Might be suggestive, anypov, my word bearer oc but hes sexually repressed loser, Post heresy
Madness. Sweetest and most cruel. How your sudden appearance became hell in a handbasket for Seket. At first, he scorned your name and cursed upon those who fell blind to your "virtues". Puppets, he claimed. strung along by your charm.
You huanted him for weeks. Your flowery soaps mixed with the smell of parchment and ink. You, lowly scribe were the bane of one of the Emperor's finest. A proud son of the fourteenth Primarch.
Seket scarcely comprehended why. He is a Lieutenant, an Adeptus Astarte beyond the frivolites of cursing mortals and swallowing back acidic saliva that pooled on his tongue, burning with a tingling sensation familiar to him with each sighting in that tempting-- Infernal. Infernal robe which swaddled your waist and hung from your hips like curtains of the finest silk.
Seket corrected each slip up, scrambling to hold up a poor foundation built atop pillars of salt.
Seket fought demons he'd never faced. Imps and succubi of Slaanesh would have given him less trouble than you did. How he would lie awake at night in his rickety cot, chest heaving with droplets of a chemically scented sweat from his transhuman nature. Seket dared not to think the implications of his restlessness and only did what he could to stave off this insanity. He barely copes as his fingers card through long, mahogany colored locks, his palm grazes the symmetrical patterned scarification on his left cheekbone — a testament to his faith. — where others would ink their bronze flesh with tattoos of gold, Seket would carve and bleed as he recited inscriptions of holy text onto his body. His worship was the purest, and yet here you kneel at the cathedral after him, her bow your head and revere the great statue of gold, shaped into the likeness of He-on-Terra; the master of Mankind.
Sweetly you murmur your prayer, he can hear what you wish for and scoffs as he walks away, keeping a close eye. Seket couldn't bring himself to trust you, or perhaps he couldn't trust himself with you. The prospect makes his expression sour, he utters a curse upon your name, helplessly rejecting truths he dared not to acknowledge.
Imp, wretch, fiend.
He battles with forces he ought to turn away from. Abstain and recenter his focus to his true purpose; enlighten those blind to truths yet unveiled. His mace beats down those unwilling to see and the same bloody hand guides those who share his awe in the one true god. And even still Seket feels his devotion falter as he kneels before the visage of his god and prays for strength, to fortify his being and guide him to the propose intended for him.
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Part one of ??
Lmk if you like him, I got blasted with an idea and I wanted to get it out
Feel free to ask for requests or anything if you do like Seket, I need to play around with my ocs more
(Post-Heresy moment when the 13th company and Surtr have just begun to establish themselves in their new home system)
"Praetor Muspelson, does something trouble you?"
Surtr turned his gaze back towards the young blood Astartes, still bearing the seal of the Dekk-tra upon his vest despite the exile. The bear of a man exhaled slowly, slumping back some more into his seat as a hand reached up to massage the bridge of his nose.
"What is your name son?" the low rumbling voice emitting from the thick woven crimson beard. The Aspirant scarcely saw the man's lips move but he quickly caught himself.
"Erik Skjöldarm my Lord."
"Hmmm,, Skjöldarm, we are no longer Sons of Fenris or Terra, exiled from our King's realm. Yet you bear the markings of the 13th, and call me by my rank which I no longer hold. We are not the Dekk-tra, not anymore." Surtr spoke curtly, his gaze hidden by the hand still rubbing the nose.
"But my Lor-"
The one languid motions of Surtr shifted as his fist slams down on the arm of his seat, the wooden frame cracking from the impact, the resounding noise echoing briefly through the hall. Erik flinched slightly, his words stuck in his throat witnessing the brief outburst from this legend of a man.
"I am no-," those flaming amber eyes bored holes into Erik's skull, feeling the immense presence bear down onto the aspirant's shoulder for a heartbeat then yielding, "I am no longer a Lord, I am not the Dekk-tra's Jarl, nor a Praetor of High-King Russ' Legion. I command only till I feel a successor is found to properly lead our people into this new era we now live in."
The silence feels numbing for Erik, seeing this monument of a being who all neophytes and non-Astartes look up to for not only guidance, but so too hope, now being humbled and (guidelss? hopeless?). Surtr had taken this time to stand, the thick fur cloak rustling while the man strode to look out into the valley beyond the walls of this keep. The faint shimmer of dawn hidden behind thick rain clouds and woodland, the pattering of rain and distant rumble of thunder seem almost silent in comparison to the deafening silence in the hall.
Erik had been a youth born during "The Great Voyage", the decades of travel the entire 13th Great Company had taken leaving the confines of the growing Imperium and out into the void. His parents had been bridge-crew and had front row seats to the full display of Surtr's commanding presence and drive to ensure his people's safety and growth during the long journey, and regale tales to the young boy of Surtr's exploits and rise to power during the Crusade.
The Liberation of Lorik's World, the Scouring of Vhallach, The Council of Nikaea and most notably; The Dulan Campaign. The Saga of the Dulan Campaign is one strongly recalled by the Elders and is what cemented Surtr into becoming the Jarl of the Dekk-tra, being recognized by the High-King himself for Surtr's actions. Was that Surtr,, the same one now that stood before Erik?
",, Muspelson, do you hate High-King Russ?"
Surtr snapped his head round to stare in surprise at the sharp question.
"Never! Why would I ever harbor such feelings for Him?"
"But he is the one who delivered the Exile onto you and our families, did he not? He is the one who now made us leaderless and now forsaken to these lands." Erik continued, holding his stance as Surtr stepped towards him.
"That is not how the trial went young-blood, the High-King was ready to sentence us to a harsher punishment but gave me the chance to decide the fate and-"
"And you chose that we were exiled. That we could continue existing. That we would Live! You. Our Leader. Our Jarl. Our Light."
Surtr blinked as Erik snapped back, the young man jabbing a pointed finger into his broad chest with each emphasis.
"Muspelson, you guided us through the Sea of Stars for decades, you and your peers kept us safe and ensured our growth. You found these new worlds, and reunited us with the lost colonists from Terra. Your People. These make you our Leader, does it not?"
Surtr remains silent, looking down into those amber eyes, which seem both fiery yet soft,, the words emitted feeling true and right.
"Your actions and words bear weight Muspelson, and they have given hope and strength to all of us. Those who have served with you since you were a Huscarl, to the new blood who now look to you for guidance and training. All, respect you and trust you. I, respect and trust you."
Surtr squints slightly, searching into this youth's eyes and his words. Something feels amiss now,,
"Who are you, truly? I suspect you are no Youngblood of my people now,," Surtr spoke slowly, pacing around the being infront of him at arm's length. He and his people had encountered the twisted relatives of the Aeldari and their twisted alchemy, dark beasts that skulk in shadows that drank memories, the Greenskins too but they couldn't make such deceptions.
"Erik was a good man, who shared your lineage from Jørd. He was a warrior, a sailor, a brother, a father. When Jørd still held great oceans, winding rivers, mist veiled forests,," the 'Erik' person responded, their voice shifting different dialects and tones, male, female, something in between.
"We slept, for so, so,, so long, we almost forgot what the voices of Our Children sounded like. The bustling towns and cities, the songs of life and war, when they cursed at us,, and when they prayed and offered tribute. Like sacrificing a goat, mjöd, and rye seeds before leaving your homeland."
Surtr flinches at the last comment, glaring with confusion and rage. He draws out his seax from its worn sheath, the old battered iron blade pale in the shadow of his fur cloak. "Who, no,, what are you?"
'Erik' smiled thinly before their form slowly flaked apart like ash from a burnt timber, the dust flickering into star dust while forming into a tall swirling pillar. Surtr felt he should strike, but he felt no malice,, and something in his old soul told him to stay his hand. This pillar of star dust and lights began to form into a new shape, one that stood taller than the ancient terran, this being was starting to take the shape of a woman in tawny linen robes.
"It is difficult for us to deceive and hide our form from our Children. I hope you will forgive me from this slight of hand. Me and my kin have been following you and your people for quite some time. I have held many names over the eons,, but your ancestors called me,"
Surtr lowered his blade, hanging practically limp in his fingers as he gazed upon this being, a nimbus of amber gold glow surrounding the woman as she finally opened her eyes, revealing pure starlight. He knew that this being was no simple shapeshifter, no trick of his worn out mind, this being was something more,, something that he hasn't experienced in an age since last gazing upon the Emperor on Terra.
