her inqizitor

New content for this month."Biggest size of IG standard issue uniform still not fit with Beastgirl size "For bonus reward of this content I will drawn her corrupted as to worship Slaanesh are known as Slaangors you can check bonus reward and more variation on my Patre0n.

Very tall space marine.

Repentia surfboarding on her chainsword.

Noise marine at an idol show.

Sister with bad back.

Lion judges Guiliman.

Anatomy of a Primarch.

Sly Marbo singing at the opera.

Femstodes feet pics being too powerful for Slaanesh.

Trazyn stealing a sock from a laundry machine.

Ogryn watching Imperial Sesame Street.

Ork getting into Law School.

Battle sister sleeping sprawled across her bed.

SoB chef.

Mary Poppins being a nanny for Gretchin.

Ork golfing.

Eldar couple on a date.

Tired canoness glaring at some noviate who spilt her coffee.

Noise Marine being tortured by Tanith Guardsman's bagpipe music.

Tzeentch doing his soul finances.

Hospitallers on smoke break.

Fun.

Master Chief trying to trade a plasma pistol for an ultramarine’s bolter.

Sad necron staring longing at a roll cake.

Tau straining to try to use warp sorcery.

Astropath checking her voice mail.

Sulla giving a signed copy of her memoir to an unenthusiastic Vail.

Kamen Rider racing a White Scar.

The one lucky Lamenter.

Swarmlord in a tent in the middle of a rain.

Depressed Ork asking if he krumped enough.

Inquisitor von Karma.

A daemonette nun.

She had fought alongside Eldrad in battles and debated his cause in counselling Chambers across the galaxy, but never before had she been welcomed into his sanctum. The Opener of the Seventh Way hated the feeling that she was privileged in some way, that this act was a recognition of her status and importance. Even so, she could not help but feel she had been allowed to look upon something few others could, so she took the opportunity to examine her surroundings in some detail, memorising every piece of furniture and ornament, every artwork, in the hopes of deciphering meaning from them later.  

The farseer’s tastes were eclectic – if one was too polite to say random, gauche and prolific. At least, such was Yvraine’s initial thought as she sat on a long couch, the trail of her immaculately tailored Commorraghan court dress heaped around her. She was reminded of the throne rooms of archons that had tried to woo her – romantically and politically – laden with trophies of conquests and subjugations, declarations of power and prestige.  

Except that Eldrad barely glanced at them. And his displays, such as they were, had been confined to a set of three chambers that would barely qualify as an archon’s cloakroom. In fact, it was the lack of space, except for the high-vaulted ceilings customary in aeldari architecture, that reinforced the meandering, unkempt nature of the collection.  

‘It is just…’ began Eldrad, sensing Yvraine’s thoughts as her eyes roamed the room. He searched for a suitable aeldari word and found nothing that quite fitted and so settled for one of the few perfect human words instead. ‘Stuff.’

Yvraine realised immediately what he meant. These were not heirlooms or trophies, treasured possessions or valued research materials. They were cultural accretions. The accumulation of a life that had spanned five generations of his people. They had been placed with no consideration at all, simply fitted into whatever space had seemed right at the time, and never given a second thought.  

He had not even spared them the mental effort of how to discard them.   

She stood and gracefully paced to the adjoining chamber for a better view, her long gown sweeping across the red floor tiles. Alorynis looked up from his position on the back of a couch, one eye open, and then settled again, uninterested in her exploration.   

The room beyond the archway was almost full with miscellany from a hundred different cultures across a dozen races. Most of it was piled like the spoil heap of a museum, the effluvia of fashions, trends, fads and philosophies as old as Ulthwé itself.  

‘Why?’ She did not turn as she asked the question. ‘What is the point of having so much…stuff?’  

‘Badges of allegiance. Patronage of artists. Objects of psychic​ significance I used to trace the fates. Bequeathed artefacts. Ambassadorial bribes. Grave goods. The gifts of suitors. Items absent-mindedly left by visitors. Borrowed objects, equally forgotten.’ The farseer shrugged, his heavy robes barely moving with the gesture. Yvraine caught a tiny flutter of pain, of ancient aching in the body and soul, attuned to his mood and thoughts through their mutual contact with Ynnead. ‘I have another tower, a dozen rooms filled with such detritus of my long life.’

‘I forget how old you are,’ said Yvraine. She sat down again, flicking open her fan in the manner of a kabalite courtier. She regarded the seer over the serrated edge, her smirk hidden. ‘How very old you are.’  

‘Old enough to know better than trade quips with the likes of you,’ replied Eldrad, humour in his voice.

 [Excerpt | Rise of the Ynnari:Ghost Warrior]

Немного развития сюжета из поста: http://wh.reactor.cc/post/5162797

Sister of Silence shows up with a hair brush.

SoB showing song on her phone. Imagine Void Dragons.

Text appears from Commissar Boyfriend "you home alone?".

SoB blushing while SoS chuckles.