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The Night Haunter, who rules through fear, doesn’t believe in soundproofing. For serfs, ship’s crew, tech-priests, and Night Lords alike, no journey through the halls of the Nightfall is complete without the background noise of crying, screaming, whimpering, and a variety of other…organic sounds from the bowels of Konrad Curze’s personal chambers.
Tonight is no different. Muffled thumps, groans, and metallic screeches can be heard, punctuated by periodic outbursts of loud, piercing cries that can be heard throughout nearly half the ship. Any serfs and crew members unfortunate enough to be there scuttle nervously past the Primarch’s chambers, only allowing themselves to slow down and breathe once the most horrific sounds are out of earshot. The Nostramo-raised Night Lords, on the other hand, just chuckle darkly, betting with each other which unfortunate souls have fallen into the grasp of their gene-father this time.
Several hours after the noises began, they stop just as abruptly as they started. The doors to Konrad’s chambers slide open and a naked Sevatar stumbles out, blood trickling from cuts and marks found all over his body.
The nearby Night Lords stop and stare, clearly not expecting Konrad’s victim to still be alive enough to walk out of his room. Nor were they expecting the victim in question to be his First Captain. They all know that their Primarch despises the vast majority of his Astartes, and that Jago Sevatarion is one of the very few that he trusts. He can almost be said (though not out loud if you don’t want your tongue to get pulled out by the root) to have a soft spot for the man.
Before any of the onlookers can open their mouths, Sevatar shoots them a dark look.
“Out of my way,” he growls, voice hoarse and gutteral. His feet smear the ship’s floor with blood as he drags himself past his subordinates. As he passes by, he snatches the cloak off the closest body and wraps it around his own, not turning to look back as the Night Lord in question lets out an indignant squack.
“Trouble in paradise?” one of them mutters, staring at the dozen tooth marks dotting Sevatar’s shoulders and back that the cape doesn’t fully cover.
“Guess even Sev can piss the old man off,” someone else comments with a snort. “Then again, who doesn’t piss him off at some point…”
“It’ll be you lot next,” Sevatar snaps, which finally shuts them up. He grits his teeth and clutches the cape tighter around his body.
He tries to put more weight on his left leg and winces. At this rate he won’t be able to walk properly for another day or so, despite his body’s accelerated healing. His throat is killing him too, thanks to all the screaming and moaning he’d done in that room, though it wasn’t quite for the reason the Night Lords had assumed. With Konrad Curze, though the line between sex and torture is always blurry, and there were several moments where Sevatar had assumed he would fall into unconsciousness and never wake up.
Despite the pain radiating out from multiple points of his body and the silent jeering of the Night Lords, Sevatar allows himself a self-satisfied smirk.
“Teach me, Sevatar,” his lord had crooned at him, and Sevatar had eagerly complied. His lord is a quick learner, one prone to improvisation once a concept has been grasped.
Then, later, “Tell me the names of the ones who taught you.”
He had lied just a little to the onlooking Night Lords. They won’t be the Night Haunter’s next victims; those have already been chosen, their names given to Primarch by Sevatar himself.