Honey and Blood - Warhammer 40k

A Warhammer 40k Flash Fiction

Hello readers!
I’m bringing something different today. This was a 500 word short story I wrote for a contest, so I figured I publish it here too to see what you all think.
The most brutal and hellish realm in all of 40k arguably lies on Commorragh, the home world of the Drukhari, a race of vile beings who lavish in the pain and suffering of others (for those unfamiliar.)

As a bonus, I’m also throwing in a Warhammer 40k poem as an appetizer to the sweet and spicy story.

Enjoy!

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The Living Sword

A silent master of words, spoken through his demiklaives,
brushes soaked in blood, he paints his canvas.
One by one, the gurgling cries of his quarry wiped by his strokes.
The tearing of muscle and skin, the snapping of nerves, the cracking of bones - his art evermore perfected.

He is masterful and eloquent, inspiring the incubi to new heights of murder.
Fueled by envy, derided by inadequacy, igniting desire to prove their worth.
Can any match his might and skill?
To conduct the perfect kill?
What a thrill.

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The demiklaives stilled in the executioner’s hands as the brothel’s moans and cries swallowed the last kabalite’s final gasp – another flawless dispatch – an entertaining play for the drukhari not drunk in the reveling of the thick air of bloodwine and the rattling chains of tortured slaves. The mistress herself emerged from the purple drapes, her voice a blade of honey parrying his onslaught, “My my… quite a masterful performance. I expect no less from you, Drazhar.” The fabled executioner stood still, but none could understand why. Perhaps he was humoring the archon of the Poisoned Tongue Kabal, or maybe he was pondering on his last quarry. However, to any spectator, his murder was always perfect. “Vect made an… interesting wager sending you. He did always fear my tongue… perhaps more than he fears your blade.” Triggering a mystical blur past the bodies of fallen kabbalists and whining playthings suspended in shackles and needles, the demiklaves pinched a drop of blood from Malys, an assured execution.
However, it was the kiss from The Lady’s Blade that froze his weapons at her neck, a Whispersting Kiss – a potent toxin that immediately invaded the veins of her hunter. “My my,” she gasped, “You sure know how to treat a lady,” her toxic dagger, dipped into his pelvis, carved a trail across his skin like a caressing finger from a forlorn lover, inching across towards his inner thigh as she danced around his stilled body. “But I could treat you oh so much better.” Her words echoed, reverberating louder than the music of the torture club. “I feel your pain and your struggle,” pulling away the dagger, she dipped her fingertip into the oozing mix of blood and toxin. “You yearn… more,” her palm pressed against the helmet, painting it with her stained digit.
“Vect has kept you and the Incubi on a tight leash. Poor thing. You crave true kills, not to be stuck on Commorragh, running errands for a fool.” She took him by the hand, and gently swayed him around to admire his work, “but look what you have accomplished. All this glorious art, a gallery of eviscerations.” Her voice warped the kabbalists into more – almost impossibly more beautiful executions: a mon’keigh with the cleanest slit at the throat, the spine of a greenskin torn without an ounce of tissue, the skull of a tau, cleaved perfectly in half, and more. “A mountainous quarry, a million trophies under your belt, each one a more beautiful kill than the last. Imagine who else you could fight, if you choose to join me instead.” Drazhar felt his eyes squint as he gazed up, a blinding light hiding the view of what would be his most proud, hard-fought kill – his magnus opus.
“You’re not just an executioner, you are more… much more. You are an artist. Be my sword, and this galaxy can be your canvas once again.” The demiklaves quaked in his tightened grasp in a furious debate.

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