Jun 1
🏳️🌈 Happy pride month whumpblr! 🏳️🌈
It's funny to me how, completely unplanned, my two sons turned out to be at the very extreme ends of some queer spectrum...
Where would your whumpee be on the graph?
seen from Indonesia
seen from Australia
seen from Taiwan
seen from Malaysia
seen from Taiwan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Norway
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
🏳️🌈 Happy pride month whumpblr! 🏳️🌈
It's funny to me how, completely unplanned, my two sons turned out to be at the very extreme ends of some queer spectrum...
Where would your whumpee be on the graph?
Codename K | Side Story
🪖 Anthem
I've been sitting on this one waiting to decide what else to put in for way too long. It's very short, but in the end I think it works on its own. Have some Khore fighting the inevitable! :3c
<< Previous
Masterpost (with drawings!)
CW: military whump, human trafficking, referenced child soldier training, implied crazy militaristic society, burn wounds
---
The night sky was clear. High and bright, the crescent moon cast just enough light to make out shapes on the rocky desert terrain. There wasn't much to make out.
Khore marched hastily, rough sand scraping at the soles of his feet. His skin was turning chilly from the rapid drop in temperature, where the under-armor did not protect it. Cold prickled the skin of his face, seeped into his arms, fingers and toes. In contrast, his breath felt very warm, escaping from his mouth in hushed huffs.
He knew he was sick. He knew he was getting sicker. But he needed to get away, to retrace the caravan's steps to the battlefield. The imperative swirled in his head, as absolute and inescapable as the order of a superior officer. Khore did not question orders.
Orienteering was one of his best skills. Day or night, he had a sharp sense of direction and could pick up environmental clues with ease. Teachers called him a natural. The stars had never failed him before, but today he could not put them into focus, bleary eyes stinging as he fruitlessly tried to decipher unsteady smears of light swimming with his wavering vision. He didn't know if he was stumbling in the right direction. He didn't even know if he'd managed to go straight. But he could not stop. He had to report back.
His right foot hit buried rock, and with a pained grunt he fell flat into the sand, failing to catch himself. As pain flared, his throat constricted. He forced down the rising urge to cry in frustration. A warrior doesn't cry.
Khore hadn't cried in years, save for the occasional stray tear where there was no one around to see, that he'd still quickly wipe off in shame. His ancestors saw all. His father, gone before his time, who'd entrusted the lineage to him. He would not be weak, he would not bring them dishonor.
Instead, he pulled himself up on shaky arms, pushing through the burning of his scorched skin. Picked the lousy weapon off the ground. He didn't manage a single step before his legs gave out.
He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, still fighting the treacherous choke in his throat. The metal collar didn't help, heavy and feeling more constricting the more he lingered on the sensation. He was cold, the thin layer of khirt no longer enough to keep warmth trapped in his body. He was nauseous, exhausted. But a warrior does not yield.
As many times before, through many grueling drills and long self imposed extra hours of training, his mind reached to grasp onto the familiar chant of Homeland's anthem. Every child's first lullaby, the one constant through the changes and hardships of life, the most loyal companion in war. A pure core of shared passion and unwavering will that connected them all, together or apart. It was, always had been Khore's lifeline.
Children of Homeland there's a call in the air A call to arms, a call to bring pride to our ancestors inspiration to our young to carve our name in history once more
Its sharp words gave him strenght, the harsh and bold sounds of Vekto creating an easy, mesmerizing war rhythm. Haunting, unstoppable. It was made to thrum and pound along with a warrior's steps, with every steady breath. To synchronize thoughts and hearts to the same tune.
Children of Homeland hear the drum of the death march The White Queen smiles, with open arms There is no fear There is no pain Only passion through our veins
Khore let the rhythm calm his mind, take over frustration and anxiety, fill him with purpose. He could do this. He would not die in disgrace in the middle of nowhere.
Eyes forward for the dead have found glory
Through gritted teeth, throat dry and body sore, he pushed himself back to his feet again.
Eyes forward for this is our time
He took one shaky step, trying to orient himself. The faint stars swirled and blinked in and out of sight, useless. Everything hurt.
Eyes forward through blood and through ash
No matter. He would just pick a direction and walk until he got somewhere.
Eyes forward A warrior marches on
So he marched on.
---
He did not know how long it had been. For a while now his breath had been stuttering, his gait unsteady. He could barely feel his body, past the tremors and sharp aches. The chant in his mind was the one thing keeping him going, a few stray words sometimes slipping past his lips as he droned on. It was also the one thing pulling all his focus. That might be why he noticed way too late.
He only clocked the dampened sound of hooves as he noticed movement coming from his right, dark shapes wobbling in his direction at high speed. Camel riders, armed. The sellswords of the big convoy had found him.
How many? He feverishly tried to parse the figures merging and separating in their chase, dark shapes lined in moonlight. Five, six… eight? A dozen, even?
Cold gripped his skin again, heartbeat picking up.
Khore could take a dozen cavalry opponents alone. He'd done it before. Just months prior, fourteen fell by his sword, and so most of their mounts, as he tore through enemy lines at the head of his unit. But like this? Wounded and worn out, with no one to cover his back?
He grit his teeth and fell into a defensive stance, pushing through pain and tightening the grip on the shortsword. The terrible stolen shortsword, its condition as bad as his own, the metal as weak as the injured hand holding its hilt.
What else could he do. There was no means of retreat.
Was this to be his dance into the White Queen's arms?
Still, his gaze shone bright and fierce, daring the approaching figures to meet it and not recoil in fear. They spread in a semicircle as they rushed closer, ready to cut any foolish attempt at escaping.
Eyes forward for the dead have found glory
Khore had no intention of escaping. An ember of pride reignited in his chest, indignation at the thought they'd expect him to turn and run like frazzled prey. Of course, that's what they would do, thin-blooded cowards they were.
Eyes forward for this is our time
The closest one was less than twenty feet away. Khore braced and bent his legs, ready to dart, evade, slice the weapon through-
A sharp sting hit his arm. The enemy swerved, keeping their distance. Confused, Khore turned to see a dart sticking out of the exposed muscle. Everything blurred, as he dazedly blinked.
That's illegal to use on people, he thought, affronted.
His sword clanged against the ground. He stared dumbfounded. A touch ashamed. He hadn't dropped a weapon like that since he was but a child.
Then he was the one dropping.
---
Want more? Here's the Masterpost!
taglist: @floral-comet-whump, @cepheusgalaxy, @inhurtandincomfort, @palinoiahart, @scoundrelwithboba
Game Time!
I'm burned out by study + work and need a pick me up, so I propose a game!
How do Kev (and/or Khore) come across? Describe in THREE ADJECTIVES in comments or rb!
Calling onto my moots @floral-comet-whump @inhurtandincomfort @cepheusgalaxy @palinoiahart
Khore sketches... trying to figure out his damn hair...
Have some of the boy being cute
Welcome 2026 🥂
To a new year of writing whump!
Enjoy a scribble of the boys
What is your favourite and least favourite thing about Kev and Khore as characters?
It took me so long to answer this because I DON'T KNOW.
Kev is a collection of my favorite whump things, I love so many things about him! If I have to pick one... maybe his pragmatic but sarcastic internal voice? I have so much fun, especially when he's all flippant and lowkey funny about horrific or tragic stuff.
My least favorite is how difficult it is to bring out what's hurting him, cause his go to is being avoidant and dismiss/minimize and he's so good at it, most people don't even notice.
But I also love that about him, he's so damaged... it can be frustrating to roleplay though, without being the author and planning things so certain characters could notice/intuit at the right moment.
Khore... I love the concept of golden child burnout. So much. I like an underdog story as much as anyone, but there is always something deeply tragic to me in how the titular scrappy nobody comes and beats the established cocky prodigy, whose whole life was built on being the best. Annoying as shows usually make them, I can't help but feel for them. Khore is an exploration of that other side, the prodigy who by all means should not fail, and still did.
I don't love him being a xenophobic brainwashed dummy, but poor kid was raised on that, can't really fault him for it...
Khore should have a moodboard too!
Shouldn't he? :3
Story masterpost here!
Behold! Khore ref sheet!
New and Improved! ✨
Khore is a child prodigy from a strongly militaristic (read: batshit crazy) country. After chocking under pressure in the midst of his Big Chance on the field, he was left for dead and ended up a prisoner in enemy lands.
Basically the living incarnation of golden child burnout 💚
You can find his story + drawings here!