The Unholy Legions of Anti-Sanctus Chaotica, a Warhammer Online Destruction Regiment, "Wasting Love" - Lord Sordin

[align=center]Wasting Love, In A Desperate Caress.[/align][/color][/font]

As the door drifted to closure with a soft, sensual click, the sound from the nearby canteen was muffled into an almost intangible murmur, and the silence of the night rushed into the dimly lit office. Flickering black shadows flitted across the walls and ceiling, dancing their merriment across the ancient books and the feeble collection of trinkets that the former Soul Eater had been able to salvage from his office before security was forced to send for backup.
With his back toward the window that overlooked the forest, albeit from a slightly less panoramic perspective, the silhouette of a magus bent over the oaken desk, scribbling furiously with the wispy, jet black feather of a raven which he had converted into a quill. Red ink splashed and scattered across the yellow parchment as he jotted down words onto the dry, cracked, crumbling surface of the document.
After a few moments, the Sorcerer looked up, and gazed into the deep, azure eyes of his apprentice, Laurana Colt, sorceress in training, faithful companion to this humbled overlord. A shallow sigh escaped his corrupted lungs, displaced into nothingness by the metallic faceguard on his bladed golden helm.
The woman gracefully paced over to the only other seat in the room, the one facing the Magus, across the seemingly limitless desk space before him, through canyons of stacked books and inkwells, as well as a curved golden dagger and the occasional apple core.

Turning his violet eyes back to his work, the disgraced magician let out another sigh, this time heartfelt enough to be audible. As if taking his point, the apprentice shifted in her chair and made herself more comfortable, perhaps realising from his ambient mood that a thrashing would not be in order for tonight’s entertainment, which begged the question of what was on instead.

Twin violet pools of misery faced her across the glittering void, and as the magus spoke, an unusual compassion crept into his icy, steeled tone.
“Maybe one day I'll be an honest man,” he whispered, softly, “Up till now I'm doing the best I can... Long roads, long days, of sunrise, to sunset
Sunrise to sunset...”

Pushing himself away from the wooden table, the despairing gentleman gently placed the stool to one side of the window pane and turned his empathic gaze out onto the treetops of the dark forest, and let it wander until it reached the courtyard below, which was filled with the twilight sounds of battle, wooden sword upon metallic armour, as the Chosen trained endlessly to hone their fighting skills.
Shaking his head, the Magus continued to speak, in that same, sad tone.
“Dream on brothers, while you can...” he turned to face his apprentice again, pointing a finger directly at her chest and letting his roaming gaze traverse her picturesque landscape, “Dream on sister, I hope you find the one,”

Shaking her head softly, Laurana opened her mouth to reply, but the Magus silenced her with a wave of his gauntleted hand, instead beckoning over to her and taking her by the shoulder, facing her directly and glancing out once more at the breathtaking view,
“All of our lives...” he muttered, “Covered up quickly by the tides of time.”
Suddenly, he turned himself to her, taking her by the shoulders in a passionate whirl of ineffable desire, steeling himself for what must be done. Instead of the inevitable response he had expected, in the form of a humbling knee and a tart remark, the woman moved closer to him, letting her azure eyes drift into darkness, beautiful, dark blue eyelids sweeping down like the curtains of sweet velvet night to obscure her vision, stealing away from the experience the most unimportant factor of her plight. Truly, it was of no consequence that she was trapped, at the mercy of this intensely emotional and lustful being, but what really mattered was that –he- was the being, the beast, to the beauty, the damsel to the knight, the darkness to the light. The harder the light shines, they say, the deeper the shadows fall, and who knows upon which blunt and obscure scenes they might find themselves strewn?
Trembling, she lifted her pale fingers to brush against his faceplate, tracing four quavering lines across the golden metal, leaving in their wake two pairs of bright white scars, which faded into a dull red as her flesh left his armour, leaving nothing but a quartet of fading carbon scores to bear their namesake. The magus winced in apprehension, and then steeled himself again as she brought her other hand to his face, this time taking hold of his helmet with a gentle care, applying a small amount of pressure to the underside, making sure to brush her fingers over the bare skin of his hidden neck as they curled around the guard. His skin was cold and dry, like his voice, like his humour, like his dress, his office, his world. She moistened her ruby lips with a delighted tongue in anticipation of the feast, as a noble wolf or wild dog waits with carnal delight at the promise of the kill.
Her lungs retracted with a terrible trepidation as two soft, gentle palms worked up his façade, entreating entrance to this ornate barricade that had denied her his identity for so long. Sighing with pre-emptive relief, her hands contracted, gripping the metal that had been so cold against her mind and her heart for so very long, and attempted to lift off this abominable helmet.
The magus leant forward, his graceful and delicate hands trailing down her luscious, yet subtle curves as he did so, tracing her outline as the master artist might trace the outline of a masterpiece, admiring each subtle tone, each warm and wonderful embrace of flesh, gasping with delight, it seemed, at the first, sweet, sensual taste of the fruit that had been forbidden since their eyes had met some months ago in a lifetime that seemed now lost, insignificant and shallow without the depth that one was to the other.
“Sands are flowing,” he breathed into her ear, her hands still caressing his anonymity, still applying the pressure that did not cause yield to her frustrations, “And the lines
are in your hand. In your eyes I see the hunger... and the desperate cry that tears the night!”

She gasped in surprise and delight all the same, and with a sudden burst of motion the Magus tore himself from her embrace, whirling around and placing both of his hands on his desk, his fingers spread like the dying limbs of a stricken arachnid. His breathing was hard, sending harsh vibrations through his shuddering helm. As he lifted his head to look to her panicked features, his violet eyes were bright and fearful, his words pushed forcefully out as if nobody and nothing now could stop them from their valiant escape into truth and reason;
“Spend your days full of emptiness!” he cried, his pained tone resonating through the still, dense air of the study, “Spend your years full of loneliness!”
The sorceress turned away from him and paced quickly and purposefully toward the doorway, her shoulders shaking with pent up rage, guilt, and perhaps a taint of emotion she had not felt before for a long time... Shame.
He cried out again as she reached the sombre wood of the threshold, and her pale, quaking digits were frozen but an inch from the mechanism of her escape, that brass portal that would deport her willingly from the land of her regrets and her humiliation, the presence of this beast that had broken her once more.
The magus continued on, calling out to her, “Wasting love, in a desperate caress! Rolling... Shadows, of night...”

Without a backward glance, she gripped the knob and wrenched open her freedom, taking her leave without a sound. The magus hung his head once more, and waited for the door to close itself. When her footsteps down the velvety carpet way had dimmed to whispers, and the portal to his private hell was sealed, he lifted his curse from his shoulders and placed it on the wood before him, before leaning down into it to partake in a practice not witnessed for thousands of years. Wracked with the realisation of his actions, and the brutality of his own machinations, the exalted sorcerer of the legion lay down like a child, and as the last rays of the hostile dusk left his study, Lord V. Sordin, former Soul eater of the Unholy Legion, Magus most high, Councillor of the Raven Guard, wept like a child until the dawn came to relieve this wounded soldier in the war of love of his dark, dreadful, and dreary post.

And so the battle raged on.

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Through the haze of night, drifting on the winds of ignorance, the clinking and chattering sounds of cutlery upon ivory plates floated past the indifference of the sentries and out into the darkened courtyard. Seen only by the stars above and the watchful eyes of his own tortured consciousness, the Magus tapped the crumpled roll up on his faceplate habitually before lighting it with a flick of his wrist, sending a wisp of acrid, toxic fume into the still night air. He took a brief pull on the cigarette and sighed softly, letting the smoke channel itself out of his helmet and find it’s own way into the shadows of the administrative building behind him.

Here, at ground level, the tall, imposing trees of the forest provided a suitable shelter from the unusually turbulent gales of the Northern continent, and although the leaves above writhed and struggled like demons in a net, the sorcerer felt his robes but calmly ruffled by a pleasant breeze, the last remaining vestiges of an otherwise formidable force.
He inhaled the deadly toxins once more, and felt his heartbeat slow with the calming influence of the suppressive chemicals. The Gods alone knew just how much he had deserved this one.

Left alone to his own thoughts and machinations, the sorcerer had plenty of time to ponder the events of an earlier time; even more so to query his own actions during the more ominous journeys down the highways of existence. Mistakes, triumphs, friends gained, and companions fallen, those that to this day still inhabited the extensive base to his rear, and those that he had missed and secretly cherished in his heart and in his bruised, battered and broken soul up to this day. Of course, casting a shadow over all of those problems and trains of thought was the most recent building block in the intricate construction of his existence – Laurana.
Such a woman, so forceful and passionate, but at the same time yearning for the complexities of slavery as much as the simplicity of a free hand. Or perhaps the free hand was meant for him, and to be used on her. Hide or destiny, he couldn’t tell. That was the problem. What did the woman want from him?

Only time would tell...

The unseen hind gave rise to mysterious shuffling sounds, and only the swift rotation of his head to either side would waylay his sense of impending doom. The darkness behind him was empty, suspiciously devoid of life, light... or sentries.
Instantly the Magus was on his guard, each of his six senses alert and attuned to the soft whistle of the evening wind. There was madness afoot, and perhaps even more so than the norm would permit.
“Show yourself,” he hissed into the gloom, “What weak apparition is this, the face of a cloaked spectre? Show yourself, I say again! Face your nemesis!”
Minutes he stood, staring into the shadows, daring them to stare back, etching into his inner eye the portrait of the administrative grounds, seeking the oddity, seeking the spectre that had contributed to the changing of the guard. Overhead the moon rose high into the night, casting its ghostly white visage over the land of the third hour.
Stolen rays of light struck the stones of the Magisterial Hall, and lo, against the soft twilight, a softer light within!
The Magus lifted his bladed quarterstaff with the ease of one so finely attributed to his instrument that it would be difficult to tell where one came to the fore and the other to the end. Twin plates of steeled arrogance and nerve leant themselves to the vector that would tear asunder the silent assailant.
The face of great Luna flickered as the heavens claimed their passage, and for a moment the shadows settled into place once more. When the heavenly light fell once more, the spectre leaning against the walls had vanished, taking with it his curiosity and his apprehension.

The former Soul Eater leant himself to his thoughts once again, muttering to the air in ancient tongues, casting out the net of understanding once more into the seething ocean of his mind, and for the second time that eve allowing the swift current of confusion to pass through on it’s way to oblivion.

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OOC: As Kutulu has said many times "You -ARE- Lord Sordin,"
And as Ara'chna once said "You are Lord, Sordin"
And as Lord Noir once said, "Please remove your hands, i can't sit up or something might snap, and i really can't be dealing with the use of pliers at such an advanced stage,"

Please, enjoy, and comment.

V.