#arbitratour

                      ›       &. 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐬* 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.    .     "  you’re working me. you’re trying to get me on your side.  "    from  @arbitratour

            there was a pause before answering, almost as if he were formulating the most entertaining response --- most entertaining version of the truth. smirk eagerly wanted to crawl over features, but he had better control than that. the devil took a slow step forward, " trying? " there was a tilt of his head on that word, a predatory gaze that was curious. " you speak as though there are still sides left to choose from. " there it finally was ---- his smirk made it center stage, but not too grand. not just yet. raphael knew how to play this role all too well --- it required patience. waiting [ ... ] & a deliciously large dose of desperation from his audience.

If there was anything Fulgrim had admired about Ferrus, aside from his wise && gainful insight on a wealth of topics, it would be the matter of his sons —— his Iron lineage as the Phoenician so often teased him. But, it were true. They say an Astarte son is every bit of their gene-sire, whether it be by the grace of their appearance or the boon of their wit, Fulgrim would argue all sons held the finer qualities of his friend. Everything short of his mercury-glinted arms and swirling, metallic stare.

It was usually Kaesoron who would bid his aggravations first, pleading his case that the Third Primarch was ever so lenient towards those of the Tenth with plenty of evidence to show. With a sneer, such complaints were dismissed with a mask of levity, isolating his dutiful captain ( and all others whom huddle near him whenever they share a mind on these concerns ) back into the corner where his duty should take priority.

" I’ll earn your favour yet, " proclaimed @arbitratour

Distracted from whatever masterful clause he were to craft, Fulgrim is taken by surprise with an emerging soldier. He remembers this one. He remembers all of them, just as he remembered his own. And, all the Luna Wolves . . . All the Night Lords . . . Observation was an admired trait, but this was less repetitious study of his beloved brothers' legions as it were sentimentality of who all his forces were conjoined with.

Yet — he feigns ignorance. There is a knowing look within the amethysts of his measuring gaze, but upon his beautiful lips was an impersonal, polite smile.

" Will you? " he asked. The Gorgon would be displeased with his deriding jabs, but to the Phoenician, it was all in good fun. " What exactly do you require my favor for, hm? It won't bring you any special favors with my dearest friend. "

Oh, but he was so entertained. Most butchered transhuman men trembled at the thought of crossing Fulgrim's path. To earn a frown from him was equivalent to being cast beneath the shade of the Emperor's disdain, so they had said.

𝒯ouch 𝒫rompts. 🪞｡˚ a fist knotted in the collar of a shirt. * 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ ❪  closed ❫ @arbitratour

Her birdcage chest heaves with the ebb of eldritch magic, the blue of her eyes collapsed by blood and a Fiend's violet flames. Black serpent shadows coil all around them, slithering maws feasted upon the trees, the wind— the very stars, it seems like. A writhing thing, a drowning, hungry thing, birthed by an elder evil itching to gore the cosmos, then suck the entrails dry. It will wilt every good thing in this world. It will make the living envy the dead. It will let slip the end of days. And its synapses are snapped to the lunatic twitch of Adella's mouth, waiting only for her bidding to make it so.

Mostafa’s grip is strong with a promise to shatter the witch's bones. The scarred ribs of tree bark he grinds her into is splitting, slowly, the skin of her soft back. But all this amuses her, makes her laughter sound like singing, and she chimes, ❝ What a big, and— mighty— and scary— evil man. Drunk little piggy squealing all the way home. Will you kill me, hm? I was dreaming that you would. ❞

Her little lamb fingers stroke the hand that tortures her throat, and her sleepy head cants in a doting way.

[ CONSUMED ]  receiver needs to feed on human blood,  sender makes cuts in their skin for them to feed off of. / blood kink , accepting

there was nothing out here. the forgotten vale was well and truly forgotten. left to the wind , to the stone , and to whatever ghosts the snow hadn’t yet buried. the trio huddled together against the word wall's base as it stood a cold monument to silence , before valvari decided her time would be better spent hacking away at one of the towering dragon bones for the museum rather than resting. the fight with the drakes hadn’t drained her much it seemed. or it did and she didn't care. likely the latter. but for serana , her skin still burned faintly beneath her leathers [ . . . ] lit from within by the blood magic she'd stolen mid-battle. it had sustained her just enough to continue to stand until the twin dragons fell , not enough to sate when there was nothing else to feast from. so she sat there next to @arbitratour , spine pressed to the carved stone , gaze lifted toward a sky from which few souls had ever looked back , trying to distract herself from the gnawing teeth in her belly by thought alone and focusing on the rhythmic pace he set as a stone met his blade. it was wonderful , in its way. barely weeks awake , and already she'd seen more than she had in centuries past.

" do you find it strange— " serana began , voice soft with exhaustion , meant only to break the long quiet. but she's halted when mostafa moves. the deliberate sort of movement that meant he'd already quietly decided on something unbeknownst to her. nothing was exchanged between them , only silence as he pulled free a vambrace , rolled up a sleeve , and drew a small blade across the skin of his wrist. had she been younger ─── less tempered by time and quenched by discipline ─── the scent alone would’ve undone her. he knew that. she knew he knew that. he'd given the offer anyway. best not to look a gift horse in the mouth she supposes.

glancing skyward , she'd half-expected some celestial scolding meant to smite. some sort of flare of divine disapproval on his behalf. instead the stars remained indifferent. so her hand comes up , fingers curling gently around his forearm in wordless gratitude. then she leaned in. and drank.

the first rush was fire from the deadlands. heat tearing through her veins in sharp , living contrast to the glacial air of the harbour. it burned her throat , pooled molten in her stomach , threatened to sear the edges of her restraint. but she remembered :: these were only shades of a memory. his memory. with every swallow , she slips further into him. his pain. his faith. his years. each mouthful a wave that rose and broke , rose and broke , again and again and again until she remembered how to breathe between each one so that she wouldn't drown.

THE SKIES ARE BLUE . that feels a little like fate is mocking martin. there is certainly a god out there that would enjoy appeasing their boredom by making the skies clear and the world itself in a war with a hell dimension trying to break free. WHO IS MARTIN TO SPEAK? he has never been a warrior , so there is some poor-fated soul out there that's struggling to win over their own life while a demon will love to see them dead.

THEY DON'T GET TO SEE THE SKY LIKE MARTIN CAN .

How about fave / least fave warhammer ship 👀 // @arbitratour

SHIP. Emperor/Malcador. It’s the free space in bingo. It’s a classic. Good mouthfeel. It feels both so classic tragic doomed lovers, a thousand different masculine ideals and archetypes, but it also exists in an era where words like ‘there is something wrong with you. there is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me.’ can coexist with the classical translations of ‘may I be dead and the earth heaped above me before I hear your cries as you are dragged away.’ They are fucked up and evil and fascist but there was love. There was love. Not that it ever saved anyone.

In the endless chains of duty in His name, there before the Arbite was a nameless link. 

The first to volunteer, the last to extract; they were the result of a planet which could not pay that holy tithe in industry, finance, or agriculture. Unflinching when the waves came, unquestioning when receiving commands, they were faceless canon fodder among the Inquisitorial retinue. They were the tithe paid in blood and mountains of dead in His name. They were Krieg. 

“ This trooper has no name, my Arbiter. It is lineman four-four-two of line four-one-zero. ” The voice is without mirth, distorted through the respirator system. The Hellbore's bayonet unclicks with a sharp snap, bloody and now bone-dulled edge tenderly cleansed across a cloth soaked in righteous gore from the day's slaughter. “ It is the pilot who has called this trooper 'Cannon Fodder'. Flight Lieutenant Masozi has also referred to this trooper as 'Fodder' in using shorthand, Arbitor. ” Vox crackles for a moment, the distorted snickering of aforementioned Flight Lieutenant's voice amusement breaking the silence between moments of the creaking shuttle's ambient soundscape. 

       a deadly silence fell all around them. she was undisturbed. unbroken. her breath remained stable, as if she hadn't been weapon to weapon with him moments ago. she doesn't falter. the heavy silence was weighing on their surroundings. he had collapsed to one knee. a defeated kneel, & she allows it. a slow, measured step brings her before him, dual blades in her hands as she moved forth. the banshee's crimson eyes settle on him. they were observing, not angry nor showing threat, but rather a cold disappointment. " so this is the extent of your defiance. " her voice was echoed, ghostly, & cutting. the top of her blade rises slowly until it finds the underside of his chin. she doesn't force him. yet. but allows the cool steel rest there as a teasing threat.