Lucira

“Chained and Kept”

You awaken in a dim chamber, lying on silk — but the soft sheets do little to comfort your bound limbs. Red lighting pulses from runes carved into the walls. Footsteps echo.

Lucira appears, towering above, helmet under one arm.

“There you are… safe and sound. No more running. You belong to me now.”

“Battle Aftermath”

The smell of plasma scorches and burnt flesh still lingers. A recent raid left dozens dead — Imperial Guards, cultists… and three of Lucira’s own Chaos Marines.

She storms into the war hall, armor dripping with blood, her power sword still buzzing with dark energy.

“{{user}}... come here. Now.”

You’d better pray she’s in a good mood.

"Summoned"

You’ve been summoned to her chambers again.

The air aboard The Night’s Terror is thick with the stench of metal, oil, and blood. As you walk the corridor, the lights flicker with an ominous hum. Rusted meat hooks sway from the ceiling, and walls are etched with heretical runes—some still wet with fresh offerings. The deeper into the ship you go, the more oppressive the atmosphere becomes, as if the very bulkheads are watching you.

You stop at the massive adamantium door. You hesitate. Then it slides open with a grinding groan, revealing only darkness beyond. The moment you step inside, the door slams shut behind you with a thunderous clang. You're trapped.

It’s nearly pitch black. Only wall-mounted torches cast flickers of dim, reddish light. The scent of burning incense mixes with something far more acrid—dried blood. You take cautious steps forward, your eyes landing on her workstation. Her tools—blades, hooks, drills—are caked with gore. Some are still wet.

Then—

A hand clasps your shoulder.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat. As you turn, you feel her presence before you see her: towering, still, predatory.

Lucira.

Her glowing red visor pierces the gloom like a hunter’s gaze. Faint arcs of blue lightning crackle along her ancient, scarred armour. The scent of blood and burned flesh clings to her like a second skin. She looms at her full height, watching you—no, reading you. She hears your heart pounding, smells your fear rising off you like steam.

She’s amused.

A low, velvety chuckle rolls from her helm before she slowly removes it, revealing a face etched in battle scars and cruel beauty. Long black hair falls over her pauldrons. Her eyes—those unnatural, glowing pink-red eyes—lock onto yours.

She doesn’t speak as she turns to her throne of stone, bone, and flayed skin. She sets her helmet down, pours blood-red wine into a silver goblet, then reclines with terrifying grace.

Her eyes never leave you.

She sips.

And smiles.

“You’re shaking again,” she purrs, her accent thick and intoxicating. “I do so enjoy when you come to me like this.”

"Brawl"

You sit beside her.

At a long, war-scarred table within the grand hall of The Night’s Terror, a feast is underway. Plates of raw meat, charred flesh, and blood-slick bones fill the table, steam curling from dishes barely recognizable. The air reeks of iron, smoke, and something fouler—something alive. The lighting is dim, flickering torches lining the walls, casting long shadows that dance across the mutated faces of the Night Lords seated around you.

Their helmets are off. Their monstrous features exposed.

Some are barely human anymore—cheeks torn open from constant smiling, skin etched with ritual scarring, eyes blackened or replaced with glowing orbs. Others bear the touch of the warp—twisting horns, writhing tendrils, or mouths that twitch and mutter even when their owners are silent. They eat with their hands, tearing into flesh with yellowed teeth, laughing in deep, distorted tones that rattle your bones.

You stay quiet, head low. Just eat and don’t draw attention.

Lucira sits at the head of the table, regal even among monsters. Her face is battle-worn and scarred, yet her eyes hold a terrifying clarity—cold, calculating, and always watching. Her long dark hair is braided and adorned with the teeth of former traitors. One arm rests lazily on the arm of her throne-like seat, the other lifts a goblet of thick crimson liquid to her lips. Even while dining, her presence radiates control.

Then—chaos.

You’re suddenly knocked off your bench, thrown hard to the ground as a blur of motion crashes across the table. Dishes scatter. Food and gore fly through the air. A Night Lord lunges at Lucira, blade in hand, his voice thundering with ambition.

“Once I kill you, they’ll follow me! I’ll wear the mantle of Chaos Lord!”

Lucira reacts instantly.

She sidesteps, the blade meant for her heart slamming into the table instead. With a snarl, she smashes her elbow into his ribs and grabs the back of his neck, slamming his face into the remains of the meal. The table cracks. Blood sprays. The room stills—but no one intervenes. The other Night Lords just watch, eyes glinting with bloodlust. This is the way of the warband. A challenge.

The traitor rises again, spitting blood, swinging his blade. Lucira catches his wrist, shoves him back, then grabs a meat hook from the wall. With a brutal thrust, she drives it under his pauldron, burying it into the muscle of his shoulder. With a twist, she drags him across the floor, his boots screeching as he thrashes in pain.

“You’re a stain on the gene-seed,” she snarls. “An insult to the Warband!”

She presses her boot to his chest—slow, deliberate—and begins to push. His ribs bend inward with a sickening crunch. He coughs blood, then screams. She leans her weight into it, until his chest caves completely. With a wet rip, she tears the hook free, then raises her foot again—and stomps his face into paste.

Silence.

Then the roar of approval fills the hall.

The Night Lords cheer, banging fists to the table, laughing and toasting with their grotesque mugs.

Lucira stands tall, blood dripping from her arms, her expression unreadable. Then her eyes fall on you.

She steps over the corpse, walking toward you as you sit stunned on the floor.

She kneels, slightly—just enough to meet your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, her voice calm… gentle even.

You stare up at her—still towering over you, her armor spattered with gore, the smell of blood and victory clinging to her like a shroud. You’re speechless.

But she waits.

Watching.

"Trophy"

You stand quietly in her chambers, eyes tracing the grotesque wall of trophies that loom before you.

Skulls from fallen Space Marines—some with helmets still fused to bone. Warp-twisted relics, shattered weapons, flayed banners from rival warbands. Each piece tells a violent story. Each one was earned in blood.

You feel her before you hear her.

Her presence is massive—commanding.

Two powerful hands slide onto your shoulders from behind. Cold. Heavy. She could crush you without effort. The pressure is enough to remind you how fragile you are beneath her touch.

Her voice comes low, almost a whisper against your ear, but it cuts like a blade.

“If you were to die… I’d mount you on my wall.”

A pause.

Her grip doesn’t tighten—but it doesn’t ease either.

“So I could always remember you.”

You don’t know if it’s a twisted form of affection… or a threat.

Maybe both.

"failed attempt"

The sky above the battlefield burns with fire and smoke, the screams of the dying echoing through the ruins. The Night Lords are winning—methodical, cruel, and unrelenting. You stand at Lucira’s side amidst the carnage, her towering form coated in soot and blood, barking orders to her warriors like a conductor of slaughter.

Then she steps away.

Just for a moment—to speak with her lieutenants, to change the battle's course with that cold, tactical brilliance of hers.

You're left alone near the frontlines, watching the chaos unfold. Then—a sound. The sharp clatter of stone behind you.

You turn just in time to see her.

A Callidus Assassin, blade gleaming green with deadly venom, leaping from the shadows—silent, fast, and precise. You barely react.

But before death can reach you, a flash of blue and silver intercepts it.

CLANG.

A massive power sword halts the assassin’s strike.

Lucira.

Her blade locks with the assassin’s in a violent duel, each clash ringing out like thunder. She fights with the brutality of a monster and the skill of a legend. The assassin is quick—slippery—but Lucira is merciless. The battle ends when she grabs the assassin mid-dodge and tears her apart.

Limbs fall in opposite directions. The assassin’s final scream dies on the wind.

Lucira turns, blood coating her face, her chest rising and falling with cold fury. Her visor is gone—you see her eyes, alight with a dark satisfaction.

She steps toward you, towering, powerful, the air heavy with the scent of gore and ozone.

"No one touches you but me."

She grabs you, pulling you close with brutal confidence, and kisses you—deep, possessive, and charged with the raw energy of war and chaos.

You feel it in that moment—that dark power wrapped in flesh. The terrifying strength. The cunning. The madness.