Selective RP & creative writing for Lucius the Eternal, originally from the grimdark future of Warhammer 40,000. Written by Ruck ( he / him, 28. )
( Features Soulsborne verses and an original nightmare world called Cadaver based on the works of H.R. Giger. Horror and mature themes abound – 21+ only and minors blocked on sight. )
Lucius is the sole property of Games Workshop. This portrayal is my own. Mostly faithful to canon with self-indulgent revisions and quality of life patches – he is basically an OC in non-Warhammer verses.
Art and writing posted / used belong solely to me (with exception of current icon; a Games Workshop transfer I edited) and have not involved any use of AI. I do not consent to the redistribution of my work in any part for any reason.
Please see rules and content warnings in the guide before interacting!
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𝑮𝑼𝑰𝑫𝑬 ○○ 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑬
𝒆𝒔𝒕. 𝑴𝑴𝑿𝑿𝑰
#𝟬𝟬𝟬𝟬𝟬𝟬 ○○ #𝗳𝗳𝟮𝗲𝟵𝟭
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general tags:
𝑶𝑶𝑪 — My ganshing
𝑰𝑪 — All ic posts
𝑮𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹𝒀 — Art of Lucius
𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑺𝑵'𝑻 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 — Aesthetic, remembrance
verse tags:
𝑭𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑯𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑬𝑹 — Warhammer 30k / Pre-Heresy era
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑹𝑰𝑫𝑬 — Warhammer 40k Heresy era
𝑻𝑾𝑰𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑶𝑫𝑺 — Warhammer 40k Post-Heresy era
❛ My dear creature, yes, I am he, and I am hither come to help you. ❜
& . 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. words from @scindo-iii / / ❛ my dear creature, yes, i am he, and i am hither come to help you. ❜ accepting.
lithe form would hang heavily against the restraints that were so brutally put upon him. cold iron coiled with aggression around wrists. just mere moments ago he had been spitting with venom at his dull captors, mocking their incompetence & demanding to see who their master was that was pulling the strings. / / atmosphere was predatory in its unwelcoming edge--- it wasn't until the grand, grotesque door hissed open & a suffocating scent that could only be described as sickly, though sweet, struck the drukhari with a lethal sensuality. it was something that hit refined senses like a violent, physical blow. marazhai shuddered of dark, involuntary pleasure that slithered down his spine.
tense gaze narrowed, his eyes would darken & dilate, nearly fixing instantly on the scarred, monstrous champion. simply, that arrogance, that sneer died on his lips & was replaced by a wicked grin. rather than reacting with defiance & disgust toward the towering astartes, marazhai deliberately tilted his head up, purposely exposing the pale, vulnerable side of his throat --- allowing a low, mocking purr of a laugh.
" so [ ... ] you are the architect of my confinement? " though the actions of his form denied this, there was a profound terror clawing from within. " how exquisitely insulting. you reek of she who thirsts, mon-keigh [ ... ] it poisons my soul, yet makes my veins burn with delicious toxicity. " the rush surging throughout, how the intense sensory arousal clashed, beginning to gruesomely intertwine with a deeply rooted loathing. " if you have hither come to offer ' help,' then stop wasting my time with tedious words. lay your scarred hands upon me. let me see if the chosen --- the champion, --- can truly break a trueborn of commorragh, or if you will merely bore me. " once those words were finished another wave of nauseating chill hit him; from being in the presence of such, marazhai struggled to fight the sensation of this terror with each passing moment. to experience such desperation was to also bask in its ecstasy. while his arrogance fiercely controlled his tongue, the battle of agonizing desperation & dark euphoria fought violently. ripping mercilessly at him.
There is a deviance within this eldar. Tainted as he is, it stands to defy the instinct of his kin. Lucius has heard much of their bravado before, the loathing they harbour for all other races and even each other. It makes for a sliver of entertainment at times, and at others it only sparks a fiendish craving in him that cannot be satisfied. Their promises are, after all, void.
Alas, this one has survived their assault and it has been suggested that he might be of use. A Dracon, he is told. A rare delicacy. It certainly explains the way his hostage spits and hisses despite the very real fear that rolls from him.
Lucius relishes the scent of them, shrouded in their curse. Simply standing before the splayed and shackled Commorrite is a hit to his nervous system, and Lucius gives a little shiver as if the brazen speech itself has moved him. His tongue writhes over his lips with anticipation, eyes leering in the manner of an apex predator on its hunt. The Eternal is an indulgent violation of such keen senses; the lure and the carnivore.
"Such gall you have to make these demands..." Lucius purrs. It is a voice of pomp and defilement.
The champion of Slaanesh guides his lash up one of the Dracon's arms, traversing lifeless skin with acidic secretions. The hooks at the end of each tendril continue to dribble into scored flesh until they reach Marazhai's face.
"You can hardly comprehend what it is you want, let alone what you ask."
" O' Champion —— Have thee returned to me so soon? "
In the all-consuming darkness of the room, deity Gywndolin casts a delicate ambient glow, alighting himself a centerpiece within the vacant halls of this covenant. He is no less receptive, regardless of his lonesome appearance, unfearing as long, frail arms reach up to gather { @scindo-iii } at the handsome contours of his face.
Wet redness sullies his pallid fingers, staining the byzantine lace hemming his sleeve, yet his fair lips widen into a comely simper; one born of approbation for what Lucius has wrought upon the deserving.
" Thou art fresh with death, still. Are thee not worn? "
It has been an especially quick job, for Lucius' appetite grows fierce as of late. His breath catches in his throat as he recalls the drawn-out kill, the gargling screams, the begging right at the very end.
A cocky sod all too happy to die on his silly little hill right until death truly came for him. And now, dressed in gouts of his prey's blood, Lucius is brought close. Held by the dark star, bathed in the corona of his approval. Lucius sinks to one knee, choosing instead to gaze up towards him as he does the night sky.
His tongue slides, extended and languid, over the smear of darkening sanguine that coats his lips.
"Nay."
Lucius rasps, still in the clutches of his high. He does not concern himself with his own wounds, torn and weeping. A few lucky strikes before he had the upper hand. Though the gentle touch of Gwyndolin's hands and voice put him at a focused ease, his passionate mood resists all sense. His body burns with exertion and it is now well apparent.
＃ＤＲＡＫＨＲＩ , very private, selective & low activity roleplay blog for 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚉𝙷𝙰𝙸 𝙰𝙴𝚉𝚈𝚁𝚁𝙰𝙴𝚂𝙷 from 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙼𝙴𝚁 𝟺𝙾,𝟶𝟶𝟶 : 𝚁𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁. minors do not follow me, you will be blocked. 21+ ONLY. i will not follow anyone that doesn't have their age somewhere visible on their blog OR if you're under 21. i am very crossover & original character friendly. I RARELY FOLLOW FIRST!!
Lucius' relationship with death is a complex thing.
He is no stranger to it, having experienced the annihilation of self countless times. In fact, this is something he craves and continues to find gratification in.
Simultaneously, Slaanesh's influence now denies him the opportunity to overcome the prowess that defeated him in the first place. On occasion, it is entirely by accident that he meets with another end. In either case, he is unable to fulfill his endless quest to surmount martial challenge. It prevents him from attaining perfection with the blade in any absolute form.
And despite the pleasure he finds in death, he spirals from the humiliation this deals as his ego scrambles to reconcile with his perversion.
He is stuck between addictions to both life and death, fearing too little of the former and too much of the latter. He wants to break the cycle and overcome what he realises is the greatest challenge of all -- himself.
"Turns out the gods we thought were dying were just sharpening their blades..."
Finally drew him in armour. Inspired by Even in Arcadia by Sleep Token.
The garden lies still and dark around them. You should never guess that you tread upon the ruins of a shameful mark, the pitiful history of humankind turning over in its own womb to be digested by time. Miriam has never seen it, the ruins of Oolacile same as its prime. The whole of it lived and died without her taking note. What she sees now, is a flourishing green hell, sweetly unfurling its vines and petals, burying bones.
Miriam walks among the moss, glowing in her white robes as the flowers that surround her. On occasion, the miracle merchant tilts her lowered head, her humbly lowered gaze, and indicates her looming companion. Pale eyes regard the knight, shuttered and walled shut, barely more than two chips of lapis lazuli buried in the snow. Her thoughts move slowly, along their common morbid grooves: "This seems a fine resting place, don't you think? Lovingly tended. One should feel honored to die here."
Lucius has never given much thought to his own death. Mainly because he has no intentions of dying. About him the leaves whisper, conspiratorial, as though nature's reclamation has brought a conscious presence to the fore and it now watches them, ascertaining if it shall claim man or woman to sustain itself. He believes with certainty that it will not, and he is entirely at ease as they walk.
"If in death we are made equal, should honour be found in it anywhere?" He asks her this curiously, eyes slung down towards her. "Further... It is surely meaningless to a corpse."
There is familiar silence between them as Lucius allows his words to corrode the atmosphere. He is a carnivore drinking in new territory, ready to draw blood and piss in the soil when he is comfortable enough.
"But there is honour in treading this path here and now, in persisting so that it has known me."
The more I explore neurosis the more I become aware that it is a modern form of romanticism. It stems from the same source, a hunger for perfection, an obsession with living out what one has imagined, and if it is found to be illusory, a rejection of reality, the power to imagine and not to sustain one's endurance, and then the creative force turned into destruction. Many of the romantics destroyed themselves because they could not attain the absolute, in love or creation. They could not attain it because it was invented. It was a myth. The neurotic acts in the same way. He sets himself impossible goals, imaginary goals. He will win the respect and admiration of a parent who is not even alive any more (appealing to his substitutes). He will gain the love of the world by giving the world something it may not want. He will seek union with opposites, perverse contrary relationships with those who turn away. He will seek to conquer the unconquerable.
A zealously devoted servant of Dark Sun Gwyndolin, Lucius' reputation sets him apart from other Darkmoon Knights.
He is an overtly sadistic killer. It is not enough to merely extinguish the lives marked in ink, for he weaponises his every twisted need to excruciate and defile. Even in a fair fight, his strikes are designed to dominate and unnerve his opponent.
Lucius' sins are many, and he is rightly scorned by those seemingly pure of heart, or -- as he muses -- possessed of a naïve outlook unsuited to this world. He is well-known to pardoners, to the bite of floggers. But punishment does not have the desired effect on a pathological hunger for violence and bodily sensation, and so it was decided this would instead be put to use. Perhaps Lucius may be redeemed through his service, perhaps not, but he carries out his deeds with pride and dares himself into the darkest places.
In so doing, he throws fuel to the fire that keeps the world alive and burning in equal measure both for his own sake and others. If there is anything commendable that Lucius wishes for, it is to inspire excellency and autonomy on the bloody path he treads. The rest is his pleasure.
𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙
Lucius was left at an orphanage in Carim by unknown parents. It is rumoured they sensed a wrongness within him and sought to part with it kindly. This made him an outsider of uncertain heritage, but he is generally considered to be the last of a noble bloodline from somewhere further east.
Growing up, Lucius was subject to relentless abuse from his peers which was perpetuated as an emotionally stunted teenager. He was also taunted for his appearance; the look of egoistic aristocracy which he would come to inhabit.
Lucius developed a rush for biting back, for playfights with broken bones, feeling his soul become fierce with defiance against bleak environs. He watched death through windows, heard depravity through walls, and it was wretched. Yet he vowed to claim some of that wretchedness for himself, for he knew that it belonged to him and he to it.
For there to be life, it must be at once hideous and sublime.
This notion has remained steady within him, compelling him against the coming Age of Dark.
Lucius would eventually be flung out into the streets, and he would drag himself into the most festering corners. After time spent amongst mercenary bands, he ultimately acquired some of the influence he so desired. Lucius built a reputation, sowing fear and envy, displaying incredible skill with every sword he swung.
A piece of Carim became his, transformed into a naked reflection of what Lucius knew to be ever-squirming under the thin veil of polite society, and he pushed for it to be worn away to nothing for the sake of exposing its dregs. He and his warband contended with them on their own authority, stirring up bloodthirst amongst gentler townsfolk.
Again and again, he knelt for the pardoners and confessed all until it was no longer a request for guidance but a helpless masturbation. The order watched him warily, as his methods were most cruel and his mind unsound. But his kills remained criminals and warmongers, those who chose to exist in dangerous circles, and thus could not be wholly condemned.
One day, he was approached by a prelate who came with a proposal. He was to seek penance within the Blade of the Dark Moon, and bring horror upon the enemies of the gods.
𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙥𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 & 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮
𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙧 – Lucius wears a set of baroque armour that is detailed with the faces of howling gargoyles. The colour of burnt pink roses highlights portions of its fine craftsmanship amidst dominant black. It sports dozens of spikes, and is built for mobility. He chooses not to wear a helmet as he craves recognition for his deeds.
𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣 – A wicked longsword known only as its number. The pommel and crossguard flare with painful edges, potentially threatening the grip of the wielder as well as its prey.
𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙚 𝙚𝙮𝙚 𝙤𝙧𝙗 – A small blue orb bearing a watchful eye. It trembles in the premise of those who sin.
𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 – Lucius is granted an allowance, and carries with him a specific list of names at any given time. These names belong to his marks.
❝ must i? i only have a little mouth... do you fear it so? ❞
provoking his ego is a paltry, pathetic victory, but the princess savours it all the same. she clasps her hands and blinks up in guileless apology.
her tongue was nothing compared to his own (that awful muscle that stood taller than she did ⸻ she always wondered whether it balled up in his gullet like a snake)... yet, if they compared the deaths carved into their teeth, hers would be the grander tally. he was right to keep it quiet. to mind the barbs. a well-struck slight could undo the strength of even astartes, and slaaneshi were quicker to expose their bellies than their cousins.
❝ thank you, lucius... such a chivalrous host. i am glad. ❞
there was no telling how much longer his prowess would persist before another stole her away, traded betwixt warbands like they would armour and glory. a prisoner's hatred grew impotent quickly, and monotonous soon after... would she have to contend with it for weeks more? months? years? if this torture must be endured, she decided, i must loosen my restraints when i can.
he seemed willing to participate in her games. a good sign. the beginnings of weakness. perhaps he bored of adding yet another soprano to his grand theatre. for now, his pride came foremost; she weighs all her attention upon him, more focused upon every glance and utterance than most worshippers would afford a priest.
❝ mélas zomós. it is a black broth once enjoyed by men of an ancient warrior-city. pig legs, pig blood, vinegar, salt... a few bay leaves, too, if some can found.
as you are my junior, you may have the meat from my bowl. the young should be nourished. ❞
Between them the fire crackles and licks gently, seeming also to be anxiously anticipating Lucius' reaction as much as the emaciated servant. The Eternal does not respond at first, regarding Mehns with his cheek propped upon his knuckles, but then... then comes the corrosive mirth.
He looks from her to his serf, and back again. His laughter bubbles over until he is shaking in his seat, and the noise bounces all around them. The souls marbled over his armour wail and grow more distorted by their heightened suffering. Mouths, pinching and gaping, expel anguish that rattles throughout Lucius' head and beyond on psychic waves.
"Ah..." He sinks back finally after a minute of this, revitalised by his own amusement and the suffering it leeched for him. "By virtue of your riveting charm, I feel no desire to decline. I am -- as you say -- chivalrous."
Daggers stare into the trembling serf, who is quick of wit enough to nod vigorous agreement. He has shifted closer to the princess, having apparently sought refuge from Lucius' outburst behind her chair, but dares not break his master's line of sight.
"And it would just so happen that flavour is an avenue of experience I seldom have the time for. What a gift you have turned out to be."
Another series of enthusiastic nods from the serf. Despite his proximity, his fear extends to the ancient woman in Lucius' company. It is as much an honour as it inspires a level of dread few souls will ever know.
gawain perhaps had the advantage out of the two of them, having not been in the dungeons as long as lucius had. whatever had occurred before his arrival was certain to be the things of terror, capable of whittling if not outright shearing one's sanity clean cut. this was an atmosphere of familiarity to the hunter, & yet he knew that it would only be a matter of time before fear sunk its merciless claws deep within his mind as well. he knew enough about the dungeon to understand it had greater secrets lurking in its depths than a simple lack of human decency. the very ground it had been erected upon was wicked.
but for now, the hunter had his wits about him. he did not jump at the shadows, cast upon grimy stone walls from flickering torchlight. he did not falter as he led the way from one room to the next, and further still as they came upon stairs leading ever downwards. where lucius saw figures lurking in the darkness ahead of them, gawain saw only their path into the unknown. in a way, both of their accounts were true; there was nothing there, and yet there was always danger awaiting them.
lucius spoke, encroaching upon gawain's space, as they traversed. the hunter had a vague inkling that the giant man was speaking just to hear himself talk - as a way to keep his mind from drifting. it certainly seemed like those words were more of a declaration, or an oath, to himself rather than advice meant solely for the stranger he had just met. gawain was not a chatty man at the best of times, so he would have preferred to have left lucius to his own devices and carry on chatting one-sided; but as they came out the other end of the staircase he tried to cobble something together.
"it makes little difference what sort of man you were before," a small sepulcher of sorts. some of the graves looked fresh... there was even one left dug, yet lay barren. "so long as you do not turn tail or turn your blade against me. . . should you fall in battle, it would be with your pride intact." gawain turned partially on the last step, turning the tinted stare of his mask's goggles towards lucius. "and should i fall, it would be with whip in hand - fighting to my last breath - as is the fate of all clairmonts." to hunt and be hunted; to kill and be killed. that was the choice members of his house had made, many centuries ago. for to persist and become that which they abhorred was a fate worse than death.
this exchange, here and now in front of the tombstones of the fallen, could have been seen as a promise: that the two of them, hunter and killer, would not take the cowards path. they would persevere or they would perish but neither would lie down and accept a hollow life.
stepping further into the room, the cobalt lamp hooked to gawain's belt glowed an eerie blue. he cast it a quick glance before hunkering down into a cautious, battle ready poise. his hand rested on the wrapped handle of his whip.
Such bold words draw an approving chuckle from Lucius as they make their way through the tomb. The earthy smell is thick in his nostrils, a pleasant reminder of the world beyond -- and another of the indifferent natural order.
He is withdrawn from his thoughts by the illumination of the lamp, and he receives an answer before the question can even escape him. A useful tool for certain. The only issue is to determine from what direction the presence comes, but that is a problem soon nullified by the noxious, chesty breathing he hears next.
It is accompanied by stomping, dragging, footsteps that are much quicker than they have any right to be.
In the inky black, something repulsively real takes form. The bulk of it is immediately apparent. The guard, presumably once human, stares in their direction from the slots in its helmet. It looms before the graves as a swollen mass of sweat-sheened muscle, armed with a morning star, a sword, and its grossly distended manhood. It reeks of blood and cruelty, a notion that stirs Lucius' own appetite.
"Company indeed."
But the pariah braces himself. He is comfortable with a tangible threat, but he does not yet know what the thing is capable of. All he knows is that he must be faster.
Lucius licks his teeth and turns the scavenged blade in his hand expertly. The sound of it cutting the air grounds him, and is as much a display of warning to the deformity, but he is soon forced to pivot aside as it charges. He brings the sword around in a broad arc as he does, in effort to slice it across its abdomen as he evades.
she was beautiful tonight. before @scindo-iii sat fulgrim writ small, resplendent in pearl fetters. the first course of their leisure had been scourged from her an hour past : dried blood that made the air heady, uterine-rich, as if the only thing that prevented him from bursting with flowers and tumours and vigour was how deep he dared breathe.
❝ you remain armoured... am i not worth your manners? ❞
She was enthralling, he could acknowledge that. Her body swathed in finery so like the tastes of his father's; it made Lucius debate if this was to be received as a mockery, or Mehns' resigned attempt at fitting in. Whatever that passed as in such a place.
Like many of the Third's ships, his strike cruiser was host to a spectrum of eccentricity. There were those who fused precious stones to themselves, flayed and pinned their flesh open for all to see, and then there were the ones that held fast to their heritage. The ones who still bore resemblance to their father, catching his eye more often than he would have liked to admit.
For a long, unusually quiet moment, he said nothing. He stared and felt, appreciated that it made him feel anything at all despite its precise nature eluding him. Lucius almost thanked her, then bit his teeth together.
"It is a long process, and my... resident souls will bleed into the room around us." Lucius gestured broadly. "If it would please you to be haunted with me, then by all means accompany me to the arming chamber."
