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Salt-In-The-Wound
Moon
- Joined
- Mar 22, 2023
Please Note that this request touches on Subject Matter that involves Torture and Abuse. This is a Content Warning for those matters.
The Attack on St. Nazarius' Hope by the Drukhari ended the same way that they all did: Horrifically and Apathetically.
St. Nazarius' Hope was an agri-colony that was settled on the habitable moon of Hive World Canaan. When the Dark Eldar came screaming into real-space in orbit of the moon, there was not much to be done. The moon's most important cities were guarded by stationed Guard Regiments—Hard targets, and thus not what the Drukhari were interested in.
No, instead The Moon was host to various plantations and hamlets that were far softer targets and ripe for the taking. Guarded by barely-trained and undermanned PDF Elements, by the time any formal resistance could be organized the Drukhari—and their captives—would be long gone.
The Raid took less than 24 hours—The Drukhari had no intention of trying to raze this world, this was a pure slave grab. By the time the Imperial Guard came to inspect the damage that had been done, the countryside had been completely depopulated.
These losses were not considered to be significant.
Barges stuffed full of newly provenanced captives slipped back into the Web-way, and into the Black City of Commorragh. Three different elements of Drukhari Society—A Wych-Cult, a Coven, and a Kabal—Were present for the raid, and the captives were divided between them.
Of the captives, the luckiest suffered brutal but short deaths during the raid. After that, those lucky enough to be given out to the Wych-Cults met their ends in bloody gladiatorial combat. Those of poor luck were given out to the Kabal, and became forced labor—and victims of torture—for the Drukhari warriors.
Those with the least luck, though, were given out to the Haemonculus Coven.
While the slaves of the Kabal suffered in great measure, they were occasionally left alone while the warriors of the Kabal were pre-occupied, and one day, blissfully, they would die, either due to the Drukhari overeagerness to torture or blissfully put out of their misery by Guardsmen or Orks or Tyranids or anything less benighted than their captors.
The victims of the Haemonculus suffered beyond measure.
The Haemonculus had no need to keep their subjects in working condition. Every second of every day was constant and unending torture for their captives, and not just the whip-work of less creative Kabalite types—The one word that could be used to describe the Haemonculi fully was creative.
They knew not to overstep their boundaries as well, and how to clean up after themselves when they were done. They were exceptionally good at keeping their victims alive, even long after they should have perished.
Most of the time Haemonculi subjects would end up becoming grotesques, warped into living engines of fear and pain, or put to some bizarre purpose of the Coven's provenance. Some, though, found clarity through the pain, and rose to a position of… not Equity, but a dark, twisted, cloying affection among their masters.
There was a young PDF soldier who was stationed at his hometown on St. Nazarius' Hope. Barely 19 years old at the time, his name is no longer important, the Drukhari have neglected to remember it and it, like so much else, has been stripped from him.
He put up a fight. With a Krak charge normally used for flattening terrain, he created a mine that spelled the end of a Reaver Jet-bike. With a hunting rifle, he removed the head of a Kabalite Warrior that was approaching his position. This showing did not last long after that—Slave-Nets from a Kabalite Terror Barge scooped him up and off towards damnation.
There was something of a fight over this human—The one that put up a meaningful fight during the raid, the Wych-Cult wanted him to die a bloody death in gladiatorial combat. The Kabal would see his spirit broken in slave labors during their next raids, and the Coven desperately wanted to make him anew.
In the end, the Coven offered up 20 other slaves for the young soldier. He was brought into the Coven, and introduced to pain beyond immortal imagination.
At first, the Coven had dreams of making the young man into a particularly ambitious grotesque. Thus, the experiments began. The Coven found his countenance particularly pleasing, and thus ensured his physical appearance would live on in skin-suits grown for their own usage. Sooner rather than later, he did not have a face of his own. His bones broken and regrown in particularly painful shapes, with ready-to-connect bone spurs one every limb and plate. His muscles were liquefied and replaced with sturdier, harder materials, and everywhere cybernetics could be installed, they were.
Perhaps the Coven's tortures awoke something within him, or perhaps he was always like this, all the way back on St. Nazarius' Hope, which felt like centuries ago. The reason was not as important as the result. He was found in the Slave Quarters of the Coven, slicing apart the other slaves and gleefully grafting their skin and bone onto his own body.
The Haemonculus was not enraged, but amused. He loaned his experiment out to the Wyches, where he performed very well in Gladiatorial combat, and returned alive. He was given the position of Wrack by the Haemonculus, and a name alongside it. In reference to the fluid, he had been caught sucking out of the bones of one of the slaves he had slaughtered, he had been named Marrow
He accompanied the Coven on their next raid—to the same moon he was taken from, but this time around they were attacking one of the more densely populated Urban Centers. Marrow did wonderfully, cutting guardsmen into baroque effigies of meat with Pain Sculptors, and boiling them alive with Liquefiers.
When the raid had finished, Marrow had developed a new taste for pain, and asked his Haemonculus to give him greater form. He had earned the affection of his Masters. He was thus known as Haemoxyte.
He was loved, not in any true way—If the Drukhari ever knew true love, it would only be as a sweetmeat to be devoured. He was loved in the same way a pet was loved, a cute, prideful thing to be carted around and boasted of.
All of him that was required for his continued existence was condensed into a wraithbone vessel lodged within his form. Everything around that was just meat and steel—all that needed to be done to transfer his consciousness to one body to another was to tear out the core and place it into a new form.
This meant he had grotesque war-forms of stony muscle and steel plating, with Heat Lances on his shoulders and splinter cannons stitched directly into his flesh. Lethal forms that were as sharp and firm as a dagger, with lower limbs holding toxic, shocking whips while his upper limbs wielded blades with edges thinner than air. Lusty court-forms made in the image of his old countenance, but with alterations to satisfy the desires of the Drukhari.
He was no longer human, and did not desire to be anymore. Though his soul might not suffer the same thirst his masters did, he felt it all the same.
St. Nazarius' Hope was an agri-colony that was settled on the habitable moon of Hive World Canaan. When the Dark Eldar came screaming into real-space in orbit of the moon, there was not much to be done. The moon's most important cities were guarded by stationed Guard Regiments—Hard targets, and thus not what the Drukhari were interested in.
No, instead The Moon was host to various plantations and hamlets that were far softer targets and ripe for the taking. Guarded by barely-trained and undermanned PDF Elements, by the time any formal resistance could be organized the Drukhari—and their captives—would be long gone.
The Raid took less than 24 hours—The Drukhari had no intention of trying to raze this world, this was a pure slave grab. By the time the Imperial Guard came to inspect the damage that had been done, the countryside had been completely depopulated.
These losses were not considered to be significant.
Barges stuffed full of newly provenanced captives slipped back into the Web-way, and into the Black City of Commorragh. Three different elements of Drukhari Society—A Wych-Cult, a Coven, and a Kabal—Were present for the raid, and the captives were divided between them.
Of the captives, the luckiest suffered brutal but short deaths during the raid. After that, those lucky enough to be given out to the Wych-Cults met their ends in bloody gladiatorial combat. Those of poor luck were given out to the Kabal, and became forced labor—and victims of torture—for the Drukhari warriors.
Those with the least luck, though, were given out to the Haemonculus Coven.
While the slaves of the Kabal suffered in great measure, they were occasionally left alone while the warriors of the Kabal were pre-occupied, and one day, blissfully, they would die, either due to the Drukhari overeagerness to torture or blissfully put out of their misery by Guardsmen or Orks or Tyranids or anything less benighted than their captors.
The victims of the Haemonculus suffered beyond measure.
The Haemonculus had no need to keep their subjects in working condition. Every second of every day was constant and unending torture for their captives, and not just the whip-work of less creative Kabalite types—The one word that could be used to describe the Haemonculi fully was creative.
They knew not to overstep their boundaries as well, and how to clean up after themselves when they were done. They were exceptionally good at keeping their victims alive, even long after they should have perished.
Most of the time Haemonculi subjects would end up becoming grotesques, warped into living engines of fear and pain, or put to some bizarre purpose of the Coven's provenance. Some, though, found clarity through the pain, and rose to a position of… not Equity, but a dark, twisted, cloying affection among their masters.
There was a young PDF soldier who was stationed at his hometown on St. Nazarius' Hope. Barely 19 years old at the time, his name is no longer important, the Drukhari have neglected to remember it and it, like so much else, has been stripped from him.
He put up a fight. With a Krak charge normally used for flattening terrain, he created a mine that spelled the end of a Reaver Jet-bike. With a hunting rifle, he removed the head of a Kabalite Warrior that was approaching his position. This showing did not last long after that—Slave-Nets from a Kabalite Terror Barge scooped him up and off towards damnation.
There was something of a fight over this human—The one that put up a meaningful fight during the raid, the Wych-Cult wanted him to die a bloody death in gladiatorial combat. The Kabal would see his spirit broken in slave labors during their next raids, and the Coven desperately wanted to make him anew.
In the end, the Coven offered up 20 other slaves for the young soldier. He was brought into the Coven, and introduced to pain beyond immortal imagination.
At first, the Coven had dreams of making the young man into a particularly ambitious grotesque. Thus, the experiments began. The Coven found his countenance particularly pleasing, and thus ensured his physical appearance would live on in skin-suits grown for their own usage. Sooner rather than later, he did not have a face of his own. His bones broken and regrown in particularly painful shapes, with ready-to-connect bone spurs one every limb and plate. His muscles were liquefied and replaced with sturdier, harder materials, and everywhere cybernetics could be installed, they were.
Perhaps the Coven's tortures awoke something within him, or perhaps he was always like this, all the way back on St. Nazarius' Hope, which felt like centuries ago. The reason was not as important as the result. He was found in the Slave Quarters of the Coven, slicing apart the other slaves and gleefully grafting their skin and bone onto his own body.
The Haemonculus was not enraged, but amused. He loaned his experiment out to the Wyches, where he performed very well in Gladiatorial combat, and returned alive. He was given the position of Wrack by the Haemonculus, and a name alongside it. In reference to the fluid, he had been caught sucking out of the bones of one of the slaves he had slaughtered, he had been named Marrow
He accompanied the Coven on their next raid—to the same moon he was taken from, but this time around they were attacking one of the more densely populated Urban Centers. Marrow did wonderfully, cutting guardsmen into baroque effigies of meat with Pain Sculptors, and boiling them alive with Liquefiers.
When the raid had finished, Marrow had developed a new taste for pain, and asked his Haemonculus to give him greater form. He had earned the affection of his Masters. He was thus known as Haemoxyte.
He was loved, not in any true way—If the Drukhari ever knew true love, it would only be as a sweetmeat to be devoured. He was loved in the same way a pet was loved, a cute, prideful thing to be carted around and boasted of.
All of him that was required for his continued existence was condensed into a wraithbone vessel lodged within his form. Everything around that was just meat and steel—all that needed to be done to transfer his consciousness to one body to another was to tear out the core and place it into a new form.
This meant he had grotesque war-forms of stony muscle and steel plating, with Heat Lances on his shoulders and splinter cannons stitched directly into his flesh. Lethal forms that were as sharp and firm as a dagger, with lower limbs holding toxic, shocking whips while his upper limbs wielded blades with edges thinner than air. Lusty court-forms made in the image of his old countenance, but with alterations to satisfy the desires of the Drukhari.
He was no longer human, and did not desire to be anymore. Though his soul might not suffer the same thirst his masters did, he felt it all the same.
The meat of this request is to play a Haemoxyte, a Haemonculus' beloved Wrack as he interacts with the rest of Drukhari society and the rest of Realspace. I desire this to be a rather smutty RP for one thing, and also an RP that has a significant amount of action inside of it. The Smut-to-plot ratio is probably looking something like 40/60 for this one. With that 60% being half-action and half character moments. This is not supposed to be a GM-seeking post, so be relieved if that was your concern. If that is something you are interested in I certainly will not try to stop you, but I am perfectly fine controlling some of the side characters if you can do the same. Ideally this is built around Marrow and another Drukhari and their twisted relationship.
Marrow is not loved in the same way that other people are loved. To the Drukhari he is simply a pet--A cute thing to be cherished, but should he prove disobedient he will be issued firm and swift correction.
For the plots present in this one, It can really be anything that fits the setting, but here are a few ones that I immediately have in mind.
====
-He is loaned out to a Wych-cult and takes part of their gladiatorial combats, slowly endearing himself to the Cult and to the crowds they serve.
-He is given away to be part of a powerful Archon's retinue. There he is companion to this Archon, and engages in combat alongside them.
-He works more deeply with his Haemonculus, going on raids with them and bonding with them over the experiments they perform.
-A small group of Drukhari conscript his help in hunting down Slaaneshi artifacts of sound to be used in raids. These artifacts are instruments. This is a band plot.
-The Dysjunction in Commorragh pull apart the Coven, leading to the death of Marrow's Haemonculus. He sets to task trying to get things back under control.
====
As for Kinks, this is absolutely going to be a Kinkier Plot. As for more Mundane Kinks, my big ones are: Curvaceous Women, Excessive Cum, and Cumplay.
More mundane kinks aren't going to be the focus of this plot, though. The Drukhari can alter their bodies, so we can absolutely play with that. While I do not want to RP out Extreme Torture (as in guts flying everywhere) or Death--At least in the context of a smut scene--these things might be absolutely implied. Basically all the smut scenes in this plot are going to be extraordinarily rough. Just let me know what your mileage is.
My Absolute, Non-Negotiable, don't-even-ask, limits are:
-Underage Characters
-Scat
-Farts
-Feet
-Armpits
-Rape (I understand that this is a darker plot, but I just do not like this.)
I would love to hear back from anyone with any ideas! I haven't polished this thread up too much yet, as I'm mostly gauging for interest.