Love and War. (Closed RP - Lord Sordin and Lord Noir)

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[DeadInMySights]

OOC: Machiavelli, here begins our finest chapter. Our finest work. I will post up the edited version of "Wasting Love" and we will transform it into a new story altogether. I will piece together a timeline we could talk about and we'll try to debate what happens from this point onwards.

To the rest of you: There is a purpose behind this thread, so keep reading for a good slice of ASC History in the making. You'll be in on the kill, up to date, and very much able to say "I was there, i saw that event happen,". The climax, if done properly, will be on par with the Kennedy Assassination, The Death of Princess Diana, The Wall Street Crash and the Detonation of the Atomic Bombs over Nagasaki and Hiroshima - Truly a moment that will shake the Old World.

It will end on the present day, and it is set an undisclosed amount of time in the past, but no more so than a few months.

Until we are sure what is going on we will not be accepting applications to this RP, but if we decide to include people then we will let everyone know publicly, and they may have a lovely slice of this History Pie.

Thus begins a fine work! As Freddy Mercury once said, "On with the Show!"

[DeadInMySights]

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Seduced by the soft and silent current of whispering and withering wind that crept in it’s infinite subtlety around the dark fortress, the door drifted to closure with a soft, sensual click. Buffeted by the hard oak and soft velvet, 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 shadows flitted across the walls and ceiling, dancing their merriment across the ancient books and the ever abundant hoard of trinkets and titbits that made up the compulsory collection of a keen admirer of relics and rustic chic alike.

Crouched over the shimmering expanse of his candle-lit desk, the silhouette of a magus, scribbling furiously with a wispy, jet black feather of a raven which he had converted into a quill, was barely visible against the midnight sky beyond. Red ink splashed and scattered across the yellow parchment as he jotted down words onto the dry, cracked, crumbling surface of the document, indifferent to the sweet scent that now drifted over their glistening pearls and dried them onto the page.

After a few moments, the Sorcerer’s eyes swept upward, and he gazed deep into the sweet, soft, breathtakingly azure eyes of his young apprentice apprentice, Laurana Colt, sorceress in training, the faithful companion to this humbled overlord. Tonight this enchanting enchantress was clad in the deepest of black, her delightful femininity cloaked with only the finest wardrobe she could muster.

A shallow sigh escaped his corrupted lungs, displaced into nothingness by the metallic faceguard on his bladed golden helm.

Guided by intuition, her jet black robes found themselves dragged along the floor with a hushed whisper as the apprentice lowered her delicate form into a vacant seat. Between them lay what seemed an ineffably vast expanse, cluttered and pockmarked with the debris of hard, laborious study and the bleak scarcity of slumber.

Turning his withering gaze back to his workload, the disgraced magician let out another sigh of discontent, this time heartfelt enough as to be made audible. Sensing his tempestuous disposition, the apprentice shifted in her chair and made herself even 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 would be served in it’s place.

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, “But until that day, all you will learn from me is how to cheat yourself out of happiness, Laurana.”
Pushing himself away from the wooden table, the despairing gentleman placed the simple stool to one side of the window pane and once more turned his empathic, penetrating 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, “You truly are an object of desire, but from that desire will only come danger, and resentment, not the acquisition of joy. 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. Barely enough time to staunch the flow, even. We spend so much time wishing we had more of it that we run out before even our regret has had time to ferment,”

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, painted 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 him of his post.

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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 against the ancient stone, glistening in the ethereal rays of the ghostly moon, the Sorcerer made out another shape along the broken pattern of the façade, leaning casually against the masonry, watching his every move.
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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[Mahk Noir]

Clearly OOC: Well now, I'm back from my little vacation. Should I just jump in then, or is there something we ought to discuss before I begin a nice little row of antagonism?

[DeadInMySights]

OOC: I'm back from the holiday to end all holidays, tanned up, with blue hair and awesome mirrored shades. Pictures will be landing shortly.

Noir, PM me, you old sea dog.

Toodlepip. Feels good to be back.

Regards,

V.

[Chemosh]

“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!”
 

OOC: HAHAHAHA!!

That story was hilarious!!  

Its like a 8 in the morning soap opera!

[Grimbit]

OOC:

LOL /agree w/ chemosh

"tune in next week, when we find out about a dark secret Laurana Colt holds..."

I dont want to ruin your plot, but my guess is its his long lost sister.... ;)

[DeadInMySights]

OOC: If you were any further away the Chinese would be demanding your papers, much to the embarassment of your embassy.

Stick around and see what unfolds. It is entirely unguessable. I made up a word just to attempt to convey the twisting twists.

Much obliged by the reads.

Regards.

V.

[Mahk Noir]

*cracks his whip.* This is the first time I've used this bloody thing for its intended purpose.

[DeadInMySights]

Love and War - Chapter 2 - Fear of the Dark.

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Eventually, as the night began to fade and morning prepared for all out war on the faltering darkness of the dawn, the faint sounds of dining and merriment from the Great Hall died down, and now only an intelligent, malevolent silence remained of the inhabitants of the Administrative Building.
The young sorceress tiptoed silently down the main hallway of the tower of Recruitment and Propaganda. All around her, the best efforts of recruiters and clerks alike decorated the halls. Posters, slogans, tapestries illustrating famous and final clashes between the noble forces of the legion and the wicked, vile, heathen armies of the Empire and it’s pitiful allies.
Her black, silken bathrobe trailed along behind her over the smooth surface of the rich, deep purple carpet as she crept onwards. From the right, the snoring of the ever watchful security guards reassured and sedated her frantic nerves, and, emboldened by their slumber, she pressed deeper into the shadows, toward the end of the corridor. Raulen’s office lay to the left, the door locked, and barred. Directly ahead, the double oaken doors of the Soul Eater’s office were wide open. Nobody was home. She would perhaps never adjust herself to the vacancy of that historical room.
Her black clad form rounded yet another corner in the foreboding labyrinth of the High Tower, bringing the personal assistant face to face with a face no mortal man would willingly choose to face, lest it be the last one he face, or lose face.
“Laurana,” the cold, dark, arrogant tone was more like an audible smirk than verbal remark. One only had to listen to his words to guess his facial expression.
The P.A froze, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, pupils dilating in fear, heart racing as if pursued by Cerberus himself.
“M-My Lord...” she stammered, wrestling with her own consciousness in a vicious effort to formulate words and wit instead of simply fleeing into the futile cover of the shadows and praying his first blasts would not wound her too badly until security arrived.
The magus drew in a shuddering breath and then exhaled the entire contents of his cursed, corrupted lungs in one, final, dramatic sigh. “Espionage is not within our mandate, Laurana,” continued the Magus in his same, cold, unfeeling tone, “Neither is security work.”
She risked a glance over her shoulder, and was rewarded with nothing but blackness, thick as Arabay Midnight, behind her. It was all she could do to form a brief, stuttered response. “Of course not... Master... I was, merely... That is...”
The Magus raised a golden hand, spreading his fingers wide, allowing each golden claw, the ornamental adornments of his ancient armour, so slide out to their fullest extent and remain before her, fanned out like the majestic tail feathers of a peacock in heat.
The sorceress gave an audible whimper of terror, nightmares of warp daemons devouring her soul flickering across her vision, predictions of doom spiralling around her head, the contents of which had turned into a solid block of reptilian panic. The thoughts came fast, but their meaning was lost on the body, which by this point had become a form and function of fear. Fight, flight, or freeze? She had barely decided, taking her first steps towards certain death from behind, when the Magus lowered the gauntlet and slowly and silently hovered aside. He moved like a ghost, and shivers of wonder and awe, coupled with the ice cold tidal wave of relief which broke upon her shores now, swept down her spine. The secretary gave a nod and advanced past him without a second glance, taking the pardon whilst it was offered and vanishing into the shadows again.

Lord Sordin examined his hand with an almost scholarly attention to detail, and after a moment he allowed it to once again take its place at his side.
“Not within our mandate,” he muttered, dryly, to himself, “But not entirely without. Is not propaganda and recruitment the espionage of the mind and soul?” a muffled chuckle, chilly as the grave and heartfelt as strangulation, the crime of passion, slide out from under an ornate faceplate. The Magus adjusted his robes, clicked his staff twice on the burnished metal of the disk, and then, after sparing a moment of longing after the departed sorceress, he turned and slipped into anonymity once more. He was a man on a mission, and Lord Sordin would stop at nothing to complete it.

-----------------------------xx

By the light of the full moon, the Hall of Artefacts shimmered and gleamed with the modest majesty of a thousand and more different gems, jewels, staffs, swords, stones, runes, armours and scrolls. Along one of the longer walls of the great, oblong space were bolted the great and fine armours of warlords past. One of them belonged to Kutulu-Xul himself, which he had used to do battle with Lord Bael those many years ago. Another was the sleek and slender armour of Lord Tether, a fitting title for such a man as he, who found himself promptly recalled and hanged for treason against the Legion over five hundred years ago.
The sorcerer shuddered as his eyes grazed over the fanciful armours, forcing him to recall each of their stories and their ends. Some were punctured with arrow holes, and others bore great gashes from the ministrations and caring attentions of the Imperials, or, more often than not, other aspiring warlords. Some, he was pleased to see, were distorted and charred with the blasted pockmarks of magical energies. It did him good to see his kind revered and remembered in such a way.

The other three walls contained tapestries and banners, each from a different period of the Legion’s history. Some were simply the banners of the three base legions. Others were personalised standards. His dark violet eyes swept over them fondly, each of them stirring up pride inside his blackened heart. His wandering gaze suddenly froze, and narrowed, like an archer squinting to get his next shot just right, so that the poor, unsuspecting sentry would have no time to cry for help before death took him.
“Ah, there you are,” he hissed.

Underfoot, the carpet was crafted from the flayed flesh of prisoners and traitors, and over the years it had grown into a fine, rich brown, marred with the distorted faces of the former owners, and criss-crossed with the loving stitching that the tailors had applied when joining the still cooling flesh to the beautiful artwork of the cursed floor. Under normal circumstances, the souls still trapped within these husks would moan and scream their agonies and sympathies alike when trodden down by the hulking brutes of the Legionnaires, but today, that is to say, tonight, they were eerily silent at this small mercy as the Magus hovered nonchalantly above them.

A flick of the staff, and he had the banner in question in his hand. It was small, by banner standards, only three feet by three feet, far removed from the usual six by six of the other tapestries, and it was far less adorned than any of them. A black square, with a delta cut out of one side so that it resembled a square pie with a piece missing, ringed and tasselled with lacy gold. Along the top of the pseudo-square, great scrolls unrolled, and in beautiful calligraphy along the embroidery were written the words “Faith As My Shield.” He nodded approvingly. Along the bottom of the banner, in the same style, were the words “Duty As My Sword.” The centre of the banner was adorned with the blazing red symbol of a raven in flight, a single light blue eye in place of its own, beady black counterpart. The eye followed him around the room eerily when it was upon the wall, but now it simply gazed into his soul with shameless hunger. Yes, there was no doubt about it. This was what he had come for. This was no ordinary banner.

He folded the cloth reverently and tucked it into a satchel bag, which he slung over his epaulettes. Without further ado, pausing only to lift a small crystal from a display stand near the entrance, the Magus swept out of the double doors, making sure before they closed behind him to bring his staff down hard on the poor myriad of could that made up the Legion’s most macabre decoration.

He doubted that even Lord Noir had such a hideous and heretical item at his disposal.

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[DeadInMySights]

Settling down into his chair, which he balanced precariously atop the burnished gold and soft blue of his disk, the Magus rolled out the banner before him on the scarce desk space and extracted from a draw mankind’s greatest invention, right alongside clockwork and the ability to turn everything, no matter how innocent, into some form of engine for war; a book.
He flicked through yellowed pages and flaking notes until an elegant headline caught his eye, drawing his attention to it as the flame does to the moth moments before the fatal flame of curiosity takes it. He read the title aloud, hardly daring to speak above a whisper, lest the walls have ears. In a building such as this he was unwilling to test how far he could push an old metaphor, bearing in mind that one of the grandest rooms in the fortress was furnished with much more than just ears.
“Vance Rodsin,” he breathed, tapping the page with a golden claw, “My old persona.”
He checked the front of the book again, just be sure. Of course, it was all legitimate. The original records of every incarnation of the Soul Eater, from first to last... Him. His hands found their way to the last chapter of the book. In curled writing at the top of the page were the words “Lord V. Sordin” – But the rest of the book from then on in was blank. A blank canvass, as they say. Perhaps there was time to change history yet.

The golden claw turned another ponderous page in this book of memories. How odd. It would seem that Vance Rodsin, our esteemed Magus, was more of a man than previously thought.
Sordin turned the page back over, and made a note in his personal diary, checking the banner for reference. The black square laid out before him bore the names on it of six famous locations, the sites of which were battlegrounds in the campaigns against the Norsca Rebels of Old Havek the Mad. That was back in the olden days, of course. The pondering Magus ran his eyes over the names of the six locations and crossed the references with his Soul eater bible. It had taken him months to acquire, and so much red tape that he could easily hang the entire administrative staff of the Sanctums with it – An act he was toying with following through.

How curious, he thought, that Lord Rodsin would take the trouble of having the sixth location of the Battle of Stocken added to his banner, when, in actual fact, the Magus was not there. According to the records... No, that can’t be right.

“Laurana!” he called, being careful to keep his voice down lest those eared walls lend him one, “Laurana!”
Beside him, the wall shuddered as a sleeping occupant of the next chamber attacked it in an attempt to cease his bickering. The wall was made of plaster and luck, as the entire floor used to be one big room, back in the days when Propaganda was a more hands on matter.
His secretary did not answer. He would have to look into a leash and a dog basket of some sort to keep her close at hand. Indeed, the idea of his P.A. clad in nothing but a collar and perspiration did his heart, and his loins, a world of good.

With a casual shrug, which meant that later in the evening someone was in for an earful of trouble, the Magus turned back to his findings with wide, violet eyes.
It didn’t make sense! Why would a Soul Eater of the Legion oversee the addition to his banner of the site of a battle at which he wasn’t present? The only other such Lord to do so was Lord Noir, who had only technically been at such affairs as he was later repossessed by-

Blood ran cold. His hands curled into fists, and violet pools of rising disbelief fixated themselves on the far wall, charring the woodwork in all but physical form.

The book slammed shut. The banner was re-rolled and placed away in his desk drawer with the ancient tome. No words were uttered. There was nothing to be said. He must have proof. This was a tragedy- Nay, an outrage! He refused to believe it! He, the great Sordin, Soul Eater- That is, former Soul eater of the Unholy Legions, soiled by this filthy spawn of chaos! It would not do. It would not be tolerated.

“Proof must be acquired,” he said slowly, deliberately, to the air in general, “And if it is so, then may Tzeentch himself bear witness to this deed, for Lord Machiavelli Noir will pay,” he stood up suddenly, the force of his action sending the chair crashing into the window, splintering the glass and sending shards of crystalline window pane into the night. The wind swept in around him, plucking at his robes and carrying the candles away into darkness, leaving the ethereal glow of unchecked violet rage that now rose around the majestic Sorcerer.

“Lord Noir will pay,” he repeated, savagely, reaching for his bedlam staff, “With his life!”

[Mahk Noir]

It began with a touch, a gentle stroke of a finger on her neck that pulled at her mind from the edge of consciousness. She stirred for an instant, but then quickly drifted back into sleep. She didn't hear the quiet laughter afterward, nor did she sense the eyes gazing at her from mere feet away. What she did hear, however, were his words.
"...bloody handed god, Khaela Mensha Khaine."
Pain. It was her world. It was her past, her present and her future, all that was and that ever would be. She couldn't move, nor could she think; her body lay thrashing wildly beneath the tangled sheets of her bed. Though she was looking straight at him, her tortured brain could scarcely process what stood before her: Lord M. Noir himself, clad in nothing but a form-fitting leather bodysuit and hovering in midair. Upon a second glance, it was clear he was not, in fact, hovering, but rather was being held aloft by an annoyed looking daemonette.
"Oh, well hello there," he said casually. "Do pardon my intrusion at such an ungodly hour as this." The dark lord's eyes fogged over for an instant, and the daemonette disappeared with a puff of smoke, dropping him directly atop the thrashing magus. Fear mingled into the mix of her suffering, both the terror of helplessness as well as an anxiety that seemed to ooze out of him into her soul. 
"But you understand, surely," his wiry hands clamped down upon her wrists; Lauranna's body instantly went limp, the pain subsiding. "We have so very much to little and so time do it to much in, or something along those lines."
Seething rage began to boil from within her, casting away the fear that had overtaken her at first: not even Sordin would dare humiliate her as this druchii had. Lauranna tried to speak, but just then she felt something enter her mouth, plunging down into her throat and blocking the airway, leaving just enough room near her sinuses for breathing, though she saw nothing but distortions in the air before her. "I much appreciate how cooperative you're being, dearest chaos bitch. Truly I do." Noir's face was lowered within mere centimeters of hers, his lips just barely grazing her cheek. "So let's be quick about this, shall we?"
The force within her throat jerked up and down, nodding her head for her. "Excellent." He flashed a toothy grin with Noir's mouth.
"I just wished to congratulate you on your master's latest failures. They truly have been spectacular--the old dog is outdoing himself with every passing day. I didn't think, truly now, I didn't, that he had it in him to fail so very, very well. Being demoted and kicked out of his own private little section of the Sanctum, oh, such a feat!"
Lauranna snarled--the only response she could give.
"You agree? Well of course you do, dear one. Now then, there was one more thing I wished to discuss. What was it?" He began mumbling to himself, switching from druchii, to standard, to the dark tongue seemingly at random. Seconds became minutes, and soon nearly an hour had passed of his muttering quietly. Lauranna seethed beneath Noir's body, waiting, watching, itching for an opportunity to strike at him.
"Ah!" He said it so suddenly that the magus jolted in surprise. "I recall it now. Do pardon me, Miss Dolt. You see," he thrust Noir's face back onto hers so they were nose to nose, "your master has ideas in his head. That in and of itself would be a surprise, aye?" He laughed aloud. "But seriously now, he has a few, oh, ideas about things that really aren't all that healthy for him to have. Were I to be one who cared about his welfare, such as you appear to be, I would, oh, dissuade him from entertaining these thoughts." He winked at her.
"You understand, aye?" He nodded her head again. "Excellent. You will remember none of this save for the part about dissuading him... oh, and the part about your being a chaos bitch. Goodnight."
The druchii dark lord disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, and Lauranna Colt fell instantly back asleep.

[DeadInMySights]

Love and War - Chapter 3 - Hooks In You

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The brilliant morning sunlight broke like waves over the shore of the Administration Building, and the spires and turrets of the High Tower groped like the taloned fist of the Gods at the ferocious ball of plasma that was happily irradiating everything it touched.

The Hall of Artefacts was once more filled with the groans and complaints of long dead souls straining under the weight of a fully armed and fully armoured Legionnaire. Shafts of brilliant white light broke in through the windows, funnelled into the cavernous space as one might press a batch of dough lovingly into a bread tin. The mirrors arranged around the rafters reflected and deflected the light effortlessly, merging the beams into one single column of divine excellence, the destination of which should have been apparent before the sun had even considered it's cameo role in the universe.

Lord Sordin couldn't help but smile as he gazed upon the brightly lit suit of armour that had once belonged to his noble leader, Kutulu Xul. The bastard had style, he would give him that. Compared to this gloriously lit relic, the other suits of armour were as the crow is to the raven - Alike in all but grace, stature, connotation and nature.

Beside him, Garrius cleared his throat impatiently, and the Magus glanced down to his most decorated Raven Guard with more than a little annoyance scrawled across his hidden features.
"Garrius, why not make yourself useful and find a peasant to bully?" smirked the Sorcerer, "No doubt your prestige with a weapon is rivalled only by your ability to avoid using it against opponents of similar skill,"

The Raven Guard growled softly, his closest expression to affection. "Perhaps my Lord has more children’s toys to rifle through?" he said softly, with only a hint of condescension, "After all, my Lord would not waste time looking for a trinket when he could be actually fighting the war if it was not of utmost importance, I am sure."
The Magus ground his teeth, controlling his voice in reply. "Garrius, please remove yourself from my sight and do something useful," he said coldly, "I will call for you if I need to perform a task that requires the intellect of a ball of string,"

The Chosen nodded gracefully and trod smugly away across the screaming and squirming carpet. The Magus took a small comfort from the agonised souls of the damned. It was good to know that even if you were demoted in the Legions, there was always someone underfoot. Literally.

Now... Back to the task at hand.

The Magus rotated silently atop his vessel and swept a glance across the workbench. Strewn across the polished oak of the desk lay a collection of strange and wonderful memorabilia from a day long since decayed into memory. Some of them glowed, others merely gleamed. One of them was trying to escape. He pinned down the feebly struggling piece of metal with a casual finger, and cast his violet gaze over the rest of the items. A dagger, a strip of cloth, a small book and the apparently sentient chunk of metal that he had so imperialistically trodden down under his thumb. The metaphor almost made him smile.

Moving slowly, taking his sweet time, enjoying the smell of the past around him, the cool hum of his disk underfoot, and the bright light of the fresh daw, Lord Sordin placed one gauntleted hand on what appeared to be a book of reports and flicked open the first page.
His eyebrows, anonymous as any other feature of his face, raised a full inch in surprise.

Scrawled across the page in his own hurried and arrogantly indecipherable handwriting, forged in the belief that if he could read it, so could everyone else (And Laurana certainly made sure that he could read hers, he would have to remind her that snide comments were not part of her duties, and if she continued to make it so, he might have to add some more, less verbal tasks to her schedule) were the words "Rodsin, Vance, Soul Eater of the ASC"

He glanced over toward the door. Garrius stood on guard, patiently, rocking back and forth to aggravate the unfortunate entities trapped below his massive metal boots. Apart from him, the room was empty...

He leant down and began to read the diary, attempting to take from it any information he could, and perhaps a clue as to the mysterious presence of his former self at a battle that was not historically registered as under his command. No units had served under the Soul Eater of that period, according to the records, and although his faith in the Sanctums had been tested more often than the first industrial ways to slice bread on a large scale, even he had to admit that the Vampires did not make mistakes.

Simple stuff. This was the war journal of the former incarnation of himself. The dates were accurate, and the writing unquestionably his. If Noir had indeed stolen his form in an earlier life, then he would not have retained his writing style, would he? The wording would be different... How far could the demon assimilate a person? His consciousness had not been absorbed, if he even was possessed. He was still him... Then what? What was he missing? Think, Sordin, think!

The former Soul Eater took hold of the next page, and flicked it over, but before his eyes could meet the conclusions of another day's battle, and read the fascinating memories of the past once again, he was interrupted by a faint sound from behind - The unmistakable sound of a woman clearing her throat, a sound which mankind has, over millions of years, learned to recognise as the same calibre of sound that would come from the mouth of, for the sake of argument, a tiger about to leap.

He turned slowly, and found himself face to face with his rebellious secretary, Laurana Colt. Today she wore a close fitting black dress, as usual, and a rather flamboyant golden bracelet, which showed off her arms beautifully. He would have to see about having those hands crushed and framed the day she attempted to betray him. Or perhaps cut off and preserved in amusing positions. Oh, the fun he could have with them.

The Magus cleared his throat in return, just to make sure his position was well established. "Ah, Laurana," he said smoothly, "I wasn't expecting to see you here,"
The Sorceress was unimpressed. "You invited me, Master," she said bluntly.
One golden hand curled into a fist, but his voice remained as chilled and calm as ever, "Ah, of course," he replied, icily, "It must have slipped my mind,"
"I would weep to think that anything else had escaped your mind, Master," she replied, in the same tone, "Your brain, for example,"
The Magus became aware of a quite snickering from the direction of the doorway, and he drew in a great breath, turning to his Raven Guard with a flourish, "Garrius!" he screamed across the expanse of the room, "Report to Lord Bael for assignment to the cleaning rota, immediately!!"
The guard opened his mouth, his brows furrowing in disgust as he made to make reply, but the Magus unleashed a lance of fire toward him, and he thought better of it, saluting smartly and retreating into the hallways on the building.

He turned back to his P.A, who still stood unimpressed and unmoving before him.
"Insubordination," he said, putting on his best Officer like tone, "Will not be tolerated," his violet eyes fixed on her own, ice blue counterparts, "Is that understood, Laurana?"

[Mahk Noir]

I would not yet be appropriate for me to post, therefore I await Sordin and Laurana patiently *glare* and give you this in the meantime.

Sordin turned back to his P.A, who still stood unimpressed and unmoving before him.
"Insubordination," he said, putting on his best Officer like tone, "Will not be tolerated," his violet eyes fixed on her own, ice blue counterparts, "Is that understood, Laurana?"

The magus stood furious upon his disc, his body tensing in anticipation of a conflict with his lovely assistant. Her gaze was steely and unyielding, but he knew that there was yet fear of him within her. "I said, IS--"

The sound of uproarious laughter echoed through the area, followed by the rapid footfalls. Every mournful cry from the carpet when silent. In an instant, a daemonette of Slaanesh rounded the corner down the hall from the magii, sprinting toward them with a look of unmistakable annoyance on her otherwise horrifyingly beautiful face. Her arms were extended above her head, holding aloft the slender body of the Dark Lord Machiavelli Noir, clad in his finest purple robes. He lay flat on his belly, her hands supporting him by the ribs, his eyes closed and his arms flapping wildly at his sides as if he were a bird on cocaine.
"Faster! Faster, you bloody dull-witted cow! We're losing altitude!" the druchii yelled.
She snarled, and then the pair sped past the magii and out of sight entirely, disappearing through the opposite doorway--the door splintered upon impact--as suddenly as they had arrived.

[Lauren]

The diary slipped from Sordin’s armoured fingers and clattered to the floor, echoing loudly in silence, the unfortunate soul that it landed on screaming in annoyance and pain. Laurana and Lord Sordin stood completely still, frozen, a look of confusion stuck on Laurana’s face and her mouth hanging open in bewilderment and awe. The shocked silence continued for just a few moments longer as Laurana heard her Master’s sharp intake of breath as he came to his senses. She chanced a glance at him, ready to move quickly towards the exit just in case he erupted in one of those fits of unnecessary rage he so frequently had. Laurana sighed and rolled her eyes inwardly, steeling herself for a tirade of abuse larger than when she’d forgotten to order more sugar for his stupid herbal tea. Instead of screaming madly and hurling random jets of fire at everyone in the room, he just turned, slowly, to face her.

“What the hell is this?” he said, perplexed and obviously, she thought, still in shock. Thrown by the former Soul Eater’s odd reaction, she did a curious impression of a fish; her mouth opening and closing repeatedly, as she sought of a suitable answer to the strange question and discarded each that came to mind. She settled eventually for a shrug and shook her head.

Sordin sighed and turned away from her, muttering inaudible things to himself, probably cursing that curious Lord Noir and presumably and quite possibly most prevalently, her ‘incompetence’ as his Personal Assistant. As she overheard “…don’t even know why I employed her in the first place…” from her master’s turned back, she mocked him, mimicking him in an over-exaggerated way. Lord Sordin wheeled round and Laurana stopped herself just in time, her head snapping upwards to stare at the ceiling in an attempt to look innocent, he didn’t seem to notice it, she’d gotten away with it this time.

As he drifted towards her slowly, he spoke resignedly, “I don’t have time for that stupid, interfering elf. I will deal with it later. Come.” he commanded, obviously back in his usual ‘Arrogant Bastard’ state of mind. “We have a lot to do.” He made his way back over to where he had dropped the diary and instead of picking it up, drifted nonchalantly over the top of it and carried on towards the other artefacts. Laurana followed him obediently, not wanting to antagonise the old fool in his fragile state of mind. His age was obviously catching up with him. She’d just stepped over the diary and was on her way to catching up with him, when he turned around and spoke, smoothly and quietly.

"Laurana, please pick up the invaluable artifact you just mindlessly plodded over before I force you to add picking up your teeth to the agenda" She stopped walking towards him and glared him, anger radiating from her blue eyes. The bastard.

“And perhaps if you had been more mindful of other people’s agenda’s other than your own quest for power then you wouldn’t be attempting to pick up your tattered reputation by discovering some use for these pathetic pieces of worthless junk.” She said icily, turning and bending down for the diary, slowly and deliberately making a show of picking it up.

"Is that what you think I am doing?” the imbecile carried on, “If you were as attentive to your duties as an Assistant as you were to your self assigned duties as an ignorant fool you would be serving battle reports to the Dark Lords rather than serving tea to the Tower Staff."

She took a step towards him, seething, and snapped at him “I don’t believe you require my attention anymore, Master.” she spat the words, “When you require my services again, you’ll find me slaving away, as usual, under a pile of your paperwork, which, may I add, could quite easily be completed by you, if you didn’t waste so much of your precious time gratifying yourself over your beloved pieces of trash you call relics.”

The former Soul Eater’s eyes blazed as he yelled "If you were to exercise your eye for the job at hand as much as you exercised it over shoes and handbags you would be second only to Tzeentch himself in your observational prowess."

Laurana snarled and turned her back on him, stalking out of the room with the book still in her hands. Useless Cretin. She stormed down the corridors towards her own quarters, muttering angrily to herself and cursing in equal proportions. She clattered into her room and slammed the door shut with a resounding bang that echoed down the corridor. Quite a feat for a such a small woman and a rather huge wooden door. Now in the privacy of her own space, she let out a piercing scream of rage that rattled the window and threw the book at the opposite wall. It slid to the floor with a crumple. She curled up and sat with her back against the door, to sulk for a while.

[Mahk Noir]

Of course, it had seemed to the shocked and appalled onlookers as though the Dark Lord were simply out of his senses as usual. In reality, albeit true that he was quite far removed from what most would call sanity, his madness had more method to it than mania.
As the two magii quarreled like mangy chaos hounds fighting over a carcass, a minuscule ball of light hovered not twenty feet above them near the ceiling. An almost entirely invisible string of distortions connected to this orb and lead through the splintered doorway, down the hall, through several staircases and finally ended where it met Dark Lord M. N's right ear.
The druchii lord, or so he appeared, lay languidly sprawled out upon a purple silken divan, a pitched of wine in one hand and a pitched of bloodwine in the other. He chuckled softly as he listened to his rival losing a battle of wits against a "mere woman."
"I love my job," he sighed contentedly. "Or at least I would, had I any actual job description aside from intrigue and the occasional bit of slaughter here and there."
"You don't ever do any actual work, do you Mahk?" Lord Ar'achna Bael was himself sprawled out on a sofa in the office. "This is the third time this week you've invited me down here to sit and drink away reality, and each time you've only just sat there with a dumb look on your face and mumbled random shit."
Noir's placid face turned to his companion. "Do you object to my hospitality?"
"Mahk, it's Monday."
"So?"
"I've been down here like three times this morning."
"And?"
"I don't even like you."
"Then why the devil you keep coming?" The druchii laughed.
Ar'achna jostled his beer stein loudly. An irritated daemonette leaped out of Noir's massive wardrobe, refilled Bael's stein from a keg she held above her head, and then jumped back inside.
"That's why."
The two chuckled together.
"What's up with the uh..." the chaos chosen pointed at the transparent string coming out of Noir's ear. "Is that what you've been ranting about?"
"Um... yes. I'm uh, listening in on Lady Aladriel... in the shower."
"Really."
"Yes."
"You're LISTENING to her shower."
"Indeed I am."
"As opposed to watching."
The druchii paused. "Yes."
"I really hate you, you know."
"More beer?"
"Of course."   

May 2012

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