times-immora

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'So the denizens of the Realms stir anew...'

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End of the Road (Nicolas Delort)

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Catalina Goat Skull by Dogzilla Lives

Real skull repaired, sculpted, and painted

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The Nag

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victoradameart

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5. Flame

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"or... four, it doesn't matter !"

independent rp blog for markus kruber from vermintide: the end times and vermintide II

written by pink

reblog if you're interested !

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All things considered, in his venture to find the warpwine, the daemon did not bother to mess with it. Tampering with contents didn't come across scheming mind - the daemon knew his host's disgusting body would be enough to generate discomfort upon his return.

It was almost a Tzeentchian's gambit if he were to look upon it from the outside, the bloodbeast thought to himself, but it encouraged paws to consider leaving and leave him alone with this gnashing Seer.

'Misfortune, then... a souvenir.' Comes rasp in response, now empty digits closing into a loose fist before arm drops as if it's simply released from a string to rest at side. 'Unlikely.'

'Blood daemons do not take misfortune for suffering - weakening them for a death at the hands of ratkin. It fuels them, empowers them to fight, burn, pillage, kill.'

Shifting on paws the dying host's tail twitches. Maw continues to leak. He can feel the other rodentine's unease mounting, and Kha'Shrol draws from that feeling to make eyes shift amongst them all, a glimmer of firelight showing in pupils as saliva mixes with blackness of foetid ichor.

'One does not need to read or write to know the Gorelord's gaze. He favours those strong enough to fight.' Taking a breath, tail then shifts to slither across deck boards with a whisper of papery flesh. The rats nearby cringe even further at the seeming blasphemy against the Great Horned One, incisors chattering gently. 'You bear a noose that makes you easy prey until another of his champions find you.'

Heliinx scowled. This skavenslave.....it was more like talking to a corpse than a proper cowering servant-rat. But she could tell from the wheeze in his lungs that he probably wasn't long for this world. Probably had some Pestilens-bred disease eating away at his windpipe or something. The thought made her smile.

When he leaves, Heliinx points to mess he'd made on the floor, demanding a nearby slave to clean it up. With what? She didn't know or care, but she wasn't keen to catch whatever disease was lurking within the sick skavenslaves saliva.

In fact. She didn't think drinking the drink she'd commanded he get for her would be very wise either. Oh well. Save it and serve it to an enemy-foe. Yes-yes, that's what I'll do.

When Kha'shrol returns, a slave takes the glass and sets it before Heliinx some distance away. Notably, all the rats aren't keen to be near it, thinking it definitely poisoned or otherwise tainted. His claims make Heliinx's heart lurch and she quickly interjects to save face.

" Yes, to the misfortune of those daemons!" She declares, baring her teeth. " You are more trapped than me, slave-fool. This--" She claws at the brass collar, her talons squealing off the metal, " -- Is souvenir from corpse! Proof-evidence of my victory! Khorne-things take skull? I take-steal precious metal for my own uses!"

Heliinx sniffs, " What does slave-thing know of rage daemons? Can you-you even read let alone write?"

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Louis Moe.

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Ted Nasmith

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ITALIAN DRAGONS by FRIBA ART (Davide Frisoni)

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seraphim. gouache watercolor painting

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For a creature such as he, magic was paltry.

It was a tool of the Changes of Ways. A weapon for the weak and the cowardly who daren't cross blades with superior foes. It was not a tool that a Khornate oft employed - and this continued to stay true with Kha'shrol. He instead utilized his rage, his spite, and his corrupting ichor to keep such a weak body moving until he fulfilled his desires.

Contorting muscle to lilt head to the side, mismatched gaze fixates on Bethanne as the daemon scents the air with mouldering snout softly, experimentally.

'Queekish is not my father tongue,' the daemon responded. Kha'shrol was at least aware of the name of the ratmen's language from his tenure with that interloper God he had escaped, now, as well as a few other things no daemon of his ilk had a need to understand.

Manipulaing nerves to make snout crinkle into a pantomime of a toothy smile as the stanger's own fades, blood coloured spurs in either corner of the mangey Skaven's mouth pulled black lips back even further as saliva leaked out freely. 'It is a grating language. You should be happy for commonspeak, flame-hair, for it makes me easier to understand...'

This Skaven was…something. Definitely something.

Normally, Bethanne would embrace any form of ratfolk with open arms being The Rat Keeper — but this…how to fondly put it? A very rag doll looking rodent? A dog’s chew toy?

Worse for wear.

The corner of her lip twitches upwards in an awkward smile, biting her tongue as to not say anything inappropriate for her new guest. The hand cleaning her pristine goblets pauses, strict eyes taking in his uncanny appearance. With her dark lips opening and closing several times to pinpoint the right choice of words, she finally utters,

“ Do you…require assistance, darling? You look rather…hm. I do not wish to be rude, as we have just met and first impressions do count, so.

Sickly. You look rather beaten down. “

A war veteran perhaps? A high ranking Skaven that had seen countless bloodshed?

“ Are you by chance a product of necromancy? “

Or a corpse reanimated like herself. Because that’s far more appropriate to say.

@times-immora

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//motivation willing today, I will get to the Kha'shrol things I owe

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Reblog this to have people go into your inbox & ask your character questions!

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//this seems to fit him well enough

//stares at Alduin for a possible Shrol voice

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//stares at Alduin for a possible Shrol voice