𝖎, 𝖉𝖔𝖌𝖒𝖆

❝ 𝕴𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖔 𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘 , than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark . . . ❞ — ' yes ', agreed the boy.

❝ i shall gain glory, or i shall die.❞

MOSTAFA AL - ALRIK. indi private ORIGINAL CHARACTER featuring verses from THE ELDER SCROLLS & WARHAMMER 40K. // written by sludge (she/her 27). 21+ and very selective. rules, verses, carrd and all that goofy stuff bellow . . . . 「 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖉 」 「 𝖗𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘 」 「 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌 」

@vicarlunares // 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 … ( accepting ) 「 HOLD 」 : for sender to hold receivers throat

logic is the expectation of every marine, each of the emperor's warriors understood — no matter their heraldic colors or cultural creed — that duty and discipline must always eclipse personal emotion. the legiones astartes may compete amongst themselves both within and without, yet it was the understanding of every primarch, then by extension his chosen cadre of advisors, the horror which would awaken at the onset of legion on legion violence was too incomprehensible to even entertain. not matter how much contempt contorts his fleeting commitment to stoicism, or how openly mostafa disdains their methods of war ( should anyone be foolish enough to misconstrue the night lords' butchery for battle ), he will not permit his brothers any bids at genuine conflict. they risk too much.

a blessing, then, the eighth and the tenth find themselves allies of convenience fighting beasts and not men on this provincial backwater. the great boar is old. his hair is gone and his beard is grey. he's seen and inflicted much in the way of carnage; there is so little now which he deign allow disturb him. a tolerance for atrocity by virtue of gene sire's pragmatism, and an appetite for its trappings stoked by chemical manipulations plaguing every space marine. what horror they bring, though ?? had they been fighting humans, mostafa thinks then, had it been humans then his iron hands and sevatar's night lords would have been at blows.

in his armor jago sevatarion weighs about a small vehicle; the terminator feels barely any of it, the size of his gorgon plate making him double that of his fellow captain. it's a terribly awkward position to hold, his back leaned up against a spire of crumbling pre-crusade infrastructure, made one again with the wilds which had long since reclaimed it. sevatar sits astride him, the bulk of his own midnight ceramite scraping fresh blood across mostafa's armor.

these are fresh trophies, quilted together in a patchwork of different skin tones, sizes and various stages of tanning, all suggesting the cloak was cobbled of multiple victims. the moonlight catches him, dancing lightning off the apex of his helmet's bat horns. he looks like an animal, and he smells of putrefying gore. dignified, despite himself. sevatar's glaive rests at ease against his shoulder, and in this light konrad's favorite son paints the picture of a shepherd leaned upon his crook, given brief albeit temporary respite from his flock of wolves. he's beautiful.

mostafa can not help but laugh as sevatar's crimson gauntlets curl around his throat — a worthless gesture as he no longer had carotid arteries to squeeze — and the sound is not mocking. he's slack, muscles eased and easy as he sits up, curling his own hands into the chains adorning the other's power armor. the tusks decorating his helm bracket sevatar's, locking the muzzle of his vox-caster against the ivory predator's skull.

@scindo-iii // 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 … ( accepting ) 「 HOLD 」 : for sender to hold receivers throat

" you are ignorant, ignoble and incompetent. you are a liability."

the great boar's growling comes with a hiss of steam, the fire-hot puffs of electrochemical toxin radiating from his armor's vent ports caustic to a human's touch. gorgon plate — a jewel amongst many of ferrus manus' crowning achievements; indomitable, it made them, but the sacrifices required to operate two thousand pounds of radioactive tactical dreadnought armor were a plenty. it was as much apart of him as own flesh, laced into the architecture of his body as surely as muscle binds with bone. it enables its bearer incredible strength and uncanny focus. mostafa is a captain, a champion and a warrior among warriors. he's courted his father's favor over decades and and and — and none of it matters here.

for all his posturing and all his strength and all the ways in which sheer size should have dictated victory this day ( the terminator towers three feet taller ), none of it matters when matched against lucius' sword arm.

his own blade lies lifeless on the ground, taken from his hand not thirty seconds before the astartes had come to blows. a strategic disagreement; simple diplomacy. now he stands, their bodies encased in ceramite wound tight, lucius sword pressed tighter to the gap in mostafa's breastplate, right at the underside of his ribs. oh but his hand — his hand has come up to close around mostafa's throat. he grips tight, beneath the tusked helmet, what sliver of his neck remains visible underneath the massive gorget which surrounds his head. it would be nothing to throw fulgrim's preening peacock across the room or slam him into the metal wall behind. the bladesman's sword bites an inch deeper, though in anticipation for what retaliatory violence might come. it doesn't. the chemical mutilation of his nervous system screams at him to fight. he does not.

he does, however, feel an uncomfortable heat crawl up his face.

@d3athwaltz // mirrored perspectives. ( accepting ) 🌹 sender pins a flower to receiver’s clothing +🍷 sender offers receiver a drink from their own cup

foremost the brotherhood is a religious institution, each denomination ( every finger ) of the black hand thusly bound by the same militaristic hierarchies prevalent in every theocracy.  there had always been an illusion of familial equality: every speaker and each one of their talons in turn — all the way to listener — knew one another as brother.  as sister.  this is a practical lie, meant to soothe the despair of their craft.  cassius carries ( and proudly, too ) the appellation of silencer, and not just anyone’s.  not a river nor pond but ocean of difference in reverence between the pair, and despite the jester's seemingly blatant disdain for ritual formality, mostafa pays him the respect he is due but does not demand. 

the pigs fancy themselves wolves, looking out into the crowd of mingling nobles, wearing the sheepskin of harlequin performer and errant hedge-knight.  cassius sees their target first, his mismatched eyes focusing then narrowing.  an up and coming silk merchant from anvil, or so the story goes.  he’s loud, drunk — stupid.  easy prey, and mostafa wordlessly acknowledges in a nod that his help would not be needed. 

cassius laughs low, he slides the drink he’d been nurturing into mostafa’s hand, and he pins the rose lady lylfort had graciously gifted him not ten minutes prior ( he’s collected a lion's share already, by god) to the boar’s lapel.  it makes sense, in a roundabout sort of way doesn’t it ??  no one expects the flashiest among them guilty, it defied practical sense.  where mostafa used traditionalism — sharp intellect, deception and keen sword hand, cassius cloaks himself in bright light.  a master of death-craft in his own right, lachance would accept nothing less. if mostafa's duty tonight is to play butler, well then by sithis he shall be the best. 

And when I say the ONLY person durge had real patience for was Orin. undeserved, irrational patience; that of an older brother, almost paternal. He was always in her corner, ferociously so, and respected / would default to Orin's council constantly even if he really shouldnt. He was running Seattle Seahawks level defense for her CONSTANTLY and THIS was the start of his divorce from bhaalist faith (unbeknownst to him, hes VERY loyal up until the start of the campaign) like. Ofc we are gunna murder each other duh. But also blood lamb??? Waiting womb ?? Fuck off dog thats my SISTER. We are the same.

again the dynamic between the durge and orin is so interesting to me. both of them are absolutely batshit insane. both of them are bhaals to the walls crazy but where orin is a serial killer mostafa is a khornate warrior. both revel in sadism but for orin it's the kill itself, for mostafa it's the battle. it's the conquest. the feeling of domination through death.

mostafa absolutely loathes to pick a fight he cant lose, not because of honor, but because theres no glory in it otherwise. he respects kethric in earnest because he wants to BE kethric. i actually do consider the durges note abt gortash legit to my portrayal as well. not lamenting the fact he has to kill this guy, but lamenting the fact hes not going to get to fight him fair.