#kharrneth

khorne: good shit

"And yet even he failed such a small engagement, as in this instant, he has been spirited away across the realm up into my homelands. He is stuck in NORSCA, Gorefather."

The Furies under her personal command had scouted day and night for Zhubon, to make sure that their 'general' was still alive. When she had gotten the reports back that he had been wandering the icy depths of Norscan seas, she was in disbelief at first, but the reminder that a spawn of Tzeentch had been at the battle made her realize the validity of that notion.

She'd cross her arms as she approached her husband, also kneeling for a bit to give Karanak another round of pettings, even giving him a firm affectionate scritch on the chin, before standing up to stare into her beloved's eyes.

"The size and the value of the prey is of no concern for me, my Beloved. What matters is that your will is done. I would hunt down any target, no matter its size, strength or stature. I'd chase the smallest ratling to the greatest dragon in your name."

Her captors were stupid. She had tricked them into thinking her docile. As soon as she could no longer sense the hatful blue-eyed drone, she takes the opportunity to escape. The acid melted chains took little strength to shatter, and soon she had burrowed away from the fortress.

She needed to get as far away from the red hive of her mother as possible. It is her right as a new queen — to rule over her own territory.

A memory itched at her mind. She had seen her mother doing something, tear at the air, and suddenly be elsewhere. She stretches out her senses, feeling out the fabric of the mortal realm.

There! A barely imperceptible seam in the world. The Spawn claws at it, and a swirling magenta tear opens before her. The scent of blood and ash waft through. But more than that, it smells of power. More power than she had ever felt in her brief life.

She slinks through, into the embrace of the Aethyr.

...

Kharneth does not micromanage his children. They are their own machines of war, and he doesn't need to pay attention to minor scuffles.

@kharrneth // The Blood God shifts ever so slightly atop his mighty skull throne. His eye roves over many a warrior from many a reality...and Croc is one such warrior. For Khorne, it's just a glance, but for the mortal, even the merest glance from the Murder God would set one on edge.

// :3c hehe

Nothing in the air could have warned him what was about to happen. Dealing with thugs rivaling whoever was paying him at the moment was standard practice, just business, nothing personal (despite the tendency of many Gotham rogues to take such things personally, anyway). 

The air was frigid as he turned, the impact of his tail breaking a man's back as he was flung across the snowy concrete. He'd just reached down to haul one of his own allies to his feet when his mind was flooded with something else. His bloodthirst swelled in a tide that had him seeing red, and his ally only barely managed to keep his hand when Croc's jaws snapped shut.

Thankfully a gunshot drew his attention away from them, and he turned his hunger and fury on the last three of Dent's thugs that were still standing– now running to escape Croc and his sudden rage. Blood was bright on the snow, gore steaming in the open air as he quite literally tore them apart, gulping down mouthfuls of whatever his teeth closed on. His usual controlled efficiency was gone, replaced with the instinctive motions of a rabid beast.

FOOL.

The word lances through the mind of All-Knowing. But what did this mortal truly know? Nothing as far as Kharneth was concerned. His insult would present as a sharp headache, and his voice as many sharp blades scraping against the inside of Aliah's skull. Each word like the blow of a jagged axe.

TRUE DESTRUCTION IS NOT WROUGHT WITH MAGIC, BUT BY ONES OWN HANDS. ONES CLAWS, ONES TEETH!

MAGIC IS FOR COWARDS AND FOOLS.

AND YOU KNOW NOTHING.

"So you would rather fight to death like an animal?" Where any regular man would break, Aliah does not budge. He does not move from his spot, the table in front of him covered in half-written reports and a myriad number of research papers that the wizard had been cross-referencing moments prior. A terrifying display of will, of conviction so strong that even the strongest metal would bend under it.