Nothing more.
He was falling.
Falling, buffeted by wind, brought mercilessly to the ground by gravity. But not before tearing a path of destruction into N'kari's palace grounds first, decimating several temples, towers, ripping up immaculate gardens, and killing several dozen lounging daemons. He came to rest at last, a crater in the earth, loathsomely alive.
Hatefully, spitefully alive.
#plot point#warhammer fantasy#KHA'XANZYR (THE ARCHITECT);#GUEST MUSE; TANAKHUILL#GUEST MUSE; KA'BANDHA
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"This was not the deal we struck."
The voice hissed over transmissions, a hologram visual of it's owner the sole point of significant light in the High Councilor's personal communications chamber. Kaldane stared down impassively at the angered figure, rage barely contained behind a veneer of professionalism. The Margavens gaze was opposite; cold and final, like the edge of a falling axe.
" No deals were struck. None set in stone. Your daughter was one of many suitors, one my son did not pick." Kaldane paced to the other side of the small circular table projecting the image of the Impaerii Vask Prymaktys. The reptiloid alien flit her tongue, malice and vengeance glittering in her eyes.
" Then you toss away the promise of a peaceful existence between the Imperatum and the Confederation. And for what? Love?" The alien snorted, and said something in it's strange tongue. Something about mammals. A pejorative almost certainly. " Have you forgotten the Great Enemy lurking the stars, threatening us all?"
" I have not. Least of all, I wouldn't forget them. But should the Swarm appear on our doorstep, I imagine a little thing like a lack of chemistry between our offspring would be a barrier between the survival of all of us." Kaldane offered, knowingly. Again, Vask's eyes flashed. She did not respond, signing off without another word.
The chamber was bathed in darkness once again. But Kaldane knew this would not be the end of it. It was never so simple with the she-lizards.
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The Godly Quartet had felt it all at once. A subtle, sinuous wrongness that suddenly wove itself around their minds as they schemed and plotted away, ever seeking to outdo one another. Something in the world of mortals had shifted, something had changed, and soon enough in their own ways, each of the divines had discovered what it was. An anomaly. A rogue piece in the Grand Game.
The Blood God, for one, was not one to suffer the petty intrigues of his siblings. The raising a Daemon Prince was no small thing, not for any of the gods alone and certaintly not together. And yet there was one more, coming so close on the heel of the Godslayer they had jointly agreed to bless. Kharneth hadn’t remembered raising this one. Did his impetuous siblings dare raise up a Prince of Undivided without him? The impudence! The outrage!
However, as he dispatched his first host to sow fear and demand explanations, it came to be that his rivals were just as confused and indignant as he, and with the same suspicions. No no, someone had to be lying. This, the mystery of raising a daemon prince, was an unprecedent move in the game. Cheating, almost, if such a thing were possible within the Grand Game.
And so came the call from the Blood God, a demand of meeting between the Gods, answered more quickly than anytime in the history of these infrequent gatherings. For their own reasons, his brothers had cause for alarm as well, and that alone sent the slight shred of doubt creeping through the black heart of the hound god. So sure had he been that this was some jape of Slaanesh or scheme of Tzeentch. Nurgle he suspected the least, but the Pox Father was just as duplicitous as any of his wind-wielding siblings and could not be ruled out.
The Gods arrived, flanked by legions of their daemons who waited in the vast halls and wings of the Court. Squabbling, sniping, but never laying claw or fang on each other. No, the Covenant was a respected ground, approaching sacred. It was a place for negotiations and annulations, not the commission of war and bloodshed.
Thusly, Kharneth wanted this over quickly. He glanced around himself from his throne of bones and skulls, peering at each of his siblings in turn to see what he could glean. Insight wasn’t his trade, but he would miss everything if he didn’t care to look at all. Nurgleth was settled, having brought his brewing pot along with him, as always, but he was uncharacteristically quiet this day, looking about the three of them with equal suspicions.
His eyes landed on Tzeentch, the strange Raven God of magic roosting in his nest of aethyric feathers pulled from his own plumage, the nest itself shielded behind a cage thick with protective magic. Each of his many eyes regarded them all so that no one and nothing escaped his sight. The God of Magic was on edge, which while amusing, was also disconcerting. As the god of divination, the Court and it’s intrigues were the element of the Change of Ways. Kharneth could count one hand how many times Tzeentch had been bested here in all the eons and eons he had suffered his brothers and these meetings with them. The Changer was preening, something the Blood God had come to know as a tell of nervousness about him. What had he seen in the well of eternity? What had his favorite servant, the precognizant Kairos Fateweaver, squawked to him to make him act so? Khorne growled low in his throat at the lack of answers and the addition of more questions.
Finally, he beheld the Dark Prince and did so in absolute loathing. The rage in him wanted to place the blame squarely on Slaanesh’s shoulders. Always prodding, always provocative-- that was the Prince of Pleasure and he knew too well. But this was bold and blatant and such things rarely described Slaanesh unless he was well and truly scorned ( a bit of knowledge Kharneth, nor the ravages of his face, would not soon forget ). The Prince was trying to affect something like boredom, but there were subtle tells that it was (mostly) a front. The knitted brows, the slight downturn of his lips, the irate flicking of his tongue. Everyone was perturbed. It wasn’t just the Blood God, or so it didn’t seem to be.
“ Could it be? Has old Kharneth has finally fallen for the charms of the prince?”
It was Nurgle, growing tired at last of the silence between them. His smile, showcasing myriad sharp and decaying teeth, was jesting but sharp on the edges. Slaanesh tittered, a knowing look cast the Blood God’s way. The thunderous sound of metal slamming against daemon-bone rung out as Kharneth made his displeasure known, his fist colliding with the arm of his chair.
“ ENOUGH. No games and none of your Aethyrs-damned prattling, Nurgleth.”
Khorne paused to see if either of his brothers would challenge his demand. When they did not, he continued. “ We know why we are here. Someone, perhaps several someones, granted that rarest of benediction to a mortal. For some reason.”
“ And you believe the culprit, having clearly meant to do so in secret, would just come forth to you about it? So you could incinerate them?” It was Tzeentch, speaking at last and giving his feather-plucking a rest. That hadn’t been Khorne’s plan, not exactly. His idea had involved intimidation, threats of utter destruction. It had worked in the past and he had a blade before time to prove it did. Turning his burning gaze to the Raven god, the Hound’s suspicion was almost a thing a form and substance as it fell upon Tzeentch.
“ Cowardice.” Khorne’s smile was ugly, “ I expect nothing less from you lot.”
“ And you’re so sure it was one of us?” Slaanesh chimed in, an annoyed edge to his tone. The Blood God snapped to where sat.
“ K’wyrd’neth, who else would it be, fool? Unless you mean to tell me Godlings have suddenly developed the gift of benediction? Only the powers can raise Daemon Princes. So which one of you is responsible? The game is up, the jest is over. Come forward and perhaps my vengeance will be swift.”
“ As if you were the only one spurned.” Hisses Tzeentch from his feathery perch.
“ Perhaps I will show you what true spurning is, Tzeeneth.” The Hound barks in return. A loud sigh from Nurgle turns the pairs attention away from each other, the corpulent god resting bonelessly in his great, wooden chair, ever dripping with maggots and other unmentionable filth.
“ What a waste of time. Embarrassing, watching two gods squabble like a pair of nurglings over a dying mortal.”
“ Waste of Time,” Tzeentch tittered, a bird like trill coming from his strange, avian-esque body, “ On that, I am sure you’re an expert, my brother.”
“ Perhaps I should just kill him.” Kharneth mused, his tongue laving over his ruined face. “ Take his skull, eat his flesh! He will be little mystery if he is dead.”
“ Or,” Slaanesh chimed in once more, “ We tease out his true purpose. Daemon Princes are mortals at their core and mortals are so...malleable.” The Serpent purrs the word and Kharneth hates him even more for it.
“ A waste of time.” Declares the Blood God.
“A harmless curiosity.” Tzeentch defends his youngest brother, equally curious.
“ It couldn’t hurt,” Nurgleth also agrees, “ From a scientific standpoint, and a strategic one, we should survey all future problems before we strike. Wouldn’t you say that’s right, eldest brother?”
The Blood God snarled at Nurgle’s smugness, belching flame in his direction, but it didn’t reach his great, maggot-eaten throne. It never did. The Plague God allowed Kharneth his tantrum, but none of the brothers heard a disagreement from the God of Battle.
“Then it’s settled!” Tzeentch’s wings came together in a dull clap, “ We will keep an eye on this so-called anomaly. Eliminate it, if need be. ”
After all, it was just one little daemon prince. How much trouble could he possibly make? Khorne looked about to his siblings, all agreeing with each other, pleased at the decision they had come to. Perhaps they were all in on it, as he originally suspected. Why else would they come to the same conclusion?
“ If that is all, dear Kharneth?” Slaanesh spoke from his throne of silks and satin, already making to leave the covenant with his troupe of pastel daemons. Tzeentch, too, took the sky with one great flap and disappeared in a blink of magic, myriad smaller blinks following him as his greater and lesser daemons teleported alongside their master. Nurgle watched the pair leave, before hefting his bulk from the slightly-too-small maggot throne. He spared a courteous nod at Kharneth before leaving.
“Until next time, Kharneth. Always a pleasure catching up with the family.”
And then he too was gone, his great footsteps shaking the hall of the Covenant, followed by the veritable stampede of his childlings. The Blood God, at last, rose and stretched his quartet of wings. He was, to no ones surprise, angry. More confused than when he’d stepped hoof into this blasted place. But his brothers had outnumbered him, three to one, and even for all his rage, the Blood God wasn’t fool enough to push them on the issue. The Gods had limits, all of them, and his brothers’ were only marginally more forgiving than his own.
“ Come.” He spoke the word to An'ggrath, the Master of his Legions. Taking to the wing, the eight Gore Lords and their hosts flanked the Lord of Blood in solemn silence. They knew better than to inquire about the business of their superiors, though Kharneth’s expression suggested the next few decades would be particularly bloody. Particularly violent.
The Blood God decided, stubbornly, that he cared not if there was a scheme. That he cared not if his younger brothers conspired against him. It would be far from the first time, yet he was still here, still alive, and still the strongest of all. It would make no difference, for no scheme could overcome strength.
So let them play with their pawn. Let them! I care not for one measly daemon prince.
#PHEW#FINALLY#ITS DONE#warhammer fantasy#longpost#Plot Point#introduciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing--#no i didnt proof read it lmfao
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