Ser, why do you think Magnus dresses... Like that? // anonymous

"Oh, there is an answer to that, truthfully."

Her fingers dance along the page before her, marking her progress. Distracted, her lips move with the words, a silent recitation of some ancient campaign. Once the page runs out, so does her focus, eyes lifting to focus on the other.

Her smile is too sweet for the man she speaks of.

"I come from a place of... Incredible privilege, to stand beside my Lord, and at times know the company of his honored brothers. Lord Magnus is one that has often been a companion to my Lord, and we have hosted him with honors and joy on the Lex. Besides the Emperor and Lord Lorgar himself, he might be the most celebrated man to the Legion."

Her eyes have an edge to them now, a touch too bright, too wide. There's foolishness digging out of the fertile ground of her brain.

One can never trust her about the Cyclops.

"He lost his mind ages ago. Too much pride, too little sense. You can tell it in the way he dresses -- what fool wanders around as the temple prostituată with his heaving breasts pointed towards the sun --"

Ah, but she should cut him some slack, lest others take her tongue.

❝ What I feel for you is not gentle, nor meek. It is not beautiful. It wretched, it is dark and depraved with desire. And it is consuming me whole. ❞ Magnus for Ser ♡ // @cuileandorcha

The virgin hides her face behind her veil, a delicate wrist shielding marble relief from view. This is not the way a woman of her standing ought to be addressed. These are certainly not the words he was formed to speak. A man of his stature, literal and figurative, ought to know better than to toy with the little humans that swim in the gravity of this Crusade.

It hides the flash of white pearls well. Her joy. Her filthy, wild joy at this victory. One of them had to caper over the edge of boundary into madness, to pitch into a world as unknowable as the Immaterium. The sensation must throb in his mind, the rhythm of her own heart.

Proud, but no faster, no girl's dream of a bird beating against the cage of her ribs. She's still tethered miles from the edge, as he topples towards the rocks below.

Her mouth worries against the knot of veins at her wrist, the death of laughter. Oh, he's a fool, but there's no need to tease him for it. Poor fool must be desperate if he's painting himself the victim of a warpstorm.

"Poor thing," she mutters against the flesh. "Poor, dear thing. You're just like him, you know? You feel everything at once. He doesn't know moderation. None of you were taught."

How great are their inhuman hungers? What does it take to sate him? His brother has never known satisfaction, and by Magnus' own drive to learn what is beyond the ken of all others, she imagines him the same. She's found the thread that can unravel him to marrow and that giant's heart beating for her.

Or so he thinks. Poor, sweet fool. He'd let her do it, too, til he was all used up. Serpaisas wonders, consumed by the fire his skin so mimics, or like a beast set at the high table?

Whether he becomes ash or a meal, he's all hers. For the wildest, most wonderful second, she understands power. Her hand lowers, as does her expression. It's a fun moment, but not worth torturing that which can break another with the slightest thought. Squaring her shoulders, she truly studies her rival.

it's good bc we have this lovely, perfect human, death and revival have smoothed out her edges, her scars, her wrinkles, put her back at her prime. a lovely girl in loyalist grey, still veiled, eyes like oceans long ago scorched.

behind her is her husband. throne of terra what is that thing. 20 foot tall, bearded vulture meets carnivorous mammal meets raw psychic might. tz33ntch outdid itself with this herald, made him an infernal admixture of natures.