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This isn't on content revision because it's just I like quotes and the current one seems a bit boring Especially for the best character in warhammer
'My angel. My lovely angel, you know nothing of what you speak. You've spent a lifetime running from the Youngest God. But he loves you, sweetling. He adores you and all of your kind. I can hear him sing each time you breathe. And one day, when you leave your flesh behind, you will be his. A concubine of spirit and shadow, claimed by your true love at last.'
If Nefertari felt any unease, she showed none of it. Ruthlessly smooth armour joints purred softly as she crouched before the prisoner, her too-white skin a match ― at least in shade ― for the stretched white mess of his. Grey-black wings shivered, stirring the air inside the modest chamber.
'We were like you once,' she told him.
'I doubt that, lovely one.'
'But we were. We were slaves to sensation. We knew no pleasure beyond decadence that raked our nerves to the limits and beyond.' She sounded gentle, though condescension ripened her weak aura.
Telemachon closed his eyes, breathing in her breath, drinking her every exhalation. Being near her was rapture.
'Let me touch you,' he said, shuddering. 'Just let me touch you once.'
'You would like that, wouldn't you?' She made to stroke her crystal-clawed fingertip down the side of his face, but no contact came. The glassy talon tip hovered a centimetre above the prisoner's tormented flesh. He strained against his bindings, aching to lean forwards so Nefertari might lacerate his face.
'I can smell your soul, eldar.' He was trembling now. 'The Youngest God shrieks for it, crying from behind the veil.'
She leaned even closer, close enough that I could barely hear her whisper. 'Then let the Goddess shriek. I am not ready to die.'
'You live in defiance of his hunger, lovely angel... Let me taste you. Let me bleed you. Let me kill you. Please. Please. Please.'
'My angel. My lovely angel, you know nothing of what you speak. You've spent a lifetime running from the Youngest God. But he loves you, sweetling. He adores you and all of your kind. I can hear him sing each time you breathe. And one day, when you leave your flesh behind, you will be his. A concubine of spirit and shadow, claimed by your true love at last.'
If Nefertari felt any unease, she showed none of it. Ruthlessly smooth armour joints purred softly as she crouched before the prisoner, her too-white skin a match ― at least in shade ― for the stretched white mess of his. Grey-black wings shivered, stirring the air inside the modest chamber.
'We were like you once,' she told him.
'I doubt that, lovely one.'
'But we were. We were slaves to sensation. We knew no pleasure beyond decadence that raked our nerves to the limits and beyond.' She sounded gentle, though condescension ripened her weak aura.
Telemachon closed his eyes, breathing in her breath, drinking her every exhalation. Being near her was rapture.
'Let me touch you,' he said, shuddering. 'Just let me touch you once.'
'You would like that, wouldn't you?' She made to stroke her crystal-clawed fingertip down the side of his face, but no contact came. The glassy talon tip hovered a centimetre above the prisoner's tormented flesh. He strained against his bindings, aching to lean forwards so Nefertari might lacerate his face.
'I can smell your soul, eldar.' He was trembling now. 'The Youngest God shrieks for it, crying from behind the veil.'
She leaned even closer, close enough that I could barely hear her whisper. 'Then let the Goddess shriek. I am not ready to die.'
'You live in defiance of his hunger, lovely angel... Let me taste you. Let me bleed you. Let me kill you. Please. Please. Please.'
