#werecrow asks

Some of the younger followers thought it would be funny to decorate the ole barn Khorne often retreated to. A terrible idea, truly; they never came back-- but hey! The barn's festive! Ya know sometimes all the dark mushy mold needs is a little bit of color, a pop or red and green, candy canes and garland and mistletoe. Khorne didn't understand it.

At least Sovi was here, dealing with the aftermath of the followers' corpses. The lovely nun was patching him up, cleaning the blood from his skin and sewing what he could. Sovi was close enough for Khorne to smell the blood burning just under her skin in that usual dusting of blush. Khorne let out a deep, rumbling, half-choked wet purr, gaining Sovi's attention.

She asked him a question, but he didn't hear it. Something about permission. Something about forgiveness. He couldn't care; this was normal, the same-old same-old. It didn't matter what she asked, he often ended up giving it to her anyway. So, he nodded, knowing so well by now what was to come. That gentle brushing of the lips, teetering on the edges of hunger. He stood there, motionless, eye open, but she was warm and glowing and pressing herself to him.

He licked the salty tang of sweat off his lip as his ears were filled with the deafening roar of a thousand souls, all chanting his name and screaming in tune to the thunderous roll of drums. The wisps birthed from fog machines cling to the air and blur the haze of harsh stage lights. The smoke in his lungs tasted thickly sweet, and the world would spin around his vision and carry his heart to the heavens.

This.

His dresser drawers were filled with letters. Some loving, some fanatic, some vile. Some were signed with the Empire's scarlet trident, issuing commands. To cease. To end.

This.

The cries of thousands who understand truly the words behind his music. Who know that they're not alone in their injustices. Who see the Empire as it is, and come together in solidarity and strength. Because of these words. Because of his voice.

Why would he ever stop this? He grips the microphone tighter to keep it from slipping from his sweaty hands. A grin splits his face as giddy breaths puff from his lungs and cloud in air.

Fuck the Empire. Fuck its system. Fuck everything it ever stands for. They're stupid if they think that a cease and dismiss would take away this. All there ever needs to be done is a single droplet in the water, and here Khorne stands having made ripples. Those ripples will be a storm, someday.

The mechanical whirring could not be heard over the music or the fans. Some began to climb the stage, hissing, threatening, weapons raised. They were shot down without hesitance. It only drew the already feral crowd wilder. Khorne tried not to let it bother him as his arms were roughly brought behind his back, wrists encased in metal, weapons pressed against his head. They're taking him away. This concert will be the last.

But it won't end this.

Khorne, when he was alive and not a scarecrow, was a musician who mostly did Troll-American gothic metal.

The inspiration, which also serves as his voice claim for when he was alive, is the band Ludovico Technique.

"...He came...stumbling... into the fields... he was... -wheeze-"

" Tales of adoration... for their eventual... killer... -wheeze-"