Just a casual Warhammer 40k Enthusiast that doesn't know everything in 40k but knows it well enough. At least, that's what she tells herself.
Kyrie Kotomine is killed by the Force of change, Destiny, the brother of Fate. Kyrie finds herself inside t...
[A/N: I don't want this ALT serious to drag on too long.]
Kleos taps her finger against her other arm, as both were folded against each other.
Kleos: "Hmmmmm."
She was thinking.
Vashtorr: "So..., what do you think? Would this be amicable?"
Kleos scratches the back of her head, a little disturbed.
Kleos: "Are you going this far just for her? I mean, she's not your actual daughter, but you treat her as such."
Vashtorr: "I know, and I have never and will never lie to her. That is why I at least would like to lift this sanction."
Kleos thought long and hard about this. What she will gain is seemingly exponential to what he will gain in return.
Kleos: "Have you informed Malal about this?"
Vashtorr: "No. He is oblivious. I offered you his canonicity in return for lifting this one."
Kleos: "Alright. Then... It's a deal! Nice doing business with you, Vashtorr...!"
They shake hands.
---
Kyrie takes in the new air of the new world with a smile on her face. There's just something about the trees, the distant birds, and the grass, of which she touched.
Kyrie: "I've finally touched grass. :D"
She takes a few things out of her magic sachel, especially a lot of oil-smelling incense. Along with that, a lot of industrial smokestacks. Kyrie sets up a ritual for Vashtorr the Arkifane, her adoptive father.
Kyrie: "Right! Now, let's get this going."
She begins the ritual, making the smokestacks bellow black smog, a sign of the destructive potential of industrialism and advancements.
In a hail of black smoke, Kyrie utters the Rites of Creation's Blasphemy, giving, not blood, but life to the black hole—life through the greenery around her and the birds in the sky.
The smoke began to blacken and thicken and swirl around the ritual site. In a coalescence of smoke and disjointed many voices, the visage of the Arkifane's face melds forward. Cable-shackled minds and bodies stumble forward.
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Vashtorr: "Belisarus Cawl, honest praise. Your search for me has finally come to an end. It is I, your Machine Go-"
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