Project Delta, and Wylde M500

What's the saying? Never let your husband leave the house hungry, or horny. There's a slut with a sandwich somewhere.

If we are accountable for our nation, so too are you and other Europeans accountable for the decisions of the EU. Clown.

His voice rang boldy, assertively across the ramparts of the western wall. It carried through the clamor of battle, down and down to the line of Kislevite Streltsi hacking down the creatures attempting to scale the wall. He had forgotten himself, and climbed the breastworks alone. His personal guard were left in battle one story below him. Ah, yes, that was when he felt it. That 𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤' blade had been shoved directly through his plate, and chainmail. The massive, bovine beast had howled with rage. For having an ox's head, and hooves, its' teeth were what he remembered most clearly. He remembered the creatures' fangs, each tooth serrated and pointed. Though after this, he had blacked out. He swam through his mind, drawing forth from the well. The clanging of a massive war-axe on stone had awoken him. The creature was fighting someone several feet away, but he could not force himself up. He recalled coughing up something that looked like blood, before seeing the shortsword pushing out of his lower stomach. The sound of the axe hitting the masonry filled his ears again, as his hands realized they still held his own axes. It was only when a blur of black, and white, caught his eye that he began to crawl to his knees. He had seen that cloth before. They belonged to the Sisterhood of Morr. He, a boyar of Kislev, was letting a foreign woman fight in his stead. The revelation drove him to unsteady feet, rage and hate filling his veins. A primeval roar left his lips, knees flexing as his raised his axes. The purest prayer to Ursun that he had ever made. After the thing had squarely landed a punch to her abdomen, crack the ebony plate atop it, it turned. It met had met his challenge, screaming in its' dark tongue to even darker gods. Then again, he felt the memory slip from him. He had blacked out, only to come to holding the creatures severed head in one hand. One of his axes, the mark of his office, was embedded in its forehead. He was standing atop the ramparts, holding the chieftans' head aloft. The rest of the herde had broken, his countrymen slaughtering them as they ran. He had wanted to shout, to scream, but instead he only fell backwards. Black armoured gauntlets had caught him beneath his arms, gently laying him down to the flooring stone of the walls. He remembered the stench of coughed blood, a beautiful face, and raven hair. Fingers had grasped at her arms, trying to steady his breathing. Then he remembered the one time he had heard his love speak. What she had said, he had not understood. With her hands together over him though, he became acutely aware that she was praying. She looked as if an angel had come to carry him to Ursun's side. '𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦. . . 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 .' It was all he had managed, before realizing that her eyes behind the shawl were fixated firmly on his. -- 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢 , 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢 ! 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 ! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴 ! His children interrupted the reel of his memories, barging into the manors' study. They climbed onto his knees, pushing the sealed container into his chest. They must learn writing, and arithmetic, soon. For now though, perhaps he was happy that they still needed him like this. Those same rough hands collected the container, gently taking it from his daughters' tiny fingers. 𝘈𝘩 , 𝘔𝘰𝘮𝘮-𝘢𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 ? 𝘞𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 . 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 , 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 . He tore the top of the container free of the wax sealing, before pulling the parchment within. -- I kind of got bored of writing Draceanna napkin stories, since I'm knee deep in the rewrites of the books now. I hope you enjoy the story of Bjürn, and Alexei. An original couple from Warhammer Fantasy. I have much more written for them, but I guess this was something I just thought of on the spot.

A napkin story: The chambers were dimly lit, as they always were. Rare was the day that true light found the study of Alexei Kirsov's study, and today was agonizingly average. The sun had begun to set some time ago, calling home the serfs with the children. Praag was never an easy home to rest in, much less the wastes that lay beyond the walls. Even the most average of days could bring about the most cursed of nights', and though she was benevolent Mother Kislev did not coddle fools. Sephanie, his oldest daughter, knew better than to stay outside the manor after dark. It was she who cared for his youngest son, Sergei, during their time playing. The serfs were there should something be needed, or in the case of extreme distress, but they reported him. As head of the household, he raised his children with the care of a father who already knew their futures. They must grow up strong, and wise, or else they would perish to the cruel world they lived in. Brown hair fell across his face, laced with trimmed silver, as he turned to the dying light outside the window. Roughly calloused hands curled into gentle fists atop his knees, missing the body that so often sat there when bringing him his evening tea. His eyes closed, drifting into the trance-like state he used to picture his beloved. Tall like the mountains beyond the steppe, hair blacker than the nights the Cursed City provided, eyes of charcoal that missed not a moment given, and skin whiter than the purest snow Mother Kislev could ever grant them ; his dearest Bjürn. It had been almost half a year since the order of her cult had requested her to march with them. Into the harsh passes of the World's Edge Mountains she had disappeared, led by the brave Dwarf folk of Peak Pass. How he had cried that first night of her absence, after aiding her in donning her armour. She had smiled, that silent motion of her lips behind the silk of her ceremonial face cover, as he watched her mount her stallion. Alexei was fairly certain he had not slept well since then, but he accepted this trial of Dazh. As the head of his noble house, and sitting boyar upon the Praagian delegation, this would not break his family. Even should his wife march to her death, alongside the knights of her Order, their household would prosper. His eyes opened, head leaning back into his posh chair. If only he had not fallen in love with Morr's priestess, if only she had refused him. The thought struck him like a blade, searing a hot swathe of self-pity and longing down his chest. He knew he should not think such things, as she had blessed him with a beautiful daughter and a healthy son. This comfort eased the leaden weight in his throat to some degree. A small curl of his lips was made, as the phantom pain of his lower abdomen began to throb. How beautiful she had been, when they had first met. How impossibly foolish he must have seemed, as he said the words, '𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶', for the first time. He allowed his memories to drift back to that night. He could remember the smell of blood, burnt grain, the braying of the beastly hordes, the screams and prayers of men in battle, and then the part when things seemed to meld into a single image. Knights in black armour storming out of the Reikland Embassy, led at the helm by a giant of a man. They had made no shouts, not even a whisper, but their charge was as majestic as the Gryphon Legions already in combat. There was an almighty din, upon the knights' impact of the beastmen hordes. He remembered his axes, each flash cutting down a sub-human breed. He roused himself from the chair for a moment, as the memory lost itself in the screams of the dying. It was as if the chain of his recollection had suddenly snapped, and he needed to piece the metal back together. A hand let his jaw rest on its' knuckles, as he pushed the mental block to the side. 𝘒𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘔𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚' 𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘔𝘐𝘌𝘚 , 𝘊𝘖𝘔𝘙𝘈𝘋𝘌𝘚 ! >

👀