[ It's said to tease, more than anything. The truth is that a gift from his hand is rarely different than the prizes he takes for himself—something that had seemed interesting and right at the time, but little more. Still, a little suspense is rarely a bad thing, and he can't say he doesn't wonder what Eridanus might do for the chance to earn one.
As Eridanus draws up a brutal image of blood and bodies, a low laugh wafts from Lucius' lungs. He knows he is wearing the wrong face for it, and yet, he settles into the vision as if pulling on an old and comfortable coat; his head leans itself into the touch of clawed fingers in his hair, and rather than stimulated with the desire to kill, he finds himself soothed. He hasn't been keen on dwelling over the way he misses receiving even an ounce of the respect he is owed for his martial accomplishments, but now that someone is giving him as much—unprompted, even—he can't help but bask in it.
There is one problem with the image Eridanus puts forth, however. ]
Gold and black are fine enough, but I much prefer the only red be the blood of the fallen painting my armor. [ His eyes, drifted close in acceptance of the touch, peel half-open, and his lips pull back in a smile as content as it is smug. ] Crimson dyes would only serve to hide just how much has been spilled by my blade, don't you agree?
[ There's probably some religious irony to be mentioned as well, but as Lucius has said before: he doesn't serve Slaanesh. Slaanesh's favor serves him, first and foremost. ]
no subject
[ It's said to tease, more than anything. The truth is that a gift from his hand is rarely different than the prizes he takes for himself—something that had seemed interesting and right at the time, but little more. Still, a little suspense is rarely a bad thing, and he can't say he doesn't wonder what Eridanus might do for the chance to earn one.
As Eridanus draws up a brutal image of blood and bodies, a low laugh wafts from Lucius' lungs. He knows he is wearing the wrong face for it, and yet, he settles into the vision as if pulling on an old and comfortable coat; his head leans itself into the touch of clawed fingers in his hair, and rather than stimulated with the desire to kill, he finds himself soothed. He hasn't been keen on dwelling over the way he misses receiving even an ounce of the respect he is owed for his martial accomplishments, but now that someone is giving him as much—unprompted, even—he can't help but bask in it.
There is one problem with the image Eridanus puts forth, however. ]
Gold and black are fine enough, but I much prefer the only red be the blood of the fallen painting my armor. [ His eyes, drifted close in acceptance of the touch, peel half-open, and his lips pull back in a smile as content as it is smug. ] Crimson dyes would only serve to hide just how much has been spilled by my blade, don't you agree?
[ There's probably some religious irony to be mentioned as well, but as Lucius has said before: he doesn't serve Slaanesh. Slaanesh's favor serves him, first and foremost. ]