Sergeant Vorain
(from the book Ragnar Blackmane by Aaron Dembski-Bowden)
"A fine weapon. Its blood-marked blade shone in the hazy light drifting in through the stained-glass windows. Once they had shown a scene of the primarch Sanguinius in all his glory before the Eternity Gate. Now the scene was half lost to darkness, choked by jungle creeper vines growing against the fortress’ walls, blackening and strangling the primarch’s armour.
The axe weighed next to nothing in the Flesh Tearer’s hand but its presence was soothing all the same. An echo of a time when survival was the only question, and triumph the only answer.
Around him, the tribesmen were slowing in their efforts away from the towering warrior. They faced the demigod in their midst with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth, clutching their weapons tighter.
The Flesh Tearer cast off his robe with a shrug of his huge shoulders. The tribesmen shrank back further, raising their own brutish blades.
There were thirty-one of them in total. It took Vorain fifty seconds to kill them all.
When his bloody work was done, he stood in the middle of the chamber, listening to the lifeblood of the unworthy aspirants sluicing through the gates in the floor. The slashing hiss of running blood soothed his irritated headache somewhat. None of them had managed to even block one blow. No matter how hardy Cretacia bred its hunter-sons, only one in a thousand was worthy of wearing the Chapter’s red and black.
Vorain cast the stolen axe to the life soaked stone floor in disgust.
‘Another unworthy harvest after all,’ the Chaplain agreed." (с)
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The sound of the Dear Knight’s voice rang out after he knocked, he was wary as he let himself into the abode and took in the mages home. Eyes drifting to the sound of the kettle put on for tea, some smiles and small talk exchanged as they settled in for chess.
“Would you like to go first?”
Terran offered, Vorain took a cheesecloth of black tea and set it to steep in his cup. He didn’t think much on his answer before replying. “Oh no, I’d rather go second.” A light smile offered in return as the mage made his first move and noted how the mans opening moves always used the knight. It was a versatile and useful piece. He didn’t blame anyone for such, instead choosing to start by thrusting his pawns forward.
He was careful not to truly sip the tea offered, he was wary especially at the guardsmans home and he noted the cinderbloom oil scones offered. He refused for the time being, blue eyes now turning to the board and he put up a defense. One he knew that would force him to trade eventually, but for now he kept it as a message so as to not strike first.
Then as the even, slow pace started in their first few rounds talk drifted from talk of Kiersa and his shop. He noted the questions posed about who he knew, who he’d been talking with and he threw two names out. Though he kept the rest of his current acquaintances a secret, especially the noble assisting him. He enjoyed watching Terran’s reactions as they played, the annoyance with purposeful moves, the amusement in some of the words he uttered and then he brought it up. Not so subtle but, it would get his point across.
“Our conversation from a time ago...” he moved a poece forward after some thought, rubbing his bearded chin.
“Could one use such captured essences for say...Tracking? I have a rabbit that likes to run off...Would be easier to just have something to keep an eye on him in case he rushes off again.”
He didn’t expect the man to reveal much facially, he was an intelligent opponent and to do such would give Vorain to much information. They went back and forth on the subject...He noted Abighail would be to busy to help regardless, Amelia was new and dropped the other name mentioned.
The pace of the game got slower as Vorain made moves to force trades if Terran’s pieces moved in and the man did likewise. The tension was was steady, rising and falling at points in the game with idle talk. The game dragged onward, the talk ceasing as they got to the bitter and painful end. The remaining knight sitting in the back as others made moves forwards to take the king.
“Congratulations...” he smiled as the game at last came to an end and they shook hands. Terran moving inward at last to secure his win. He knew from the words exchanged and the way of the game...He would need to continue to make cautious moves to secure his assets. Nothing to sudden, adapting to what ever came next...
((TWs: Mention of Death, dying, violence, et cetera.))
Whispers.
Empty platitudes and hollow taunts danced about the edges of Damian’s mind, coming from something other than his own demons. No, this was unlike anything he’d ever done. The fever that had briefly cleared from his body had returned with renewed strength, and he spent the last several days locked and barricaded in his apartment, hiding from the world. In truth, he’d felt the weakness leave him after only a few days, but now he lay, tormented, by his own mind. By the deal he himself had made.
“Rejoice…” the murmur had said. “Rejoice… Damian Aldridge.” He heard it, still echoing, a week later. And it sickened him, now, somewhat, to still hear the same voice bubbling from within the darkest parts of his mind, which had only grown darker since he had taken that monster’s hand.
These days, he slipped in and out of sleep, his mind assailed by nightmares and vivid dreams of his past, blended together inseparably. He saw vast oceans of nothingness, the blight-stricken corpse of his love, and the face Cameron had made when he’d learned of the deal he’d taken… and countless other things.
The argument that had befallen the two still gnawed at him. The guilt, the shame, the hatred. How Cameron had just… disappeared. Damian had not seen him since. In truth, he did not want to. For him, the wounds were still too fresh. The lies still stung like the crack of a whip across his back.
He stared up at the candle-lit ceiling, feeling tired beyond belief—which perplexed him—as he’d spent the last several days doing little else but sleeping. Being awake was almost as agonizing as being asleep. He reached over to the wooden cup that rested on his nightstand, drinking what was left of the water inside it. He turned over in his bed, remembering briefly the nights he could drape his arm around Cam, and feeling the bitter sting of his absence once again. He closed his eyes, drifting along and falling into a fitful slumber.
The first thing Damian noticed was that running; secondly, that it was cold. The kind of cold that cut straight through his armor and chilled him to his core. The wind was bitter and blew icy snow and sleet right into his eyes, which stung and brought tears to him. Worse, yet, Damian could hear something chasing him… no, hunting him. Something—deep and primal within him—told him that he was being hunted. It was gaining on him, snarling, slavering, singularly focused on trying to rip him apart. Something in his gut told him that he dare not turn back, or stumble, or even think of what was chasing him, or he’d be dead. The rushing of adrenaline through his body deafened him to everything else.
He ran further and further, for what felt like hours, in the frozen valley, slowly realizing that he was running towards a looming structure he could not make out in the blizzard. His body was on fire, he was dying, slowly, he was sure of it. It was only a matter of time before he slumped over from exhaustion and froze to death, or he was killed by whatever it was that wanted him dead. A flight of stairs led up to a courtyard before some sort of… some sort of gate. He ran up.
The blackened steps slowed his ascent. He knew this place. His heart quickened with a worse fear. This is where Alexander died… would he stumble over his body by treading there, he wondered. Would he be killed here, too? Yet, when he reached the top of the second flight of stairs and saw the spiked gate of Angrathar itself, there was no army—no ruby flames, no sickening cloud of blight—to greet him. It was empty, except Damian, and his hunter. Panic drove him to the mouth of the gate, which he pounded on, to no avail. The thing was gaining on him.
He heaved, trying to open the gate, trying to escape… when he knew that there would be no running away from this one. As the creature grew closer… and Damian gripped the great-hammer on his back and drew it forth. If he was to die here, in the same spot where his first love breathed his last… he would not go quietly, nor without a fight.
“Not without a fight,” he murmured, waiting for the critical moment. As the creature lunged directly towards him, he used what was left of his strength—and spun around, swiping his hammer in a wide arc, eyes shut tightly. But the hammer struck nothing, toppling from his hand and thumping against the snow. He opened his eyes… to see nothing, in the blizzard that raged about him.
And, yet… there was some calm about him. Some peace. The biting wind and stinging ice seemed to slow to crawl, then stopped completely, suspended in midair all about him. A ray of light broke through the thick clouds, before him… and he heard a voice. Not one laced with shadows and deceit… one he had heard, a long… long time ago. Calming, tender. Beloved. It uttered one word, one that reverberated throughout his body.
“Come…”
Damian shrugged the hammer over his shoulder, the last thing he’d need before he set out. The whispers in his head seemed somewhat displeased by this course of action, and warned him that he’d die out there, alone and afraid. They wanted him to stay here, where it was safe… and warm.
“If I die…” he muttered to himself, “So be it. I’m tired of hiding.”
He glanced over the quiet, darkened apartment one last time, making sure he’d done everything. The parchment he’d rolled up in a scroll and tied with a little satin string rested on the pillow on his neatly-made bed, where he’d be sure Cameron would find it.
He took a deep breath to steady himself at the door… and then he pulled up the hood over his face. He knew that this journey would either save him… or it would kill him.
“So be it,” he repeated, under his breath, one last time, stepping out the door and pulling it closed behind him, the idle click of the lock falling into place preceding the metal thuds of Damian’s boots on the wooden hall. He thought of how he had started the letter, a quiet, bitter smile on his lips.
Dear Little Bird...
(@easternkingdomer & @archmage--khadgar mentions, since Cam’s blog got “baleeted” D: )
It was too quiet in Stormwind to be alone with ones thoughts. Despite the business of the city, Acinovath still felt alone, trapped in isolation. Months had passed since he’d taken to his new home with Sybil. A year had passed since he’d stood with others and faced down Vorain. His life was new, and he was loved. Everything was right in his world, and he should be happy, and he was. Mostly.
His meeting with Odum had thrown much of his life into disarray, calling his own identity into question. After the battle with Vorain, Acinovath was invincible. He’d faced the greatest threat of his life and nothing since had compared. He’d survived against the darkness and emerged victorious. It had cost him yes. Him most of all he’d have wagered, but it wasn’t an argument he ever cared to have.
Looking at his prosthetic, his mind drifted to all the times he’d been grateful for its presence. Lizzy had made him a masterpiece. The weight of the arm was different obviously, and he’d needed a harness to help him bear the weight. Small scars told the tale, tears where the leather had rubbed him raw during some of his more vigorous outings. He’d trade them for nothing. His current arm, the one Cinnelley had made for him was lighter. He’d fallen asleep with it on more than once, at the loss of a pillow or two. With its various functions, Acinovath had learned to traverse and fight in entirely new ways. It had made him giddy the first time he realized what he was being presented with.
Acinovath Sunora, the fearless fighter who stood against Vorain Duura and prevailed. Despite everything he’d seen, the horrors he’d faced, he’d do it all over again.
At least that’s what he’d tell you if you asked.
Vorain’s return had torn him asunder. All he’d built himself up to be was a lie. He was not a champion, capable of facing the darkness and prevailing. It had returned, and once more called him to its side, and he had not resisted. How could he? He’d seen what happened when you did. A price was paid for a short time of peace, or at least a small reprieve, and then it returned once more. Nothing you did made a difference. In the end, the lantern would eventually burn low once again, and more fuel would be required to keep its light shining, and the supply was not infinite.
As night returned to the city, Acinovath found a dark secluded corner to hide himself in. Mary had asked him what happened when his chi was out of balance, and he’d told her true. The orbs he kept balanced around his shoulders, drifted, sinking until they hampered his movement, so he removed them, placing them into a specially lined case to preserve and protect the gems. Settling himself on the grass, he closed his eyes, blocking out the sounds of the evening setting in. Slowly, the Mists began to draw around him, though weakly.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, focusing on drawing them to him. A minute. An hour. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that he eventually had enough to make his pilgrimage. With a flash of energy, Acinovath dissipated into mist, blowing away over the city to the Southwest.
In short order, Acinovath became aware of his surroundings. The Temple of the White Tiger. He’d done much of his training here, once he’d selected the celestial he’d wished to dedicate himself to.
Moving stiffly, as if controlled by someone else, he made his way across the courtyard before the temple. He didn’t know what he was anymore. He felt betrayal that his presence here was even allowed. The wind whipped around him, stinging his cheeks and eyes as tears fell. Moving behind one of the walls, he lowered himself into the snow, curling in to try to make himself as small as he felt, and there he simply wept.
Breathe. He couldn’t breathe. How did breathing work again? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything.
He did remember... being terrified.
In a lapse of desperation, Jerimoth had spilled his heart out to Tommy Garwig. He told him everything. About the whispers, who he was, the Cult, the assault on his mind, the bite... and Tommy listened. He was kind, sympathetic. Jerimoth, albeit with much hesitation, accepted the man’s advice to visit a clinic, just to see if they could remove the whispers from his mind.
This had angered the voices beyond belief. They tore into his mind the entire visit, berating him, chastising him. They laughed at his plight, his futility. How could he even think of refusing this gift?
They won in the end. They always did. He had panicked, and left before the Doctor could do anything to help him.
When he stepped out, his mind went numb. Someone new appeared. A man. Aaron. This man was going to help him, Vorain had whispered, somewhere from within the deep corners of his mind. He would help manage the whispers. And Jeri was glad. Happy. At peace.
Then the feeling collapsed in on itself. Tommy and Edgar appeared, determined to separate him from the man who would bring him peace. They quickly devolved into fighting.
Jeri was furious and blissful at the same time. He was joyous that Tommy had come to his rescue, but he also... wasn’t. He wanted nothing more than to flee with Aaron into the woods, but he also wanted to vaporize him into a pile of dust. He wanted to stay. He wanted to leave.
He was split down the middle. When he was with Vorain, Jerimoth couldn’t think of anything except delving deeper into the Void. And when he wasn’t, he wanted to steer clear. But who was right? Which side was he supposed to pick?
“Jerry, ask yerself!” Tommy had pleaded. “When you be talkin’ ta me, it be like yer talkin’ fer you. It ain’t anybody else.”
He dug his nails into his scalp. The whispers hounded him every hour of every day, and shouted into his nightmares. Even now, as he sat huddled in an abandoned shed, the voices were unbearable. Maddening. He missed Tommy. He missed Aaron. He missed the Cathedral.
He buried his face in his felhound’s scales and sobbed.
( @easternkingdomer @Tommy Garwig @Edgar Woodcroft for that emotional rollercoaster, thanks fam :’D )
This moment in the book is one of my favorites, it shows that angels can be not only merciful, but also cruel. And that some orders are not so easy to get into. (from the book Ragnar Blackmane by Aaron Dembski-Bowden)
Stage of picture readiness 2/3
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Sergeant Vorain of the Flesh Tearers doing his bloody work. A union of barbarism and angelic grace married in a son of the blood (from the book Ragnar Blackmane by Aaron Dembski-Bowden)
Stage of picture readiness 1/3
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