his mind broke so beautifully. a masterpiece of terror and revelation.
The recovered pict-log flickers to life, a window into a private hell. Grain and chromatic aberration bleed across the image, struggling to resolve a scene illuminated by the sickly tourmaline light of a Commorrite pain-gallery. A silhouette emerges from the gloom—Marazhai, fluid and terrible. His grip is absolute on the Inquisitor’s throat, pinning him against the marred steel. The venomblade in the foreground glistens, its mono-molecular edge not poised to kill, but to paint, each slow drag weeping fresh crimson onto Heinrix’s ruined chest.
The only sound is a low, wet tearing and the faint, rhythmic hiss of the blade’s neuro-toxin dispenser.
But the true horror isn’t the blade, nor the blood. It’s the look on his face. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and burning with a terrifying, ecstatic light. A low, shuddering sound escapes his lips—not a scream of pain, but something that could be mistaken for a gasp of profound, agonizing revelation, as if the Drukhari’s artistry has finally flayed away his sanity and shown him a truth only found at the absolute peak of suffering.
wip share
tagged by @irreverentarchon ty for thinking of me
The air in the medicae bay was thick with the sterile tang of synth-skin sealant and the coppery scent of Saren’s own spilled blood, a smell that seemed utterly alien amidst the usual controlled opulence of the Novacula Mortis. The Lord Captain was a ruin laid out on the diagnostic slab, his magnificent greatcoat discarded, the severe lines of his frock coat torn and stained dark. A deep gash ran from his shoulder down his torso, a wound that had overwhelmed even his suit’s auto-suture system, weeping blood onto the white decking. A medicae-servitor whirred and clicked nearby, its metal claws holding cauterizers and injectors, but Saren had waved it away with a snarl.
Calix stood watch, his own hands stained with his master’s blood from the effort of dragging him here. He held a fresh synth-skin patch, the instruction for its application a simple matter, yet he hesitated. Saren’s mismatched eyes were open, fixed on the cold, lumen-lit ceiling, and they burned with an intensity that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with a profound, terrifying rage.
“Stop fussing, Fellner,” Saren rasped, his voice a ragged edge of its usual silken timbre. “Your Margardian pragmatism should tell you when an asset is damaged beyond immediate repair.”
“The wound requires sealing, Lord Captain,” Calix stated, his own voice flat, trying to anchor the situation in simple, procedural reality. “Your bleeding is… significant.”
A harsh, dry laugh rattled in Saren’s chest, ending in a pained cough. “Significant?” He turned his head slowly, pinning Calix with that unnerving gaze. “It’s all just… fluid dynamics. A temporary state of being, soon to be corrected.” He wasn’t talking about healing. Calix felt a chill colder than any Margardian night. He had seen men face death—with defiance, with terror, with prayer. He had never seen this: a clear-eyed, almost eager anticipation.
“Do not speak like that,” Calix said, the words coming out sharper than he intended.
“Why not?” Saren’s lips curled into a weak, bloodless version of his usual simper. “Because it frightens the loyal hound to see his master welcome the kennel door? Life is no blessing. For what purpose do we live at all, Fellner? It’s inconsequential, this undignified flailing.”
The confession hung in the sterile air, raw and stripped of all artifice. Calix stood frozen for a long moment, the synth-skin patch forgotten in his hand. He didn’t offer comfort; the words were too honest for such a cheap palliative. Instead, after a silence stretched thin by the hum of the medicae slab, he gave a single, quiet affirmation.
“Yes,” Calix said, his voice a low Margardian rasp. “It is.”
Saren’s head turned on the slab, his mismatched eyes narrowing with surprise. This was not the reaction he expected—not the dutiful protest, not the horrified denial.
Calix met his gaze, his own eyes—one of warm earth, one of cold mist—holding no pity, only a shared, grim understanding. “The galaxy is a meat grinder. The gods are mad. The struggle is inconsequential.” He took a slow step closer, his boots making no sound on the blood-stained decking. “But you and I… we have seen the gears. We know the truth. Most beings flail in ignorance. We… we flail with our eyes wide open. That is the only real difference.”
Saren stared, his expression unreadable. The usual mask of mockery and command was gone, leaving only the stark, scarred canvas of the man beneath.
Calix pressed on, his voice still quiet but infused with a cold, hard intensity. “To choose cessation now is to let the void have the final word. It is to admit the chaos that took everything from you is stronger than your will to endure it.” He leaned closer, his presence steady and absolute. “Survival—continuing this pointless, agonizing game—is not a blessing. It is the ultimate act of defiance. It is the only victory that matters.”
The words landed, not with force, but like ice crystals forming slowly in the air, sharp and clear. Calix watched as a storm of emotions warred behind Saren’s eyes. He saw the allure of oblivion fight against the ingrained, ferocious pride that had driven the man for centuries. He saw the nihilist wrestle with the survivor.
A long, shuddering breath escaped Saren’s lips. The burning rage in his eyes cooled, banked, replaced by something else—a flicker of profound, weary resolve. His gaze, for the first time, seemed to lose its predatory edge, becoming something almost… raw. He gave a
single, almost imperceptible nod.
His voice, when it came, was a rough, quiet rasp, stripped of all its usual power.
“The patch, Fellner.”
It was not a command. It was a concession. A request.
“Help me.”
irreverentarchon:
wip share
tagged by @blood-on-the-phoenix-crown [thank you again]
‘Such unscrupulous hands–’ Krasner gasps, choked, rivulets of sardonicism stopping at the back of his throat as he struggles. His words were made to endure the metallic snarl as black intelligence postured at him. The canid, living but not, a mutilated weapon.
It could kill him with that industrial maw and he would have no chance of breathing once more before the end. Krasner’s pale eyes drift to its own– optical sensors, not eyes at all, his mind and blood turning to chill under such scrutiny.
And did it breathe like–
The snapping of teeth answer him, the psyker’s heart staked like ice through his ribs as he winces from it violently. The barking thrust itself into his mind like electric.
Black and red erupts across his vision.
tagging @dead–star @eurons @arcane-vault @issilya
With that, von Aurastor turned on his heel—a crisp, Militarum-style pivot, yet executed with a flourish only his unique eccentricity could muster. The grand sway of the overcoat worn across his shoulders seemed to command the very air as he began to walk, expecting Calix to follow.
Calix fell into step a pace behind, his gaze fixed on the confident line of his master’s back. He wondered if the man ever put down the performance, or if the performance had long since consumed the man entirely.
mafuyu777:
Hiiii I have a headache so I come with a weird and basic question for Saren, Calix, Origen, and whoever else you want because you know I adore your OCs. If you were to assign each of them an element, what would it be? For whatever reason - maybe it evokes certain qualities, shares some characteristics, or maybe for whatever reason it would be important to them personally, like bringing them comfort or the opposite, bringing back some primal fear. (why do i seem to always end up with "what do they fear" btw)
Saren von Aurastor - lightning & ozone. he’s all about sudden, brilliant flashes of power, theatrical displays, and the sharp, sterile scent of discharged energy. his charm is electric, his anger a sudden storm. it’s also the element of the void and the warp-drive, the very force that both created his fortune and destroyed his past, making it a source of both his power and his primal fear.
Calix von Fellner - mist-chilled stone. he’s grounded, resilient, and defined by the cold, damp realities of his world, Margard. like stone, he endures, carrying the weight of duty and history. but it’s a stone perpetually slick with mist, obscuring his true feelings and hinting at the deep, quiet erosion happening within him.
Origen Thule - the abyss. not just deep water, but the crushing, silent pressure of the deep ocean trench where no light reaches. his knowledge is vast and ancient, his presence has immense weight, and he contains horrors that would break the surface world. he is calm, patient, and wields a power that is absolute and terrifying in its quiet totality. when i think about him, i think about swimming shapes under the ice of a frozen ocean.
-
thank you sm….for asking…sobs. i love the excuse to think about them in abstract ways. i hope you find this answer to ur satisfaction, i’m sorry i only did the 3 of them but ya know.. work is calling
i approach humbly to ask because no one else has and I need more aurastor content.. aurastor has several accoutrements and medallions and i always see RTs with like just random decoration. are there stories behind his?
i kiss ur hand for asking.
those two medallions and the way they’re connected are absolutely deliberate and say a lot about how he sees himself and the galaxy.
the 8-pointed skull is what Saren cynically refers to as his “Rogue Trader’s Compass.” his official, theatrical explanation is that it represents the eight cardinal vectors of void travel, a symbol of his mastery over the unknown and his willingness to navigate any path to profit. of course, the real reason is a calculated provocation. He knows perfectly well it’s reminiscent of the symbol of the Archenemy. it’s a piece of performative heresy that declares he walks on the razor’s edge and is utterly unafraid.
the 4-pointed star is, as you might suspect, a military commendation. a Star of Adamant, a unique campaign medal awarded to him for providing critical, tide-turning firepower during a crusade. a normal person might wear it as a badge of honour or loyalty to the Imperium. Saren wears it as a trophy. it’s a tangible reminder that the mighty, rigid Astra Militarum was forced to bargain for his help and publicly acknowledge their debt to him. it’s not a symbol of his service; it’s a symbol of their need.
and the eccentric aiguillette arrangement is the final, most arrogant statement. it physically links these two opposing symbols. The golden cords represent himself—the only force capable of bridging the gap between the lawless, heretical fringe (the Compass) and the dogmatic, rigid heart of the Imperium (the Star). It’s a visual declaration that he, Saren von Aurastor, is the master of both realms, able to navigate and dominate the forces of chaos and order alike. the entire arrangement is a carefully crafted piece of propaganda for an audience of one: himself.
as if you’re waiting for something. bsky.
“My place,” Saren echoes from behind bared teeth. “Let us speak of hammers, then. Where,” Saren began, his voice a low growl that cut through the sterile air, “does the maker’s credit end, and the weapon’s merit begin?”
Origen paused his departure around the desk, his back still to Saren, a gesture of supreme condescension. “When the weapon forgets who forged it.”
“Never,” Saren bit, taking a half-step forward, reclaiming a sliver of the space Origen had taken. “But a hammer only strikes the steel. It does not grant the metal its temper. It does not endure the quenching in the cold void, nor does it learn the shape of the blade it must become.”
great time (with all the censorship happening, fucking with my income stream) to mention the old deadstar discord server, still going strong. still full of warhammer, vtm, soulsborne nerds and actual dead dove.
heavily curated users. small but engaged. upping our warnings to scare people away.
we aren’t political one side or the other. no topic/identity is sacred or beyond reproach. it’s healthy to criticise. people will do their best to respect your pronouns but we don’t enforce it. if you share your work, know that it may receive negative feedback. the server is full of lore puritans and professional or serious writers. it’s not a friendly place for people without critical thinking skills or who get uncomfortable being disagreed with-or lurkers, given the topics that sometimes get spoken about in reference to fictional content.
that said, we play games together (darktide, mmos, palworld), share our or others’ work, discuss fiction happenings and have the best living room vibes ever.
if our red flags look green to you, dm @dead–star, @irreverentarchon or @eurons for an invite
wip based on some collab rp with @irreverentarchon
