# Bride of Khorne - Bobss tries his hand at Warhammer Fantasy



## bobss (May 18, 2008)

So after a staccato of 40k books, I felt the urge to write something set within the realms of the Warhammer Fantasy universe, and so after scouring through the weighty tomes of my shelf of Army books, I shortlisted some characters to write about, first and foremost Valkia the Bloody. The epilogue is merely designed to flaunt her disgust of Slaanesh and attraction to Khorne, with some battle`s against the followers of the Plague God and Locephax - DP of Slaanesh soon:grin:


Epilogue – The clamour of ecstasy – The foul scent of Pleasure – Bride of Kharnaal 

+++ +++ +++	

Darkness. 

Pure and black, knowingly forbidden and yet adorned with lust. Darkness. It always followed, no matter the bodily act nor narcotic drug, the more debaucherous the passion, the more it tingled her splayed and naked mind. 

Rich and swirling. Brimming in the burnished crimson of a bloody dew. Tattered and worn. Fraying and unkempt. The black apparitions flooding her view, akin to the rough weave of steppe cloth. The darkness lasted mere moments, flanked by pulsating columns of red: arterial blood gushing timely to a beating rhythm. Each rhymmic beat of her pleasure-bound heart a cacophonous drumming, a joyous music of the body a sweet tune of the soul; small spatters decorating the grimy cloth veiling her clouded mind like a hellish rain. Conjured by the ecstasies of flesh. Not war, nor gluttony, nor power-

But _flesh_. Sadistically abused flesh.

Not the ripe fruit to be plucked from the orchard that was the body, from the golden spoils of war. To be torn asunder and greedily savored by the slavering maw. No, the mortal assailment of a more hedonistic nature. The internal pleasures of one’s immortal soul, and the sour tang of pleasure as it was consumed by the daemons of the immaterial realms; to their cackling glee and shrill laughter, cavorting amongst the emotional strands of short, sharp orgasmic emotion nourished within the dark reaches of the mind. Lost to the bondage of the Dark Gods.

_Pleasure… _

She awoke from her baleful dream of blood and other dark ecstasies. Eyes still closed, yet a smile of animalistic joy etched upon the pursed lips of her face, as her other senses heightened by the fumes of drachroot and mandrake, bathed in the drowning sea of pleasure, now too, reluctantly recovering. Both snake-like brows arched, succoring her mind as she played out every act of former intercourse – each, purest enjoyment made manifest into her most forbidden fetishes - complementing them and transversing each branching path in turn with a virgin’s nervous grace. As a raven would pick every morsel of rotting meat from the gilded joins of forged plate, she followed each out, enjoying them till their material deaths.

Her heart skipped, momentarily blinding her to yet another tide of enjoyment, her gore-tinged world hazing in a tinge of reddish multitudes. She opened her almost crested eyes, the orbs of pooling and coalescing scarlet, radiating from the hedonistic gifts of Slaannor. 

Valkia emerged aghast from her dreamscape, as she mockingly eyed the muscled _boy_ who now lay straddled to her corpse-like figure. His face too, was a mask of starkest testimony to their dark acts. Valkia groaned as her tongue tasted the coppery smoke of spilt blood, seductively cleansing the palour of her lips. 

Bursting into a cruel laughter, laden with a prickling malice and an overall dominating cruelty, differing from their hoarse screaming, and playful goading of hours past, the youthful lover finally uttered these words upon the crescendo of their bubbling euphoria - ‘Valkia, your body is like an offering from the Gods themselves. Your tongue a writhing serpent, your mind the deviations of ecstasy itself, your skin smoother than magically-spun silk’, he proclaimed listing his favoured attributes of her body rather too jovially, as his roving eyes and foul inner desires enjoyed his complementing flattery of her tempting form. She nimbly leapt from the warm confines of the bed and away from the clutches of sweat-dripping bear fur, wrapped lazily across a hewn marble throne central to the humid room. Inviting her to its luscious pleasures, though she thought little for neither its master’s slanderous whit nor charming guile no longer. 

‘Durst not tempt their wrath, the Gods do not take to denial well. Least of all Slaannor. Valkia, think of the gifts he has blessed you with this night. Think of his punishment to such insult’, continued the bountiful male, his grimacing look sporting fresh arrogance as he imagined running a venom-laden tongue slowly down her alabaster bosom once again.

Valkia merely ignored his protestations, dismissing them as frustrated venting, as if he were to demand yet more of her this night. Her whims ignorant to the stern meaning buried within fleshy layers of his words, she slinked her bare hips, swaying to an accord not of her own. Like the hunting prowl of a Queen Blood Lion as it stalked fresh blood upon the ashen Wastes, coming upon a colossal mirror of shining bronze inlaid with a peppering of fist-sized rubies, in turn adorned by foul sigils and runes of agony. Their glassy surface scratched by fine tools from ages of mastery and crafts vanished, lost beneath the sea of chaos-imbued barbarity, one amongst many of the ponderous artifacts cluttering her father’s hut.

‘Think of what is beyond you. What your mortal form cannot achieve, the sensations you cannot conjure yourself, lest without Slaannor`s abode. Join us, join him’- he continued to spit blasphemy between forked teeth, his heresy a white-hot hammer grating upon the brittle anvil of her nerves. 

She twisted her naked body, cupping her breasts with a hand. Vicious nails drawing rivulets of blood from faint scratches of her chalk-like skin, to stream down her form like tears and pool upon the furs of the floor. Pouting innocently towards the mirror, she groped the top of her red hair, pulling it across a hot scalp wetted by sweat to cascade down the ravine of her lithe back. The eerie shadows, made harsh by the dim light of a cluster of brass braziers - each festooned with feral hooks and rotting skulls of rival champions - wove across her seductress features. Fire licked up in small gouts amidst the cloying fog of burnt incense, made a sickly greenish hue by the failing spell of Morslieb, flickering between the pair of zealotic lovers, their embrace now wholly shattered.

‘Matter does it not. Such-‘, he arched his tapered head and groaned at her now defiled flesh, her beauty ravaged by his perverse needs ‘-Such a gift from Slaanor shalt not be condemned to ignorance, I will not idly let his will wane. Whether by bondage or will, you shall return to my tribe. There you shall accept Slaannor as your patron of excess and master of your fickle devotion. The chance for a more... dignified… merciful master has perished’, he proclaimed wryly. His lamenting voice cruel yet blossoming with an idyllic emotion, his tone regal yet defiant; dominating, yet kind.

She smiled faintly, choosing not to let her hatred boil and froth, gazing upon some unknown tower of dread beyond the laws of the mortal realm: it’s fell ramparts of marrowed bone and pinnacles of brass, a crystalline tonic within her mind, a song her heart, a spear of ice inside the catacombs of her shirking soul. But lest of all it gave her defiance. 

‘For I serve no master. No insolent churl, bitter arrogance rife within his satisfied heart will bind me. And I bow to none lest of all, your foul God!’ she roared, hefting a mighty war glaive from the it’s dark wooded tomb. Swinging it end over end in a lightening flurry of arcs, a tangled web of strokes no God`s servant could perceive, an ensorcelled power spidering down its glittering haft. Valkia lunged with the savagery of a Steppe Vulture and hewed the shrieking head from his shoulders with a mere flick of her veined wrist. Her pallid nakedness now a taunt canvas to the misty shower of gore.

‘Blood for the Blood God, as my father would say’, she toyed coldly. Her shrill laugh beckoning the raucous cries of crows, as it began to rain a faint trickle of blood upon the warped horizon from bloodshot clouds.


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

I liked the contrast of the imagery in the beginning, going from the utter darkness to something that seemed bright (rich and swirling). It kind of created a chaotic mental image that was quite appealing.



> rhythm. The rhythm each beat of her pleasure-bound heart


Two things with this. While I think that repetition has it's place in firmly implanting an idea or a thought into the reader, I think here it is detrimental to what you're doing. Also, the underlined section is a bit awkward, maybe "the rhythmic" instead.

As I've never read anything from the WHF universe, I can't really comment on any of the lore, so I won't even try.

Overall, I really liked the mental picture I got while reading, very twisted but precise. Good stuff


----------



## bobss (May 18, 2008)

Boc said:


> I liked the contrast of the imagery in the beginning, going from the utter darkness to something that seemed bright (rich and swirling). It kind of created a chaotic mental image that was quite appealing.
> 
> 
> Two things with this. While I think that repetition has it's place in firmly implanting an idea or a thought into the reader, I think here it is detrimental to what you're doing. Also, the underlined section is a bit awkward, maybe "the rhythmic" instead.
> ...


Much gratitude for just your time, to read the story - or opening extract - firstly, though I suspect my prescense upon the Chatbox and underlying hinderance caused as such:laugh: But regardless, I agree as to the statement: The sentence, to much admittance and somewhat annoyance was poorly formed, though I am thankful that you could still praise the reasoning behind its purpose.

I am glad you got a strong mental image of said scene, I try to portray it so that it is clearly visible

I should add some more soon, a battle against the minions of the Plague God most likely.:so_happy:


----------

