notes & introspections, written info may change. mostly yapping and headcanons
his family is large, pack-like, probably extended. Volkor is a fiefdom of Volgoth and their blood more diluted.
possibly social drama, family overlap, affairs amongst themselves. typical jealous nobility when they are made to live beneath another house.
how deeply frustrating that Volgoth and Fellner are allies as one, isn't it.
Volkor either split away naturally or through familial or political strain with Volgoth. a marriage to rivals or the disowning of an heir. something with themes of dishonour.
they will always be the lesser pack
envy and strain, or maybe Achiaron is the only strained one
he himself was a younger sibling in a competitive family with an older brother or sister who did better, did more, was given more.
ambition and failings land critically on the young brother.
a need for competition and jealousy could have manifested at a young age for a need to compete with his sibling.
perhaps bitter jealousy was sworn aloud and he was disliked for it. or perhaps he took something dear to that sibling and they became rivals
A predator seeks satisfaction in the hunt and the prey between his fangs. Volkor would see Volgoth and Fellner and all others bound to his servitude at the end of all things.
He would see them devoured by warp wolves and their blood the ink to his writings.
This tragedy would never yet be his blade to swing. Thoughts of treason a death sentence and a handsome thing to peddle alone in dark morrows- into mirrors of the mind darker still.
Of the Volkor den-hold, Achiaron is a Huntmaster and Lord but not heir. He is a creature of questionable goodness who lives to survive and obey in resenting, seething inferiority. A man with much to gain from the lands he serves.
He would peer into himself in the dark of night often in conniving, black envy as it dripped from the page. Spattered freely on the glass in fury. Trembling.
Imagining the way the fangs sink through sinew and throat obeying desire; obeying nature.
inferiority, strain, much to gain from Volgoth and also much to lose. much to think about. the same with the other houses in direct competition. he envies the lords of all the high packs and wants to be greater than he is.
eccentric, lonesome envy in comparison. ambition in comparison.
a selfish desire to usurp with much to gain from them both: power, knowledge, satisfaction.
he is conniving, cruel, possessive. a little bitter. very bitter. very solitary.
rather pathetic politically. a bottom hiding several other nastier faces. that he has no power against sworn allies is. frustrating.
it would not benefit him to bring fall to the high houses. in fact it would directly be his death, and be out of his powers to to do.
he is driven by a yearning and instinct to dominate.
he is driven also by powerlessness; by stress, unable to drive his ambition through the heart of margard.
in absence of reality, fantasy will suffice; the abuse of another with blood and spit and bruises will suffice.
he values domination, submission, and constantly needs to vent. constantly needs to take out his frustration on those he meets in bitter venom.
calix is a fixation of his wherein achiaron savours the abuse. he craves it. while he cannot bring down either of their houses, he can draw calix's blood free and destroy his flesh somatically until he writes him again.
he grasps a perverse, blatant, erotic pleasure in writing to calix about shared threats and how he would meet him on the moor. to force calix to him in ink alone arouses him like few things. the modicum of his power against fellner. fantasy will suffice when the blood is real. when contempt lingers so freely.
Envy was given form here in the dark morning marches, and in the blood shared between Fellner and Volkor beneath where the Veil itself even dared to look for long. It was all the power that Achiaron might behold without unceremonious execution or war with either.
A lone huntmaster could not march upon Volgoth or Fellner. Not with all of his hounds alive or in undeath. Not by the rules of their people.
A lone huntmaster could set his fists and fangs around the neck of one of his very own men.
One of their kind at the mercy of his own game.
He wants many things he cannot have. Power, wealth over the world- wealth over the worlds beyond. Always the first gaze serpentine behind corners, the first fangs to whisper, when the Imperium should visit Margard. So heavy a crown for bones that can not lift it.
He is envious of anything. Blood boiling red of many things. Driven by the hunt and yearning for instinct- for conflict. The prey does not matter. Only the drawing of its blood and submission drawn. By fists. By fangs. Brutality a thrilling sin.
It was a lesser sin to bloom the skin of a rival lord in mutual writing than to be sent to war. A lesser sin even still to imagine that man a captured wolf fit to be killed for its existence.
Blood, sweat, saliva into stained gloves before he sends him away into the next morrow.
Is he righteous? Of course not.
achiaron would hear himself named a false king- a lord-alpha of the moorlands- if it brings him pleasure in bitter emptiness. and all others would be at his feet and know or be thrown down and cut open to learn it of him.
only on the moors and between the ghylls. there is no hold or land bound to him as ruling hunter.
calix would know this and would recognise the same gloves, the same uniform dipped in his blood from many cycles ago. he brands him in shame and envy as achiaron brands him in skin kissed by resentment.
also, it is not the sex that interests him. arousal is a bitter thing and satisfied by urges wrapped in violence when it is freely given. affection is in service. in writing. in ink coloured black instead of clotting red.
achiaron will rarely initiate sex unless given to vulnerability -- proffered it by instinct and rivalry.
affection does not interest him. all of his past relationships have failed or died tremendously for ego, boredom, competition, and all other things. he is difficult to get to know and worse to proffer affection.
this exception is in somno. he will fuck sleeping lords and sleeping lovers awake rarely. best still if they do not wake at all.
few things arouse this creature that are not combat. fewer things still that he would divulge as enjoyments. guilty pleasures and weaknesses all. never reveal your throat to a lover lest they tear it free at the height of adoration.
his play is enjoyed in the wild. the environment, the forests, the moors. he does not like the formality of the bedroom and of being trapped in silly staterooms.
he does not like sex. but. public sex is a thrill when done with other lords.
volkor's enjoyment is in fighting, beating, submission, power play, manipulation. he does not give easily.
Volkor has the proud beast down to the ground before he pins him with his boot again. He scarcely liked to bend after him.
"I loathe to see that pelt upon your shoulders." He grimaces as his heel presses this time into a forearm and keeps him there. The sigh from his lips was almost thoughtful in thinly-veiled anger given to him from time again of these arrangements. The resentment long learned.
He presses his weight to him more intently for moments and then lets go with a rasp.
"Undress yourself."
It is powerlessness that drives the predators, isn't it. Fantasies and conquest easy to peddle when nothing without them. Interested in himself and his woes far more than any others unless they approach to serve him and be beaten into abeyance for it.
He will play as a wolf -- as hunter chasing prey. Man and beast the same to him in love coloured black like ink, black like disdain and envy.
his interest in the hunt, warp wolves, and ash-pelt tapestries extends to men as it extends to xenos.
cruel with warp beasts, cruel with men, crueller with xenos
he revels in physical abuse, claws, blood, flesh. too much and he will break in disbelief of the agony. but the raw catharsis of fists and teeth... oh yes. more.
likes to fight very much for a man always wearing frocks and robes.
extending to xenos as it does to men, he is a hunter and will not be bested. he will fight dirty for the upper hand over a disobedient pet.
somatic, burning resentment tastes the sweetest when given with bloody fists or dirty traps. this is how he wins. this is how he will win each and every time. be on the floor now for your lord, bitch.
content in fantasy, the lowest in a food chain, he would suffice for this. he fantasises xenos and his own kind as hounds taken in conquest when they are kept.
and what a fine fantasy such a thing is.
Though the stars are beyond his to contemplate, he does so. Nights alone force his gaze upwards towards the sea of realspace above when comets so rarely take the form of unimaginable Imperial fleets.
There are materials and writings by the Imperium that were given to him or bargained for. Too loyal to Margard but.
Haunted by fantasy and phantom claws. How to not desire that which you do not trust?
