#plot point

[ladyantiheroine]

Hey Tumblr. I need writing help.

I've been working on a story, and there's one plot point I have been banging my head against the wall about for months, so I'm going to ask the internet for help:

So, my main character is a woman who has just recently married into a rich family after a botched con job. However, she discovers some dark secrets about the family. The family finds out she knows, and they threaten to expose her criminal past and get her arrested if she spills the beans about their secrets.

So, the family has hired a bodyguard to watch her. Both because she's a famous man's wife now, but also so they can keep an eye on her when they're not around. She's a liability now, after all.

Now, my main character has a plan to escape this family. However, in order to do it, she needs the bodyguard out of the way for a while. I am stuck on how to get rid of the bodyguard.

A few important notes: 1. She can't kill the bodyguard. She just needs to incapacitate him for several hours to a day. 2. The bodyguard has to be "taken out" in a way that casts little suspicion on the main character. 3. Ideally, his "taking out" would either look like an accident that neither of them could have anticipated, or possibly something that could later be blamed on another character (this could depend on timing stuff I haven't worked out yet). 4. She has one friend/ally on the outside that the family doesn't know about who could do something, but I'm not sure what. He's a fellow criminal, but not strong enough to fight/injure the bodyguard.

~

Any suggestions or ideas at all would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!

EDIT: I should also mention the bodyguard lives with her (it's a 24-hour watch kind of thing).

[skxrbrand]

Prev / 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇 - 𝐈𝐈𝐈

"Now?"

"No. They've only just arrived. Be patient!" The Trickster of Tzeentch hissed to the servants he was assigned, watching from the lip of the Black Pit. His master's grand plan, of which he was afforded a key place as Unleasher of the project constructed on the Changer's orders, was commencing.

The Changeling could see it from here-- the great red river of ruin Skarbrand and his pet god were carving through the land. Rare were the times Tzeentch directly commanded his Trickster, but this would be one such occasion and all could see the merits of it.

" That's going to take eons to rebuild. So many hopes, dreams, lies-- captured and made solid." The Horror groused, twirling his Trickster's staff in his hands. Behind him, pink and blue horrors capered.

" Now?" One ask, impatient, literally vibrating with it.

"No, not now!" The taller Daemon hissed at it, for what must've been the hundredth time. A loud clatter caught their attention-- the Impossible Fortress had fallen. The Maze Thralls were out in full frenzied force. Tzeentch slithered from the wounds wrought in the walls of his home to face his attackers.

"....Now?" The Horror asked again, hopeful.

"Wait. Wait..." The Changeling watched the Fused God and his own size one another up. Then they pounced, and he turned to his fellow Horrors. "Now!"

The incantation began. And something rose from the center of the Black Pit...

---

Tzeentch rarely left the Hidden Library, secreted at the heart of the Impossible Fortress, itself situated in the nigh-impassable Maze of Crystals. All the gods had dozens and dozens of battle legends to their names; times when they were forced to intervene personally and duel a force greater than any of their daemons. But as he watched the two gods size each other up, Skarbrand could recall no such tales about Tzeentch.

He was not a god of warriors. The Changer was patron to revolutionaries, politicians, magic users, and mutants. Battle was not in his portfolio.

And yet none could deny how he held his own against Malal-Khade, a combination of magic, strength, duplicity, and agility making for a formidable enemy. Just watching the clash had become dangerous, as Tzeentch rained down magic in wanton quantities: storms of shredding wind and hails of blazing wyrdflame. Malal-Khade shook these attacks off well enough, but Skarbrand and his daemons were just that: daemons. Daemons and the regretful mortals who had followed them into the mouth of hell itself to bear witness to two of it's Fell rulers dueling to the death.

" We should leave." Kha'xanzyr hissed to Skarbrand among the carnage. The Reaper snarled and shot him a look. " You would pass up watching the Changer die, Architect?"

" When he dies, this realm will unravel. And we shall perish alongside him. Tzeentch is no match for my Patron."

As Kha'xanzyr said this, Malal-Khade struck with his pilfered blade. He pushed the weapon into the serpentine guts of the great avian-marine god, wrenching a horrid sound from the faces on his chest. Tzeentch responded by lurching forward with his tentacles, squeezing and choking Malal-Khade about the throne, but the War God roared and lit up his skin with black lightning. It singed across the Change-Lords body, the God's flesh running like tallow as he shrieked and pulled away. With each hit he took, the Realm of Tzeentch trembled, the pain of the Changer trembling through it.

Skarbrand saw reason then and there, though he allowed himself a final look at the Supreme Lord of Change, crossed and pierced with wounds, dripping his arcane ichor. "We leave." He agreed, looking at Kha'xanzyr and Khazaan, who nodded and shouted the order. Skarbrand's army pulled back, abandoning the Maze Crazed to their own insane devices, reticent of the world itself cracking beneath their hooves.

If Malal-Khade noticed Skarbrand's retreat, he said nothing. His own forces fought on, until they were ground to blood and bones beneath the relentless onslaught of Tzeentch's ravening hordes. Tzeentch himself was no easy score, but Malal-Khade was the Firstling and the Misbegotten-- the Firstborn and the Feared. He had stumbled and Tzeentch had disappeared into flame at the moment, reappearing behind the challenger. But Malal-Khade had predicted this, spinning on his hooves and wrenching his warped blade upwards with quicksilver perfection and brutal strength. The blade sliced through Tzeentch's chest-face, then bisected his beak-mouth, severing no few tentacles in it's wake.

The Great Lord of Change, each eye blown wide, lurched and choked, spewing arcane rich blood from both mouths. Malal-Khade watched him die with cool, cruel satisfaction.

"Iͥ s͛hͪoͦuͧldͩ hͪaͣvͮeͤ s͛leͤw yoͦuͧ whͪeͤn Iͥ hͪaͣdͩ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ oͦррoͦrͬᴛⷮuͧniͥᴛⷮy." The Windlord cursed.

"𝐀𝐄. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄. 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒, 𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑, 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄." The younger god growled, watching Tzeentch collapse and quite literally shatter to pieces among the remains of his labyrinth and fortress. Malal-Khade basked in his victory, in the destruction he had wrought. His army was gone, killed to a daemon and a man, but it had been a worth trade to destroy one of the four. He looked at the blade in his hands-- warped and twisted beyond use. Extending an arm, Malal-Khade went to discard to weapon, but found his fists tight and unwilling to drop it.

"𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆?" Malal bullied his way to the fore of the joining, hissing at his other-self.

"𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄? 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃. 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒. 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄."

"𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋! 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃! 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐃-𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍, 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐄. 𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐗 𝐈𝐓, 𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐓!" Malal argued back. "𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇'𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓, 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎."

"𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐔𝐒." Khade responded. They must've looked quite mad then, arguing with themselves. They must've fit in quite well with the rest of the daemons there, who saw them. " 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓. 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓."

"𝐖𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒! 𝐖𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐒." Malal snarled and the joined form agitated.

"𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑."

"𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍? 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄! 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘, 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐒. 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒! 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄, 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆!" Another ripple. The Gods bickered and bickered. They argued and fought about who was next on their list to be slain. They argued so fervently that they did not see that Changer was not so dead.

That killing him was never going to be so simple.

---

Millenniums had passed since Tzeentch had been reduced to Fractals. He remembered it still-- Khorne, Nurgle, and Slaanesh heaving him off of the Endless Mountains after an expertly laid trap. It wasn't one of his finest moments...but unlike then, this shattering was quite purposeful. Another step, as always, in the Great Scheme.

For the Changer was not as dead as the two bickering gods might've hoped. Oh, Khorne's blade with it's vehemence against his very being would take time to repair from, but he would. He would come back, more or less the same, but the same could not be said of these fools. All around him, the Changer could feel the minute consequences of his Labyrinth being shattered. The Realms were drifting, the winds were rising to a tempest in the mortal world, and countless realities had risen with each swing of Malal-Khade sword against the Crystal Maze. Possibility, potentialities, alternative worlds-- all unleashed and so haphazardly.

But he would investigate those later, when he had proper eyes and body to do such with. Right now, he could only see from his realm; a million eyes ensconced in the very earth and sky, spying and prying. And what he saw pleased him greatly.

His project, completed, striding over the realms to deal with this interloper. Tzeentch hadn't had an allusions about how he would fair against the kin of Khorne, let alone two. But his sentinel, his weapon.

His Collar of Khade was a different story entirely. It had been fitted with the Rage Pox, the roiling red liquid sloshing around in vials on it's frame like obscene growths. It had been stolen from Nurgle's lands at great pains, the machine further scored with runes of domination. But there was something Tzeentch hadn't known-- that those runes had been tampered with, sabotaged by a servant of Khade and one of his own feathered brood...

---

Malal-Khade hadn't seen the giant skeletal beast of metal that had approached the aftermath of the battle. Due their own lack of oversight or perhaps the lingering will of the slain Tzeentch, they hadn't heard it or sensed it, not until it was upon them. With metal fists forged by daemon-smiths, it pummeled the injured god with one hand and wrenched the wrap blade from his grip with the other. Off it went flying, too far to reach. Malal-Khade made to defend, but the Collar of Khade lunged and undid itself. Like a straight-jacket of divine metal, it caged the Fused God within itself and the runes of domination blazed to life.

Malal-Khade screamed, feeling the acid of control bending and corroding his will. But he was two gods, not one, and Malal was a horrid thing that should not have been. In that battle of wills, the runes had failed; burned themselves out and left an exhausted hybrid in it's wake.

But if anyone had contingencies, it was Tzeentch, and into the body of the joint god, the Rage Pox drained. It had killed Slaanesh's spawn, which Malal was, but Khade was the God of Unmaking and the pox was a thing of magic. And so when Malal-Khade fell, he was not stricken with death.

"нuͧs͛hͪ liͥᴛⷮᴛⷮleͤ вaͣвy dͩoͦn'́ᴛⷮ s͛aͣy aͣ woͦrͬdͩ,̓ ᴛⷮcͨhͪaͣrͬ'́s͛ goͦiͥng ᴛⷮo�� mͫaͣᴋⷦeͤ yoͦuͧ aͣ mͫoͦcͨᴋⷦiͥng вiͥrͬdͩ~." Tzeentch crooned the song as Malal-Khade tried, and failed, to keep his eyes open.

It had been a risky gambit, but one that would pay off in the future...

[darkdoelette]

You’re running low on money so decide to squat in apartments. Starting with the pastel apartments

[secondhandsorrows]

Plot vs. Pinch Points

In a typical 3-act story structure, there are stages called plot points and pinch points. These can be easily defined as key scenes or areas where your protagonist takes major steps that serve to drive the plot and story forward, both internally and externally. 

These story beats had taken a while for me to truly grasp, as they both come across as so similar yet so distinct from each other. In this post, I want to dive a little deeper into their differences between these two points within a story structure and how they are linked. 

Let’s take a look:

Plot Points

A helpful thing to remember is that plot points are external factors in the story. They serve as spots of action: the main decisions, incidents, or short-term goals that the protagonist makes or receives that alters the course or direction of the story. 

They are significant scenes: Plot points are pivotal moments or events that drive the story forward and mark significant changes in the narrative. 

They can be structural milestones: Plot points help structure the overall arc of the story and are crucial for maintaining pacing and keeping the reader engaged.

They also advance the plot: In essence, plot points often lead from one major moment to the next, such as the inciting incident, major revelations, climax, and resolution. 

Pinch Points

Pinch points are areas that are built off of the plot points: a-la, the internal reactions. These are places where the antagonistic force, conflict, tension, and stakes need to be felt not just by the characters, but by the reader, as well. They can also be spots of action in of themselves, but the main takeaway here is if the protagonist fails (or perhaps succeeds) as a result and what they’ve learned or acquired from it. 

They assert the antagonistic force: Pinch points re-establish the antagonistic force's presence, motivation, or impact on the protagonist's journey.

They’re used to reinforce tension: Pinch points serve as reminders of the looming conflict or threat — increasing the stakes for the protagonist.

They emphasize conflict or revelations: In a way, they act as sort of a “check-in” to see how the protagonist is faring along their journey — emphasizing their reactions to every threat and highlighting what next course of action they must take to counter them. 

In essence, plot points are major structural beats that drive the story forward externally, whereas pinch points specifically highlight or intensify the conflict and antagonistic pressures. Both are essential for creating a well-paced and engaging narrative, but they serve different functions within the overall plot structure.

Here are some useful sites that have really opened my eyes and helped me to understand plot and pinch points:

[tzeenneth]

PREV / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐒

Tzeentch was singing.

In a warbling voice of madness and joy, the Great God of Change was belting out some tune or other, much to the agitation of the captive god-thrall. This wasn't unusual. The Changer had always been odd and even the early warp had echoed to his trilling arias. Khade had known them to mean three things, as reasonably as anything the Changer did could mean anything.

Tzeentch was bored, excited, or nervous. It was hard to tell. It always was with the Old Bird and so Simaer-Khade settled his head on his paws and gleaned what he could from lyrics. Sometimes, it was nonsense-- a meaningless word salad from an addled, warring mind. But other times...

" ♫ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ aͣnᴛⷮs͛ goͦ mͫaͣrͬcͨhͪiͥng oͦneͤ вy oͦneͤ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫

♫ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ aͣnᴛⷮs͛ goͦ mͫaͣrͬcͨhͪiͥng oͦneͤ вy oͦneͤ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫

♫ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ aͣnᴛⷮs͛ cͨoͦmͫeͤ вeͤaͣrͬiͥng flaͣmͫeͤ aͣndͩ waͣrͬ,̓ ᴛⷮhͪeͤy s͛eͤeͤᴋⷦs͛ ᴛⷮoͦ вaͣᴛⷮᴛⷮeͤn dͩoͦwn mͫy dͩoͦoͦrͬ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ, hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫ "

Other voices joined. The droll tones of Lords of Change and the squealing, high pitch noises of horrors both pink and blue. There were daemons here now, where there was once just him and the Changer, in constant and bitter company.

"♫ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ aͣnᴛⷮs͛ goͦ mͫaͣrͬcͨhͪiͥng niͥneͤ вy niͥneͤ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫

♫ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ cͨrͬoͦwn oͦf cͨhͪaͣoͦs͛ wiͥll вeͤ mͫiͥneͤ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫

♫ Dͩoͦwn wiͥᴛⷮhͪ рlaͣguͧeͤ,̓ s͛aͣᴛⷮiͥn,̓ вraͣs͛s͛,̓ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ cͨrͬoͦwn oͦf aͣll'́s͛ wiͥᴛⷮhͪiͥn mͫy grͬaͣs͛р,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ,̓ hͪuͧrͬrͬaͣhͪ! ♫ "

[xaallo]

Vask had raged. She had raged at everyone, but mostly at her youngest, Itêila. How could you fall short of a warm-blood? Hissed the Praetorii, her fury joined by the judgement and disappointment of her sisters. Already proven, already established. Itêila had yet to do any of those things...and had failed to do the one thing she was assigned to do.

Vask's anger had more than just words. Running talons down the side of her face, Itêila only winced the slightest bit at the pain that bloomed beneath her fingers. The claw marks weren't yet healed. She sat there, on that miserable planet, cloaked in branches and shadows, hating the golden brat and the white hairball he'd chosen to be sweet on in lieu of them.

And then, she stood and slithered from her hiding place. A Tshekge's hate was no impotent thing. And she was done licking her wounds.

---

Far away, in the Imperial grounds of the Prime Administrative Circles, the Prince and his beau were blissfully unaware of the things their union had set in motion. They were thinking only of a bright future, a big family, and braving the challenges of life together.

The current challenge being the issue of what to wear for their wedding.

" They'll have to measure you, among other things." Xaallo says, almost warningly. He knew what his mate was like. " Unless you'd rather do it yourself?" He gave a sigh. Big political events like this were so tiring, especially when Kaldane was insisting everything be perfect and properly ostentatious in proportion to the importance of it all.

He mutters to himself, " You nervous?" He asked, projecting his own nerves in truth.

@apexulansis

[upandnorth]

dance with me

every time I start a project (most of them in pencils or thumbnails still, but my joy is to create the story) I make a playlist to help me with the mood.

These are a few or the Vulpes Inculta companion mod:

[warhammer-fantasy-muses]

It has been literal days... maybe even a week or so, since the defense that Qhi held against Zhubon and his host. Skarbrand was still nowhere to be seen. Khazaan was apparently slain. And Kha'xanzyr was kept at N'kari's palace, awaiting his own siege. And meanwhile he was stuck commanding Infernius. It laid as a heavy burden on his mind, even if all he had to do was to occasionally shift into his Bloodthirster form and march around the grounds to make sure no mutiny was taking place between the Khornate and Slaaneshi forces.

Qhi'zhek had very little time for his studies recently. Had very little time to just sit around and ponder on his hordes of knowledge. But at least it was a welcome distraction, so as to not be consumed by his own work, literally. His fingers and talons gently played with the self-fashioned talisman of Vhiarn's axe, thinking about it...

"... Why do I still feel guilt? I should not. She died a warrior's death, as Khornates always do. But I..." he allows himself to mumble into the loneliness of his quarters. His fingers finally falter away from the chain, as it dangles off his neck... it felt heavy. As if he had a boulder attached, rather than a miniscule trinket. He'd glance towards his own talons.

"I... I could've done more. I should've..." he could feel that familiar feeling boiling up in his veins again; that alien feeling of rage. Ever since he chose to serve the Exiles, the concentrated presence of Khornates had gotten to him. His mood fluctuating every day, slowly becoming more easily agitated, more easily brought to anger, to raise his voice... but now, that rage was directed at himself.

"... I should've done SOMETHING! ANYTHING! I could've saved her from her fate! I--" Fate. Destiny. The things his father dealt and dabbled in constantly. Could he have been stronger, if he was still in his father's throng of servants? Could he have reversed the strands of fate to save her? The frustrations gnawed at him, until finally with a fierce screech he'd slam his hands into the wooden table, talons raking fine threads of wood in their wake as they'd scrape along the surface. Something fell from his body, and onto the table.

Feathers. His feathers.

Was he... was he molting?

The feathers that fell from him were not the same dark navy blue that his coat usually was. They had begun to turn red at the base. As shining crimson as fresh blood. Some of the feathers were half-way red, and a couple were even fully cast in that bright crimson. He just stared at one such feather... before he scoffed and brushed them aside, stepping up to walk out to get some fresh air.

[nurrgleth]

Realm of Chaos, Plague-Manse

"𝙃𝙤𝙝𝙤! 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙖 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙩!"

Nurgle laughed, even as he pained, and that in itself was a thing of note. The Great Plaguelord was as insensate as any of his children, yet his latest brew bit along his tongue like a school of ravenous flesh eating fish. It set fire to his throat, a tingle to the base of his rotten, conical teeth, and as the the foul sludge slopped it's way down his throat, into his stomach, and beyond, he felt the persistent heat of it.

"𝙔𝙚𝙨, 𝙮𝙚𝙨! 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩! 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚!" Nurgle declared in a jubilant sing-song, his good humor spreading to all his daemons excepting the ever-stoic Plaguebearers. He took another ladle full of the frothing, angry liquid, the color of diseased blood, and his grinning face twisted into a grimace. Then he nodded to himself, pleased.

"𝘿𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙛𝙪𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙤-- 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙝 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙆𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙧𝙣." Nurgle had remarked, both with humor and disappointment. It had taken the last of his acquired sample of Khorne's horn to make this brew. He put a blackened finger to his chin, stroking his parasite ridden beard of hair.

"𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨?" Nurgleth mused to himself, picking up yet another ladle full. But this one he didn't drink. Instead, he turned to the caged deity hanging in the corner of the Great Cauldron's room. Within, sat the forlorn form of Poxfulcrum, slave and test subject of the Plague God. Nurgle's jovial grin turned sharp.

"𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚? 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨, 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚-𝙛𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧? 𝙎𝙠𝙪𝙡𝙡-𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙯𝙮? 𝙆𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚'𝙨 𝙍𝙤𝙩?"

With each suggestion, he came closer, Poxfulcrum eyeing the foul concoction in terror. The reddish brown liquid bubbled over the edges of the ladle. Within it's depths, she could see skull shapes, blood worms, and rancid crimson steam rising up from it. Long had the deity languished in Nurgle's "service", but even after so many brews consumed, she was terrified of anything wrought from the Blood God. Nurgle's grin never faltered.

"𝙄 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨! 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙋𝙤𝙭𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙢?"

[skxrbrand]

Prev / N'kari's Palace, Island of Ulthuan, Dungeons

₪ 𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

The voice of the Red God echoed off the the dungeons of N'kari's Palace, the dim, spacious chamber misted with Slaaneshi narcotics. Skarbrand flinched visibly when he heard it, when he realized he had been spotted, despite his careful steps. The Unmaker's voice was not as before; it's power and majesty restrained by a prison of flesh. No, the recent surfeit of souls and death had prompted the god-strand to slip his binds and now there he was in his full, leonine magnificence.

Even with all his size and presence, Skarbrand could not make him out will among the shadows which he quickly determined to be unnatural. All he could see was a dark shape of large suggestion and eyes, far too many of them, leering at him from the dark. There was a rhythmic rumble, which he came to realize was the deity's breathing, pattering off the dark, smooth bricks like gentle rain.

₪ 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃, 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐓. Khade lifted a massive limb, tipped with long, crimson claws. Skarbrand tensed and willed himself not to retreat anymore than the single step he'd taken. But the god only pointed in the direction of civilized lands.

₪ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐘.

" I know which way south lies."

₪ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄. Khade shifted, his tone ponderous. Skarbrand watched him closely, ignoring the way his pulse sped up. 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑-𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐃𝐎𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑𝐒. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊, 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

" We made no formal accords. No pacts of blood were made to bind us together." Skarbrand growled defensively. " You have gained power in my absence. You have slithered into the mind of my brother, whilst I was away." The Reaper stood straighter, angry the other god had encroached on his brother's soul in such a way.

" I tire of the lands of men. Of the cities of elves." Skarbrand snarled, " And I have sprung you from one of your prisons, to no reward. Can you not free your other selves, or are you a babe I must accompany and watch over?"

Khade moved, quick as a flash. There was a sound like a clap of thunder and the very walls and earth seemed to shake. A great hand had slammed down mere inches from the Bloodthirster and, on reflex, the Reaper's axes were in hand. He found himself staring into the brilliant blue gaze of his father's brother, lit with indignant fury. White fangs glinted at him and whatever shadow magic that had been laid upon the dungeons seemed to abate if only to give Skarbrand a better look at the Red God threatening him.

₪ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑. 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐓.

Skarbrand's face rather suggested he disagreed with that and indeed, even Khade knew he was broken quite literally into pieces. And one of those pieces were gone. The Bloodthirster snorted, smoke issuing from his nostrils.

" And I am not your daemon. Kha'xanzyr might've surrendered his name to you, but I am not yours to command."

₪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐌𝐄? Khade's tone was dangerous. Skarbrand grimaced.

"You are a god. You should not need aid, 'o feared Unmaker."

The chamber rung with another growl from Khade, but his fury was restrained to just that sound. It was there, and then gone like a flash of light, smothered behind a shadowy look of consideration.

₪ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑. The Panthera God drawled at last, pulling his hand-paw back into the inky, unnatural darkness. 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐃, 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑. Khade could not help but lilt the last sentence, sneering and bemused.

₪ 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐎.

[slaanxsh]

Previous / Realm of Slaanesh, Palace of Pleasure

Slaanesh the Resplendent, the Dark and Perfect Prince of Chaos, did not beg. He did not go scrapping or kneeling to anyone, not even his much more powerful Brothers in Darkness. It was others who kneeled to him, who debased themselves for even a second of his notice, a moment of his endless time.

But with Ïshtaran it was different. No words, but still a desperation, intermingled with anger. Stay. A plea and a command both, the Prince acting them out with acts both sensual and innocent. Days spent frolicking through the endless perfumed gardens, chasing one another over the sandy beaches. Nights spent in the Dark Prince's chambers, grabbing at each other, adding their voices to chorus of pleasure and terror echoing off the pristine walls.

Snares. All of them. Ïshtaran hadn't seen it before, when the world was new and untouched, but the Prince was a daemon of which he was familiar now. The heady musk of the palace fogged the edges of his mind and made his limbs heavy. It made his will soft, malleable...but it didn't break him. Didn't sway him from vows made before setting foot here in this hell dimension.

All was quiet, a rare lull in the pleasure games where indolence swept over all in the alcazar. The Prince lay on his body, chest to his own, drawing his sigil Ïshtaran's fur with one perfectly manicured talon. The Master of Seasons in turn petted the Dark Prince's glorious mane, combing his thick claws through the fine, flaxen strands. Ïshtaran steeled his nerves, squeezing shut his eyes, then casting a hard stare at the Prince.

"𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘."

The Chimeric god's voice echoed off the chamber walls. He felt the gently writhing god atop him stop suddenly. The finger ceased and when he looked down, one lavender eye was clapped onto him in alarm. Anger. Much of Ïshtaran resolve's withered then.

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯?"

"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙰 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎."

Slaanesh's face creased, incredulity joining his anger. He planted both of his fine hands into Ïshtaran's broad chest and pushed himself up, looking down at his paramour in displeasure. The Seasonal God could see serpentine fangs peeking out from his upper lip and felt the wounds about his neck and thighs hiss in dull pain from previous bites made.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦?"

"𝙽𝚘. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍." The Deity answered quickly with a shake of his head. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜."

Slaanesh thought. Then, he sunk down on his elbows, much -- but not all -- of his rage flagging.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦."

Ïshtaran nodded. "𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜."

Slaanesh's snout came out of joint for a second. But the growing rage passed, tempered by his love for the deity beneath him. Charmed, even, by the pathetic predicament the Prince of Monochrome had found himself in. The Prince made a short, amused sound.

"𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵."

Ïshtaran doubted Hjallmarr would be interested in any such thing. Slaanesh pulled himself off of his paramour, donning and tying his robes. Though the Chimeras presence had been a welcomed relief from the Game's sudden ill-fortunes, he still had a war to win and punishments to dispense for his child's death. His gaze lingered on Ïshtaran as he sauntered off, stepping over the bodies of his children.

"𝘋𝘰, 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬."

[kharrneth]

prev / Throne Room, The Brass Citadel, Realm of Chaos

Long-term planning was not the province of the Blood God, nor many of his children. They did not plot, they did not scheme, they did not wait for seeds sown deep in the distant pass to come into fruition in the current day. They were not the witchbreed, scrying the future, meddling with the fates, teasing the very strings of destiny itself.

But for a threat such as Khade, even Khorne had made preparations. The God had been his brother, the firstborn, the Pick of the Litter of Eight. And Kharneth had not been so arrogant to believe that the Unmaker could be so easily, permanently swept aside. So when the news came, he was displeased, but not surprised. Arcalux had delivered the information with every hair stood up on his hide, surely expecting his Lord's fury. Expecting to be the target of that Fury, most likely, but there had been none.

No mind-shredding apoplexy, no warp-shaking roar, no mass volcanic event shifting and altering the very Landscape of the Realm of Blood. No, Khorne had brooded on the information, the angry clouds ever-milling about his horns becoming blacker and angrier. From his towering Brass Throne, the Greater Skulltaker had pondered, his great nostrils flaring, rows and rows of brass fangs gnashing in thought.

And then he had risen. He had planned for this day. He had always known it had been a 'when' rather than an 'if'. Great armored talons had ripped into the Realm of Mortals and they were a terror of a sight to see. Mortals scattered as ants, screeching as Khorne himself reached into their reality. At the center of his descending quintet of Claws was the Red Fortress, former home and prison of the shards of Khade.

But a Fortress was not all that it was.

The Blood God dug into the earth with mountainous talons, tearing the very Castle from the ground and pulling it into his realm. It had been long made a ruin, stinking of the black-and-white presence of Malal. Of course the misbegotten whelp would be the catalyst for this. Khorne snapped his teeth together and the black clouds around him ignited as he did. But it was done.

His rage was better spent in his personal forges, somewhere he had frequented in oh so many eons....

[ainlifun]

Why keep the Sages on the Mortal Realm? Not why bury them deep in the Heart of your own if they were so powerful?

Malal had wondered such things many times. Khorne was not particularly witty, but his father wasn't that foolish either. The Blood God had a reason even if Misbegotten knew it not. If it was not broken, perhaps they shouldn't try to fix it, he reasoned.

But, he would not be so foolish as to imprison his quarry close to each other. And he was wise to do so, for all it would take was one disaster, one oversight, to lose all he had gained. The Blade of the Beast, powerful though it was, was not enough. Not enough to kill a god and he was sure Rhakan had seen to it that it was so. But, there was nothing stopping Malal from constructing his own blade of utter destruction.

That was where the three Sages came in.

He had not taken the loss of three of his champions well. Only Sabon remained as his strongest and she was taking it even harder. Not a raging beast, or particularly bloodthirster, the Anarche had shut herself away to wallow and grieve her siblings and some would blame the disaster that befell one of the Shadow-Gaol on her. But, Malal, while furious, had been unconvinced she could've stopped the sudden surge of power even if she were of a mind to.

Idonea, the Scarlet Sage, had escaped. Her surge of unmaking power had loosened her chains and weakened her jailers. And rather than hunt them down, the Shadowgod sent words to his Seers and Diviners to retain what they still had.

One loose hound would not foil his plans.

[tzeenneth]

Chaos Wastes, Brazen Altar / PREV

"ᴛⷮhͪeͤrͬeͤ iͥs͛ s͛oͦ mͫuͧcͨhͪ hͪaͣррeͤniͥng oͦf laͣᴛⷮeͤ!"

The Aspect of Tzeentch chirped to his captive god-hound, much to Simaer-Khade's annoyance. Ordinarily, the Changer would share his plans with no one, not even his daemons, who were partial to treachery just as he was. But Khade was different. Not so treacherous (well, at least not without just cause).

And more importantly, held captive. The god-fragment couldn't escape Tzeentch's nattering even if he wanted to. When the Hound failed to ask, the Changer pushed on.

"Mⷨy liͥᴛⷮᴛⷮleͤ вiͥrͬdͩs͛ s͛eͤcͨrͬeͤᴛⷮeͤdͩ aͣвoͦuͧᴛⷮ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ ᴛⷮeͤmͫрᴛⷮeͤrͬ'́s͛ рaͣlaͣcͨeͤ whͪiͥs͛рeͤrͬ s͛uͧcͨhͪ iͥnᴛⷮeͤrͬeͤs͛ᴛⷮiͥng ᴛⷮhͪiͥngs͛ ᴛⷮoͦ mͫeͤ. Aͣndͩ mͫy aͣdͩoͦрᴛⷮeͤdͩ вloͦoͦdͩ-̄рuͧр aͣmͫaͣs͛s͛eͤs͛ oͦffeͤrͬiͥngs͛ iͥn mͫy naͣmͫeͤ!"

The hound, aside from the flattening of it's frills, didn't so much as react. The Aspect smirked.

"ᴛⷮhͪeͤrͬeͤ iͥs͛ s͛oͦmͫeͤᴛⷮhͪiͥng eͤls͛eͤ,̓ ᴛⷮoͦoͦ. ᴛⷮhͪeͤ Wrͬeͤᴛⷮcͨhͪeͤs͛ aͣndͩ ᴛⷮhͪrͬaͣlls͛ laͣnguͧiͥs͛hͪiͥng iͥn Nuͧrͬgleͤᴛⷮhͪ'́s͛ gaͣrͬdͩeͤn cͨoͦmͫeͤ ᴛⷮoͦ mͫeͤ wiͥᴛⷮhͪ s͛uͧcͨhͪ s͛oͦngs͛ aͣs͛ weͤll. ᴛⷮhͪeͤy s͛iͥng oͦf aͣ neͤw рlaͣguͧeͤ,̓ aͣ Рoͦxͯ oͦf Goͦdͩs͛. S͛aͣngrͬeͤneͤ Nuͧrͬgleͤ cͨaͣlls͛ iͥᴛⷮ-̄-̄ weͤll,̓ wiͥll cͨoͦmͫeͤ ᴛⷮoͦ cͨaͣll iͥᴛⷮ. Aͣ рoͦrͬᴛⷮmͫaͣnᴛⷮeͤaͣuͧ oͦf S͛aͣnguͧiͥneͤ aͣndͩ Gaͣngrͬeͤneͤ,̓ mͫaͣdͩeͤ frͬoͦmͫ ᴋⷦhͪoͦrͬneͤ'́s͛ oͦwn hͪoͦrͬn~"

Simaer-Khade held it's position. For a short while at least. But then it shifted, narrowed candy-red eyes blazing up at the beaked aspect of his erstwhile ally.

₪ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔? The hound got to it's paws, turning, leering. 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔. 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓?

"ᴛⷮhͪaͣᴛⷮ iͥs͛ foͦrͬ mͫeͤ ᴛⷮoͦ ᴋⷦnoͦw,̓ aͣlly oͦf mͫiͥneͤ. Aͣhͪ,̓ вuͧᴛⷮ yoͦuͧ hͪaͣvͮeͤ aͣmͫaͣs͛s͛iͥng ᴋⷦnoͦwleͤdͩgeͤ aͣs͛ weͤll,̓ hͪaͣvͮeͤ yoͦuͧ noͦᴛⷮ? Cͨuͧrͬiͥoͦuͧs͛ aͣвoͦuͧᴛⷮ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ neͤw рlaͣyeͤrͬs͛ oͦf ᴛⷮhͪeͤ gaͣmͫeͤ?"

₪ 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐈 𝐃𝐎.

Yoͦuͧ woͦuͧndͩ mͫeͤ,̓ Fiͥrͬs͛ᴛⷮliͥng. Aͣndͩ aͣfᴛⷮeͤrͬ eͤvͮeͤrͬyᴛⷮhͪiͥng Iͥ'́mͫ goͦiͥng ᴛⷮhͪrͬoͦuͧghͪ foͦrͬ yoͦuͧrͬ s͛aͣᴋⷦeͤ. ᴛⷮhͪeͤ hͪeͤaͣrͬᴛⷮs͛ Iͥ'́ll вrͬeͤaͣᴋⷦ,̓ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ вloͦoͦdͩ Iͥ'́ll s͛рiͥll,̓ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ s͛aͣᴛⷮiͥs͛faͣcͨᴛⷮiͥoͦn weͤ wiͥll вoͦᴛⷮhͪ ᴋⷦnoͦw iͥn ᴛⷮhͪeͤ dͩoͦiͥng.

₪ 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓.

Oͦhͪ вeͤ s͛ᴛⷮiͥll,̓ yoͦuͧ s͛рeͤaͣᴋⷦ wiͥᴛⷮhͪ ᴋⷦhͪaͣrͬneͤᴛⷮhͪ'́s͛ woͦrͬdͩs͛. Iͥ wiͥll noͦᴛⷮ s͛uͧffeͤrͬ ᴛⷮwoͦ goͦdͩs͛ oͦf вloͦoͦdͩ."

And Simaer-Khade was. Tzeen'neth had done something, for he was unable to move or speak or even form sentences in his mind. It was like sinking through molasses and despite himself, the hound-host found itself back on it's belly, head at it's paws, eyelids heavy and mind full of fuzz.

[xaallo]

"This was not the deal we struck."

The voice hissed over transmissions, a hologram visual of it's owner the sole point of significant light in the High Councilor's personal communications chamber. Kaldane stared down impassively at the angered figure, rage barely contained behind a veneer of professionalism. The Margavens gaze was opposite; cold and final, like the edge of a falling axe.

" No deals were struck. None set in stone. Your daughter was one of many suitors, one my son did not pick." Kaldane paced to the other side of the small circular table projecting the image of the Impaerii Vask Prymaktys. The reptiloid alien flit her tongue, malice and vengeance glittering in her eyes.

" Then you toss away the promise of a peaceful existence between the Imperatum and the Confederation. And for what? Love?" The alien snorted, and said something in it's strange tongue. Something about mammals. A pejorative almost certainly. " Have you forgotten the Great Enemy lurking the stars, threatening us all?"

" I have not. Least of all, I wouldn't forget them. But should the Swarm appear on our doorstep, I imagine a little thing like a lack of chemistry between our offspring would be a barrier between the survival of all of us." Kaldane offered, knowingly. Again, Vask's eyes flashed. She did not respond, signing off without another word.

The chamber was bathed in darkness once again. But Kaldane knew this would not be the end of it. It was never so simple with the she-lizards.