#keyword trying

All this talk about Malcador and his potato sack™ won’t leave me alone. Don’t know how to post this stuff, so uuuuh here’s my headcanon I guess? Also, be warned that I just started dipping my toes into Warhammer lore, so everyone will probably be out of character.

There’s no way Fulgrim was on board with it, no matter how much the Emperor insisted he drop the subject. Seriously, how is it harder to get uncle properly dressed than it was to bathe Curze? HOW!

Sooooo…I’ve decided that Fulgrim started to try and get some of his brothers in on the cause. Because this was rapidly becoming a pretty big deal for him. It was absolutely wrecking his sleeping schedule whenever he was on Terra. Someone needed to get that old man some nicer clothes or the primarch of the III was going to lose it.

Of course the primarchs being the primarchs, they have long since learned how to cope with Fulgrim being a major fashion victim. By pretending to listen and then ignoring him. And that’s exactly what they did.

At least most of them. Leman had, in his own way, taken notice of the issue during one of the (extremely rare) times the regent had visited Fenris, as delays and problems during the journey ended with the old man arriving on the king wolf’s home world just at the start of winter.

Malcador had stayed the previously agreed upon three days without a complaint or a shiver (let’s be real, some psyker fuckery was involved), but he had stuck out like a sore thumb the entire time. It had made Russ feel a certain way. It was stupid, really. Then again, what harm could some clothes do?

Jaghatai had stayed completely silent during his brother meltdown (there were really no other words for it), but he couldn’t deny that the imperial regent looked woefully underdressed near… well… most people. Especially by Chogorian standards.

Maybe he should have some clothes made for him, just so he could have proper attire for his next visit. After all, it had been a while since the last time Malcador had set foot on Chogoris because the Emperor had managed to drive his advisor up the wall to take a breather from his duties.

Ferrus Manus had managed to sit through the whole spiel and, out of love for his brother, if not to at least tell himself he had tried, had proceeded to locate the regent and berated him for not dressing as elaborately as his station demanded. Which was probably a sign of weakness in high society. He wasn’t sure. Thankfully the awkward silence that followed was cut short by a scribe arriving with a pile of documents in need of signing. Ferrus had, at that point, opted for a strategic retreat.

Sanguinius and Vulkan, for their part, know this is a lost cause. The only thing they have ever seen uncle put some thought and care into is his hair. So, they start looking for someone with lots of experience and even more patience (the old man has his moods). They finally settle on an old and very capable maid, recently fired by her mistress for talking back to a rude guest. The only issue now is… how exactly do they gift a maid to someone? That’d be so rude to the poor woman! Do they just tell the old regent that he often looks a bit unkempt? That’s even worse!

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When he gets presented with the new clothes Malcador is actually quite pleased. Having something more appropriate for the local climate is going to make his visits much more pleasant. He likes his robes well enough, but when leaving Terra it’s not always the most practical thing to wear. Leman’s plea to not tell anyone confirmed that the idea probably came from Fulgrim, who had been up in arms about his wardrobe for the better part of a year and a half. Apparently it only counts if he’s well dressed while in the palace and under Fulgrim’s watch, so it seems like the Phoenician will continue to suffer.

He deserves it for sicking Ferrus on him.

Inspired by this

–

Wind swept past Crowyn in sharp dashes. Her muscles burned with the exertion, skin still painted with blood that wasn't her’s. The gurgling sound of too much of it spilling and staining the floor red still bubbling in her ears.

But for all she cared they could rot in hell.

She didn't look back as she ran. Ramming past the door the second she got to it despite the shouts coming from behind her. She breathed an internal sigh of relief when her feet hit fresh grass. There wasn't time to admire it, but it’d been too long since she felt the pillowcase of grass and moss below her.

And she’d chase this freedom down with everything in her until she caught it by it’s wisps.

Arrows shot after her as she ran. Even as she winded through the trees for cover, branches reaching out to smack her across the face as she rushed past, labored breaths bursting the air in front of her. They were still coming too close, infuriatingly good shots.

The sound of footsteps were behind her like a herd of horses. Promising to trample her as if she was the forest beneath them, making her heart jump up to her throat and her arms pump faster.

Stray twigs spiked the grass. Her soles stung. Sweat clung to her skin, head thudding in her chest. She just had to keep one foot in front of the other. Let her surroundings become nothing but a blur. Mimic the last step and shoot farther.

A swift bolt of pain shot up her leg, adrenaline scrambling to push it down too late, before something heavy slammed into her from behind. Sending her plummeting, landing so hard her teeth knocked against each other, and flat on whatever was stuck in her thigh. She howled in pain, still reaching out to claw at the soil, to get even an inch of room between her and her persecutors because she was so close.

Her face was shoved into the dirt, the musk of the ground exploding on her tastebuds as her chin was ground into it.

No, no no no. She got out. She escaped. That's how it was supposed to happen.

But instead of wisps her hands came away with fragile strands of grass yet treaded. The earth embedded under her nails; a whisper of freedom that would fade with the reign of the sun. She clawed at that, too. Grabbing greedy handfuls of it—it's warmth—as if it could pull her up and out of this misery.

Yet nothing but still trees laid in front of her. No cavalry to come to her rescue, no one and nothing to defend her from the wolves.

She wasn't supposed to get caught. She can't go back. She had made it out. She got to see the sun. But there were too many arms pulling her back.

Crowyn kicked out wildly like a fish on land as she was forced on her back, shouting right back as they yelled at her to stay down, “GET OFF, GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

One of them responded by twisting the arrow in her leg, pushing it against both tendon and muscle. A chocked-off scream lodged itself in her throat. Her face was wet. Vision blurry. The pain and wrong crackled throughout her body underneath the gaze of too many angry faces.

"Serves you right,” they were saying amongst their curses. And if she weren't so focused on all of the joints they were straining too far she would have said something back.

A shadow strolled up to them. The hunters stilled. And she stared up at the head hunter, fury flaring her nose, as his pack stooped with the arrival of their leader. He stared back the same. The stubble on his face shaded in the sun while he stood like he owned the damn world. She wanted to wipe that arrogance off his face for good, to give him more than a few scars to add to his growing collection.

He knelt next to her head, looking over her impassively before locking eyes again. And although his posture was eased, she noticed his fingers twitch on the weapon he white knuckled. The curved blade resting too close to her skin, making her unconsciously shift away.

She wasn't fucking afraid of him. But anyone would be cautious of something like that.

“Keep ‘er still,” that was the only warning she got before his hand knotted in her hair, catching the coils and twisting them from their roots, forcing her head back into the dirt.

His dogs were obedient in their order. She was sure the bruises from their grip would last awhile. Especially by the hands that saw it necessary to hold her thighs that tight.

She bucked as best she could, not caring for the burn of their palms or the sharp nails, a finale desperate attempt but the result didn't change. The edge of the blade pierced her shoulder. A shrilled scream erupted in the silent woods, shocking the birds from their trees.

Liquid fire dripped through her bone. Her mind couldn't make sense of anything else but the pain. It was slow, drawn out just enough for the shock to seep into every second, but steady with it’s steps.

She tugged on the attacked arm, only succeed in causing the blade to split more skin, for the wound to warp sideways. Nails drug her scalp, keeping her still as she tried to wrench her head away.

It wasn't a question if it drew blood. She could smell it as it mingled with the taste of the blood and sweat pooling down her arm. Sharp and acidic on her tongue.

Agony drilled the poison into every sense, shrouded her in it. She was sure she was going to black out, for the rusted gradient of the sky to soon be replaced with a room with enough light to make the night jealous, until he saw it fit to push the handle through as well.

Her vision was washed in the glint of the moon; everything suddenly white as her bones crunched and shifted to accommodate the handle sinking into her shoulder as if she was made of mud. Tremors racked her limbs, her lungs no longer had enough air to support her screaming.

The voice that left her was hoarse with sobs. She distantly registered it stopping. Only knowing so as the head hunter pulled back in satisfaction, a sly smirk on his face as he released her hair, pulling tufts of it out and leaving behind patches of stinging tissue.

Against her better judgment, she stole a glance at the damage. A cry left her at the sight. Nothing but the chain was strung through her shoulder, the entire weapon now resting on the same grass she was, bloodied just like his hands.

Her vision swam. That–that couldn't be real. This had to be some fucked up side effect of some mushroom the medic gave her. Or it was just too dark to see it clearly. The skin around it felt fake, too much blood for it to actually be her’s. She couldn't stop staring, not daring to breath.

"Get her up,” And she was hauled up.

The ground floated under her, throwing her feet off balance, the ruptured muscle of her leg screamed against it, but she wasn't given another choice but to stand. The weight of the blade pulled on the wound, and she grimaced as the sharp edge tickled her back.

The head hunter wrapped the other end of the chain around his palm, pulling on it like a leash. She wailed at a sharp tug, eyes snapping up to him in the haze of shock.

He was smiling. Fucking smiling as they marched her, limping, back to their base camp. Like she was nothing more than a dog that ran too far.

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