Ok, so this is a fan fiction that i have been working on. It is still a WIP, and it has barely been edited. I sort of lost momentum, it's difficult for me to write in a vacuum. I am primarily looking for feedback, content critique, and any quick and easy grammar/stylistic criticism that you could provide.

For those not familiar with the Iron kingdoms setting from Privateer press, It is a fantasy world, with steam punk-ish technology, multiple sentient races, and a tense political backdrop. The Skorne are a race of eastern people from a land far away from where the main storyline take place. They are descended from elves, warlike, aesthetics, have a rigid caste system where social mobility can only be achieved by proving ones skill in combat (and other non-military crafts to a lesser extent). They are incredibly cruel, but honorable. Their culture is somewhere between samurai, Persian, Egyptian and Indian.

My story, entitled the ascension, is about the rise to prominence of the three main characters in the Skorne faction playable in the hordes Miniatures game, Makeda, Morghoul, and Hexeris. The events in the story and the basic plot were written in Privateer Press publishing as a dry history, but I wanted to really flesh it out and show my interpretation of the characters development, humanized them.

In the next post of this thread, I will post the first "Chapter" of this fanfic. Hope you all enjoy it, and don't be shy with critiques.

Also a quick note, Most of these characters have pictures associated with them, or at least miniature models, that you can view online with a google search, or by visiting privateer press's website. There are some descriptions that would seem redundant to someone who was already familiar with the look of the characters and the race, but for those who are not it might make the story easier to relate to.

Hexeris
The middle son of house Kurshon paced anxiously in his private study while he held the small tome up to his eyes with his left hand, a small scalpel clenched tightly in the right. The soft unnatural blue glow of the false flames casting shadows whose oscillation echoed the man's own anxiety almost satirically onto the rows of book shelves and scroll racks. The only bare wall in the small chamber, high in the towers of the Kurshon estate, was reserved for a desk and bench, cluttered with metal instruments, and open scrolls with pictures of anatomical diagrams and instructions.
“I just need to do it quickly... I have survived worse then this.” It was a lie of course, though he excelled in his combat training he had never sustained anything more then superficial injuries. He slammed his hands onto the desk and read the passage allowed while studying the diagram in the scroll.
“Determine the dominant eye. Reach behind the weaker eye with the pointer finger until the optic nerve is in hand. Sever the nerve at the base of the eye...” He choked, then read the remainder of the passage.

Insert the prepared occulus and close the eye firmly around it for 10 seconds, then look through the occulus. One must accept the stone as their true eye, and see to establish the connection. Pain is the obstacle, and it is formidable. Fairly to establish a connection in this phase may result in death.

He snapped his fingers and the lights in the room intensified like an otherworldly blue sun. He grabbed the scalpel determinant and stood in front of the mirror. With a trembling hand, he reached for his right eye. He pulled back the lid, struggling to maintain a grip, and began to reach around the eye. He could feel his gut twisting, the sweat beading up on his brow. His face turned white when he reached the nerve, and it was all he could do to keep the bile from rising in his throat as he screamed and threw his instruments across the chamber.
“Curse Morkaash, curse the extollers and curse their traditions! This... is my eye, and I will have their secrets with or without this petty offering.” He stormed out of the chamber to seek his answers elsewhere, and the servants of the house did their very best to get out of his way and hide the fact that they had heard Hexeris of house Kurshon scream.

Lokoda
Lokoda, Dominar of house Kurshon sat on a simple stool in his otherwise grand chambers, sharpening the blade of his house, a wickedly curved scimitar that almost shimmered with the magic of his ancestors. It was wielded by his father's father, the great mortitheurge Javekk, the former Lord Tyrant of house Kurshon, and was inlaid with large fragments of another former tyrant; his fathers father, an intractable commander who had first carved out the foundation of the Kurshon house, Tyrant Hyvaaset.
It was said that the man could cut down the outer gates of an enemy fortification the way most men would cleave a slab of meat. Lokoda closes his eyes, and felt the upwelling of power, barely contained in the sacred stones. The move he had just made would either cement his spirit among the ranks of the exalted, surpassing even his ancient forebears, or send him, or even all of his house, crashing down on its head. He trembled despite himself, and calmed his energy with the rhythm of stone on steel.
“Like a stone, I will not break. Like a mountain, I will remain unmoved, as the wind tosses men like leaves...” He whispered his mantra to himself in a low voice like the snoring of a sleeping bear. He stood, and walked onto his balcony, sword in hand, to watch his preatorians and cataphracts practicing in the yard. As the sparring and drilling Praetorians felt the tyrants eyes on them, the fury of their combat escalated. The Tyrant eyes hardened and gleamed like emeralds with restored confidence as he watched them train. There was no way, he thought, that Vinter could be prepared for this large, this elite, and this committed a force. His meditations where interrupted by cautiously urgent knocking at his door. “Enter.” He bellowed without so much as turning his head. As he expected it was his senior adviser, Darul*.
“My Dominar.” Darul said with a deep bow. His shifting eyes betrayed him though. “Stand.” Ordered Lokoda curtly. “Do not force me to pry the worries from your skull, I know you too well for these games.” He saw the knot forming in Darul's throat. His voice, though stern, took on an almost fatherly quality. “It is your council that has kept my anger and my ambitions in check through this crisis with the reborn. I will not punish you for your council, whether I choose to heed it or not. Now, state your concerns at once.” Darul swallowed, and visibly relaxed inwardly even has he stood at attention.
“My Dominar, I have word from Jyvaash... He has refused the contract.” He paused to wait for his lords outburst, but it did not come, so he continued. “The Master Tormentor informs me that it is no longer the place of the paingivers to interfere in inter house politics as decreed in the first unification doctrine. Despite his personal feelings, he will not interfere.”
“He is a coward, those are his feelings. I expected as much. He is to concerned with his own position to fulfill his purpose.”, Lokoda said as much to himself as Darul with disgust in his mouth.
“My Lord, what if the Master Tormentor were to inform on our plans before we have made our first move? It could destroy us.”
“Jyvaash will sit back and watch in silence and declare his support at the very end for whomever the victor might be.” Lokoda spat. “He would not risk my wrath any more then he will our Supreme Archdominar's.” He no longer made any effort to hide his disdain when he spoke of Vinter Raelthorn IV. With his ascension imminent, he could finally take off his mask. “This was to be expected. It is the only support I required of him in any case, and now I am sure we can count on it. What of Lord Tyrant Yvaati? Are house Doruum's forces prepared? Any word from house Malkor?” He asked over the hawk like cries and clashes of steel from the warriors below.
“Yes sire. All the loyal houses are ready to move with you at the first light after the night of the new moon” He paused again.
“What is it now?” The Dominar demanded impatiently.
“Well, my Dominar, there is the matter of your succession...”
“What do you mean, Hexeris shall be my successor. He is clearly the strongest and most clever of my offspring.”
“Yes...but don't you think an official announcement might be in order? After all, the upcoming battle might be...” Lokoda cut him off sharply.
“I do not plan on dying in this battle, and we don't have the time for such ceremonies. If I should join the exalted, my wishes will be carried out.” He turned back to look over the soldiers again. “Where you able to procure the tome's Hexeris requested?”
“My Dominar,” Darul began with the formality he used whenever he was about to say something he feared his Lord might not appreciate, “The young lord spends so much time with his tomes and scrolls. As your successor, should he not be in the practice yard amongst the men, should he not be preparing for battle as well, or at least training with one of the master morithuerges?”
“My scion has moved beyond what the mortithuerges can teach him,” Lokoda said with a smug pride, “and he has too much potential to risk in this battle.” Darul looked skeptically at the back of his Dominars head.
“I have done as you requested and provided for the young lord everything he needs. However I do not understand what he requires of these manuals and the writings of Morkaash and his disciples. He is not an extoller, nor a paingiver. Some might even consider it heresy for him to wade too deeply into this sort of...” He paused for a moment when the Dominar turned his head slightly to look on him, but then regained his resolution. “He is every bit as dangerous as he is brilliant; The stone of Lord Tyrant Javekk has gone missing from the hall of the exalted, some say this is the work of your son!”
At this the Dominar's body spun around, and before he even realized it his hand was raised to strike his adviser. Darul dropped to his knees in a panic of submission, but did not shy from the impending blow. Lokoda's brow relaxed, and he beckoned Darul to rise back to his feet. “Forgive me, you are correct, he is both dangerous and brilliant.“ Darul's sigh was cut short. “Brilliant and dangerous men belong on the battlefield. Informed him of our plans at once, and prepare him to march out with the 3rd infantry division; he has always excelled at mixed unit tactics. See to it that he has a titan prepared for him as well.”
“My Lord?”
“It is no secret that he can dominate the beasts.” Maybe better then I can, he thought bitterly to himself. “Prepare a titan, and one of my basilisks to serve him also. He will march into the field with the authority of house Kurshon. You are dismissed.”
With old concerns dissipated, and fresh ones brewing in his ever turning mind, the senior adviser left the room with the illusion of composure.

WARNING: This post is somewhat graphic and violent. The character is a master tormentor/inquisitor type. I tried to avoid any violence that wasn't unnecessary for explaining the character, and his transition away from rage and malice as his character develops. If this is too graphic i can remove this post, but i can't edit out all of the graphic scenes without ruining the integrity of the scene. Please only read if graphic violence and general creepiness does not offend you. Most of the posts from Morghoul's perspective might be considered somewhat disturbing, so expect this warning in the future for those chapters.

Morghoul
Under the cover of darkness, a shadow tumbled over the gate grand gates surrounding house Doruum, and melted into the ground like sand spilled in the desert. The security was tight, suspiciously so, though the time for suspicions was past. He reached out and touched the minds, the fragile things, wrapped in their flaky armor of stoicism. Do not look this way, he called out to them. There is only death here, and the guards daydreams began to fill with the images of their own nightmares. The closer they got, the stronger the sick feeling in their guts, the clearer their dreams of horror became, until like children running from some unseen unknown boogieman they turned the other way, and patrolled conveniently in the other direction where the torches still lit their way.
Like a cat, he ran through the dark maze of the estate, making hardly a sound. His sharp ears detected a guard turning the corner. He vaulted himself effortlessly onto the roofs of sandstone, and rolled to muffle the sound of his landing. He waited for the man to walk past, and saw his entry point; an ancestral statue on the side of the building, and a balcony one story up in the closest of two rises. His target, the Lord Tyrant, was atop the far one. He could see the glow of cold torches in the highest room. The Lord Tyrant would be sleepless, likely bristling with the paranoid aggression that was so common in the conspirators he hunted.
His moment came, and he leaped across the rooftops, made her way to the high relief colossus, and shimmied up the haft of it's great spear. The patrol men were returning to their posts, but for some reason could not bring themselves to look up. It wasn't hard for that suggestion to take root, seldom does anyone look up anyway. When he tumbled over the head of the statue and leaped to the ledge of the nearest window, it appeared he was in a chamber for higher born younglings. Wooden training weapons lined the walls, the six bed's, and the bodies that occupied them, were small. A guardian visage was carved into the ceiling, with unsettling sacral stones inside the eyes. He knew he had to move quickly.
He could see one of the children stirring in his sleep, waking. He had no time to hide and let the child close his eyes again. Quick and silent as whispering wind, he was at the bedside. His left palm muted the child's mouth so tightly that his small jaw was nearly broken. The child's eyes shot open with alarm as the blades on each of the assassins right fingers slid with ease into his young flesh at the throat, instantly severing his vocal chords, wind pipe, and the nerve tissue at the base of his skull. The little princes body shivered for a moment, his eyes bulged out and rolled back, and then closed, as if slipping into the most peaceful sleep. The bed covers were soaked red, the room was quite, and all six youngsters were sleeping once more. He moved from the chamber with the cold conviction of a man who had ceased to wrestle with the injustices of fate many lifetimes ago.
He carefully traced out his route in his mind, down the stairway, across the rafters of the grand entrance hall, and strait up the tower to the Lord Tyrants chamber. There was no time for stealth now, the extollers of the house undoubtedly had sensed his presence. He glided down the stairwell casually, the delicate robes at his hips skimming the stones. When he encountered an armed praetorian swordsman walking up the opposite way, he slit his throat with a flick of his wrist without a missing a step, before the warrior even had time to open his mouth in protest. The first of many, he knew. Two men stood, backs turned, spears in hand, in front of the entryway to the tower he descended. He focused all of his energies, and crushed the nerves and blood vessels of one of the men under the weight of his will. He dropped his spear, made a strained choked noise from the back of his throat, and curled into the fetal position, silently with his eyes open. The pain was too intense to scream. His fellow turned when he heard the spear drop. “Cast yourself into the void, what is wrong with-” Five metal fingers punctured the gap in the side of his abdomen, puncturing both kidneys, as he was gently and quietly lowered to the ground.
By the time he reached the second tower he could here the panic behind him as the bodies were discovered. He took off at a full sprint up the stairwell, running almost through the men he encountered. The door to the Tyrants chamber would be sealed tight, but a tyrant as reclusive as yvaati would have a dumbwaiter for her food and water when he wished not to be disturbed. He could hear men beginning their ascent after her, almost a dozen. When he found the entrance he was searching for in a study room below, contorted his body to fit through the almost impossibly small hole, popping his shoulders out of place, and sliding through like a serpent. He caught himself, and wit his mortithuergy healed his misaligned joints so he could hold his weight, and without pause, he climbed while the guards of the estate continued their futile pursuit.
He emerged in the chamber to see a fully armored Lord Tyrant, halberd in hand, facing the wrong way. His senses were keep however, and he turned just in time to see his assassin beginning his fatal stride toward him. In the cold blue light of the chamber, the assassin was not a man, just death behind a mask. His fingers reached down to his wrists, and the blades, one for each finger, popped into place as his hands unfurled like the wings of some terrifying metal bird.
“Morghoul?!” yvaati stammered as he moved his halberd to the ready. “You are not a true warrior, nothing but a glorified cutthroat. Do you really think you can defeat a solider in the light, without stabbing them in the back?” Morghoul said nothing, but despite himself his mouth curled into a smile so thirsty for violence it made the tyrants stomach curdle. Even behind the mask, he could feel Morghouls eyes ripping him apart, piece by piece. “Who was it? Which betrayed me?” Morghoul flashed forward, sliding past his first defensive thrust. Yvaati tried to move backward, but was soon pressed into a wall. As he swung his weapon in a wide arc, Morghouls back bent and his legs carried his body under it and up gracefully, as if he was lazily dancing under a limbo stick. He stood up, his right hand piercing Yvaati's wrist, his positioned delicately around his exposed neck. The tyrant tried to force him back, but as morghoul moved his fingers, it was as if he was cutting the strings on a marionette. Yvaati's right hand went limp as his tendons split, and the halberd dropped uselessly to the floor.
“You betray yourself, Lord Tyrant.” Morghoul hissed, his cold breath hitting Yvaati's face. The blade on morghouls left thumb snaked between the plates of the lord tryant's armor, between the bones, into the socket of his shoulder. Fire and agony shot through him and he screamed. “It will be you who betrays this misguided conspiracy.” the blade in his shoulder twisted, as another reached into the gap above his clavicle and scraped the back of the muscles in his chest. The tyrant tried to scream, tried to declare his loyalty and conviction. But nothing escaped but a pathetic whimper. His mind filled with horrible fantasies of his destruction, and he was no longer a mighty warrior, but a frightened child, in a the palm of deaths hand.
When morghoul was certain the list of names was complete, he left, through the window. The extollers and Cataphract guards that burst into the chamber a few seconds later found their Lord crumpled into a pathetic ball, wedged between the floor and the wall, his face wet with tears, his face twisted and frozen solid into an expression of agony, so contorted it made the hardened soldiers nauseous to behold. His wounds were minor, almost invisible. But it was clear to the extoller from the froth around his mouth and his left hand clutching his chest what had happened. “His heart has betrayed him, and will beat no longer.” He told the others with a quavering voice.
Despite himself, Morghoul took some pleasure in his work.

Makeda
Fire fell from the sky like rain. She stood in an frothing sea of blood, flowing endlessly from her swords. She could see the dead bodies, still screaming and writhing, as if trying to stand, skorne, human, all men start to look the same when they are broken to pieces and covered in their own gore. She could feel her enemy leering at her, stalking her in circles like a wild ferox, waiting to pounce, mocking her, toying with her. She squeezed the hafts of her fathers blades so tightly that the blood drained from her fingers, the white of her hands sharp against the gleaming gold and crimson of her armor. He stepped out, from just out of sight, as if he had been standing there the whole time. He was a tall black haired human, in black armor, with black eyes, a black heart, and a black smirk that went well beyond smugness, beyond confidence. It was the face of a man who could not even conceive of his own defeat. He lifted his great sword in one hand to point boorishly at her and when he opened his mouth, the words twisted together into some kind of fiery blazing rage given voice.
Blades at her side, she charged him at a full sprint, waves of red shooting up all around her from the speed and power of her stride, and yet she got no closer. She could feel the fire raining on her, weighing her down, burning her, heating her armor and melting her flesh. She grimaced as the breath left her, but would not falter. The man flipped his hair out of his face and laughed and took a single step forward to meet her, blade raised high. She saw the downward strike coming, but even so it thundered down with such force and speed it drove her to her knees and sent waves of blood shooting up around them. She heard her leg snap under the impact, but cried out with fury instead of pain. She launched a flurry of blows, faster and fiercer then ever in her bloodstained life. He brushed them aside as if he was being assaulted by an angry nun with a ruler, until he caught one of the twin swords of Baalash in his hand. He smirked slyly and snapped it in his fist like a brittle bone. Her hardened face drooped in horror and awe, as he kicked her to the ground. She saw her dead brother, with the gaping bleeding wound she left in his gut still spewing his life out of him, laughing at her, stomping her, kicking her. Her rage turned into a fear so overwhelming as her brother turned back into the black armored man, sword held high one last time. The final blow wiped the world clean, wiped away the rain and the blood as her soul began to unravel at the core. She saw the void calling her, pulling her in piece by piece, particle by particle and for the first time in her life, she screamed not with fury but in horror.

She woke up gasping for breath, thrashing and biting like a frightened youngster. It took her only moments to regain her composure while preemptively silencing the concerns of one of her servants with a gesture. It was just a dream, she reminded herself. He is my now Dominar over even house Baalash, but no one can say he hasn't been a fair ruler, a strong ruler. No one would think that he caused Makeda to feel humiliation, or that he treated her with anything but the utmost respect. On the surface, they were nearly peers. Underneath that thin but hard layer though, Makeda's soul ached with the shame of being second best. She had thought, foolishly, in her youth, that after she impaled her beloved brother and exiled her father, that none would ever stand above her again. She sat on the throne of skulls, Archdomina of the most powerful household in tor-Halaak, maybe the entire world. Then everything changed.
She stepped out of her grand taberna, leaving her servants and her pet monster to sleep inside, and walked the solitary desert night. The cold breeze and harsh sand on her legs calmed her spirit, and dried her sweat soaked hair. She was one of the few, blessed with beauty by the ancestors. In truth a human find would find her fearsome, maybe even ugly to behold, with her sharp cat like teeth, blaring hawkish eyes and jagged features. But she was the epitome of predatory beauty, of power, in truth these words were synonyms in her native Havaati. She was the queen of blades, the unconquerable indomitable empress of battle. Then he showed up, and changed everything. Now she was a lone woman, wandering through the desert night, calm in the aftermath of the human storm that was Vinter Raelthorn IV.
She looked out at the taberna village with all of its flames and colors, black, crimson, the undyed canvas of the lowly venators and servants. She wondered who they served, in their hearts. Vinter may have bested her, may have crushed her, but was that all that mattered? Were they his men, or hers in truth? She looked at the horizon, to the west. Just a little bit further, she thought to herself. Just one more desert to cross, and we will carve up these soft fat piglets of men with their guns, and I will carve out the heart of their king myself. And then, she lamented, she would present it to Vinter, his right as the Supreme Archdominar. Would he sit on his brothers throne after it had been emptied? Was that his right as well? She wondered at the moon.
She shook her head, her unwrapped hair gleaming silver in the light. “He has lead us to greater glory then ever our people have seen. We are one people, one army now.” She said allowed as if trying to convince some other part of her self. “It is only my vanity, my pride that mistrusts him. He is our leader, our true ruler, the reborn.” She cut a gash in her hand and let the thirsty sands lap up her life blood. “and I will serve him until my death, with my blood, with my body, with my soul.” She flicked her sword clean, and sheathed it slowly as she dropped to one knee to finalize her vow. The wound closed with a mere thought. Makeda did not fear blood, injury, or death. Many can pretend, even convince themselves of their own fearlessness. But there was only one like Makeda of house Baalash. Or at least there was; until Vinter came, and changed everything.
As the first hints of light were peeking over the horizon, like gentle waves of icy fog, the camp had already begun to wake. To be seen half naked and without her ceremonial armor was taboo, but such was the soldiers respect for the archdomina of Baalash that they held their heads down and pretended not to notice her as she passed. Even unarmored, hair untied, wrapped in a few loose silks, her twin swords made her feel as secure as if she were shielded in cataphracts armor.
The horns began to sound as she walked into her tent, arms outstretched and legs shoulder width for her servants to dress her and fit her in her armor and ornaments. The three of them hovered wordlessly, and worked as efficiently as machines. They had practiced all their lives for the honor squiring for the sovereign of house Baalash. The giant at the other end of the taberna, Molik Karn, roused from his slumber they began to outfit him as well. He towered above the squires, standing almost 12 feet. His height in fact, was the reasons for this particular taberna's oddly tall design, but he would sleep no where but by Makedas side. His eerily bright cycloptic eye seemed to burn away the nerve of the servants like a hot blue fire, and it was all they could do to keep from trembling while they fitted him; however Makeda did dishonor him by allowing the beast handlers to equip him.
Karn was somewhere between an honored comrade and a pet atrocity. He took up his swords, wickedly jagged scimitars each the size of a full grown man, and kneeled, head bowed, waiting for instruction. The blades had no sheaths, and were more a part of his arms then tools. They were a gift from Makeda herself, and the only time the hilts was not in his grip was when he sharpened them, a nightly, sometimes twice daily affair. She beckoned him to rise, and he followed her outside. The hardest leg of the march was this last two days, but it would be over in an instant.
The soldiers fell to their knees all around her as she strode towards a titanic armored best that had been brought from the outer edge to the center of the encampment. She felt it's will melt away as she dominated its mind. The creature ceased to grind its teeth, its eye no longer darted nervously about the swarm of armored skorne milling about the camp. It just breathed steadily, and gazed into oblivion with eyes dead as stones. The beast lifted her up, onto the howdah worked into its slouched armored back. The mortithuerge Mordikaar stood awaiting her in silence with a massive gilded warhorn,
In a voice amplified by the power of her spirit, she commanded the attention of the tens of thousands.
“Our journey through these wastes is nearly ended, and before us stand the over ripe lands of the west. The weak peoples of this land hide in their cities, in the sheltering arms of their gods and kings. They cling like infants suckling at their mothers bosom. We will rip them from her breast, and take the green lands these pathetic cattle of men!“ There was a growing chant rising amongst the ranks. Not the howls for blood of a savage horde, but a reflection of their tightly organized marching formations in sound. “Today the desert marches, and like the lightning of the stormlands, like fire from the sun, we will burn away anything that stands in the way of our destiny! The next time you wake, you will be in glorious battle. Honor your ancestors or be cast into the void!” Above clanking spears, rhythmic war cries and blaring drum, the great horn sounded. With one collective gasp, the breath forced its way from their lungs, their eyelids grew lax, and the water seemed to evaporate out of their bodies and spill from their gaping mouths. Only Makeda, Mordikaar and their beasts remained conscious, as the horde began its hollow march into the blazing sun.

So... any thoughts anyone? Good, bad, confusing, etc etc? Seriously, you can be super mean. There is more but I don't really want to continue this project without any sort of feedback until i had an idea whether the direction and readability are ok.