Punishment -another story by Belial. Please Read and Rate.
Posted: Wed Apr 27, 2005 4:43 pm
Well, I couldn't help post another of my stories. I like the way this one turned out.
Looking out the high tower on the fields beneath him, he felt invincible. He was untouchable. A god. And yet, he could not help having a little fear. Even though it was ridiculous. He was Kehr'onden. He was the favoured of Slaanesh. In the dark recesses of his cellars, enemies which had dared draw sword at him was being whipped an tortured, driven to madness. He ran his fingers through his long black hair. He had defied the law. Twice. Placing his long, pale fingers over a unlit candle, a spark flew from the tips, catching the wick, a small flame blossoming forth. He was a criminal, in the eys of the society. But he was invincible. His castle, with it's many high towers, was placed in a valley, which was inaccessible because of the high mountains surrounding it. The only way in, was through a mountain pass. And that pass spelt doom for any who entered with menace. Each inch of the cliffside there had been exploited in every way, turned into defence positions and so forth. No army could enter his domain. His. Not the kings. His. Kehr'onden, or Maleus as he was really named, was very fond of the thought. The king could feel his defiance, but do nothing. He was Kehr'onden favoured of Slaanesh. He held demons in oath, and no army could touch him. Nothing. Not even the royal sorcerers, though powerful, could penetrate the magical shield his own sorcerers generated around the castle. Truly invincible. Sitting down in an ornate wooden chair, he inspected the room. His room. There was the bed, in which several females lay, asleep, exhausted from the nights actions. Kirta was his favoured. She was such a delightful one. A bit small, and young too, but she was so gorgeous. He flashed his perfect white teeth at the sleeping women. In a month or so, he would probably change them for someone else. He stood up, and went to the wall to regard the great painting. It showed him, battling and enslaving demons. He loved to see himself glorified. He was, however, not quite content about the way his nose had been painted on the painting. It was not as perfect as the real thing. But he had had the painter whipped. It had been a delightful scene.
He went again to the window. The moon was full tonight, and it cast an eerie light on the landscape. The valley was almost illuminated. The wind was blowing, strong, howling, as if in a rage. Even the gods defied him. But they could not touch him. Slaanesh watched over him. And even if someone should get at him, he was more than capable of taking anyone out. He was a powerful swordsman, as well as sorcerer. And his armour had deflected every blow directed at him in battle. And he always wore it, unless in bed. The air in the room changed. He cast his glance around. No. Nothing. He was, in spite, or maybe because of, his state of untouchability, becoming paranoid these days.
Nothing could touch him, he reminded himself. No one could get in here. Even inhabitants who had travelled outside his small city were killed if they tried to get in again. He went back to the painting. He looked once again upon the imortalization of his elevation from Maleus, noble of the house Syrio, keepers of one of the northern strongholds, created to hold back the tides of chaos, to Kehr’onden, favoured of Slaanesh. Kehr’onden. That was the name his god had given him.
He had returned from the wastes, brimming with newfound power, slaughtered his family, and turned the stronghold fortification into what it was today. A city of sin. The population had either converted to the prince of pleasure or had been executed. And there was nothing his so called king could do about it. The pitiful figure, the caricature of a king, whom he had once believed so in.
He mocked him. What was he, compared to the dark prince? Did not Kehr’onden himself command as much respect from his people, for his people they now was, the inhabitants of his small city, as the ragged king in Naggarond, if not even more? No, the king commanded no more respect him. And why should he? The king could not touch him here, in Kehr’ondens dark citadel.
Raising her small head, Kirta stirred from her sleep. She was exhausted. Her master was a demanding one, and it had seemed as if he could have gone on forever. Not that she complained. It had been so wonderful! Nothing could compare with it. None other could be compared with her lord and master. With drowsy eyes, she set her eyes upon her lord. He seemed to feel her gaze, and turned his head to look at her. He smiled at her, his face radiating sexuality. But what was that, behind him?
Kirta had awoken, Kehr’onden saw. She was looking up at him, with those beautiful eyes. He let his eyes travel all other her lithe body, and took in every detail. Her lips, so inviting. Her hair, dark, long, like a ravens feather. Her legs, like the limps of a cat, long and slender. Her breasts so… so…
But what was that expression on her face? She looked on him, as if puzzled. No. Not at him. Past him. Then her expression changed from puzzlement, to horror. And then he felt the strange sensation, as coldness touched his throat, and subsequently a warm stream work its way down over his skin. He looked down, as if in a dream, and saw the blood, which had to be his. It poured down him, like a great river. As he fell to the floor, he caught a glimpse of the darkclad figure, with a long knife in hand. Then his heart beated no more.
Kirta screamed.
There you go. Noone escapes the wrath of malekith. Perhaps it's not totallu true to the fluff, but what the heck...
Tell me what you liked and disliked.[/i]
Looking out the high tower on the fields beneath him, he felt invincible. He was untouchable. A god. And yet, he could not help having a little fear. Even though it was ridiculous. He was Kehr'onden. He was the favoured of Slaanesh. In the dark recesses of his cellars, enemies which had dared draw sword at him was being whipped an tortured, driven to madness. He ran his fingers through his long black hair. He had defied the law. Twice. Placing his long, pale fingers over a unlit candle, a spark flew from the tips, catching the wick, a small flame blossoming forth. He was a criminal, in the eys of the society. But he was invincible. His castle, with it's many high towers, was placed in a valley, which was inaccessible because of the high mountains surrounding it. The only way in, was through a mountain pass. And that pass spelt doom for any who entered with menace. Each inch of the cliffside there had been exploited in every way, turned into defence positions and so forth. No army could enter his domain. His. Not the kings. His. Kehr'onden, or Maleus as he was really named, was very fond of the thought. The king could feel his defiance, but do nothing. He was Kehr'onden favoured of Slaanesh. He held demons in oath, and no army could touch him. Nothing. Not even the royal sorcerers, though powerful, could penetrate the magical shield his own sorcerers generated around the castle. Truly invincible. Sitting down in an ornate wooden chair, he inspected the room. His room. There was the bed, in which several females lay, asleep, exhausted from the nights actions. Kirta was his favoured. She was such a delightful one. A bit small, and young too, but she was so gorgeous. He flashed his perfect white teeth at the sleeping women. In a month or so, he would probably change them for someone else. He stood up, and went to the wall to regard the great painting. It showed him, battling and enslaving demons. He loved to see himself glorified. He was, however, not quite content about the way his nose had been painted on the painting. It was not as perfect as the real thing. But he had had the painter whipped. It had been a delightful scene.
He went again to the window. The moon was full tonight, and it cast an eerie light on the landscape. The valley was almost illuminated. The wind was blowing, strong, howling, as if in a rage. Even the gods defied him. But they could not touch him. Slaanesh watched over him. And even if someone should get at him, he was more than capable of taking anyone out. He was a powerful swordsman, as well as sorcerer. And his armour had deflected every blow directed at him in battle. And he always wore it, unless in bed. The air in the room changed. He cast his glance around. No. Nothing. He was, in spite, or maybe because of, his state of untouchability, becoming paranoid these days.
Nothing could touch him, he reminded himself. No one could get in here. Even inhabitants who had travelled outside his small city were killed if they tried to get in again. He went back to the painting. He looked once again upon the imortalization of his elevation from Maleus, noble of the house Syrio, keepers of one of the northern strongholds, created to hold back the tides of chaos, to Kehr’onden, favoured of Slaanesh. Kehr’onden. That was the name his god had given him.
He had returned from the wastes, brimming with newfound power, slaughtered his family, and turned the stronghold fortification into what it was today. A city of sin. The population had either converted to the prince of pleasure or had been executed. And there was nothing his so called king could do about it. The pitiful figure, the caricature of a king, whom he had once believed so in.
He mocked him. What was he, compared to the dark prince? Did not Kehr’onden himself command as much respect from his people, for his people they now was, the inhabitants of his small city, as the ragged king in Naggarond, if not even more? No, the king commanded no more respect him. And why should he? The king could not touch him here, in Kehr’ondens dark citadel.
Raising her small head, Kirta stirred from her sleep. She was exhausted. Her master was a demanding one, and it had seemed as if he could have gone on forever. Not that she complained. It had been so wonderful! Nothing could compare with it. None other could be compared with her lord and master. With drowsy eyes, she set her eyes upon her lord. He seemed to feel her gaze, and turned his head to look at her. He smiled at her, his face radiating sexuality. But what was that, behind him?
Kirta had awoken, Kehr’onden saw. She was looking up at him, with those beautiful eyes. He let his eyes travel all other her lithe body, and took in every detail. Her lips, so inviting. Her hair, dark, long, like a ravens feather. Her legs, like the limps of a cat, long and slender. Her breasts so… so…
But what was that expression on her face? She looked on him, as if puzzled. No. Not at him. Past him. Then her expression changed from puzzlement, to horror. And then he felt the strange sensation, as coldness touched his throat, and subsequently a warm stream work its way down over his skin. He looked down, as if in a dream, and saw the blood, which had to be his. It poured down him, like a great river. As he fell to the floor, he caught a glimpse of the darkclad figure, with a long knife in hand. Then his heart beated no more.
Kirta screamed.
There you go. Noone escapes the wrath of malekith. Perhaps it's not totallu true to the fluff, but what the heck...
Tell me what you liked and disliked.[/i]