Upon an auger isle of Tzeentch's favored -- Silver spires of brass flutes and arabesques that overlapped in mind-boggling displays of impossible architecture -- an even more inconceivable love affair was in full, defiling bloom. Nuptials were in order for the fortress's master, to the host of gibbering chaos spawn, slavering screamers and entire troupes of lissome, loathsome daemonettes; changelings, veiled in their silver-trimmed mantillas and draped in warp-woven sheets of satin, ushered the parade of abominations to their proper places. The crystalline corridors of the daemon engine turned chapel were bedecked in a macabre assortment of eldritch glyphs and debase decorations; a union between Tzeentchian sorcery and Slaaneshian perversion.
For the first time in several millennia, Sobek was uneasy. The chaos sorcerer had plucked at the strings of reality as one would a harp, twisting his will through all the strands he could find, and with each twang of fateful resonance, the very fabric of the Materium quivered; but now, it was Yiriel that played upon the chords of his heart. Chaos and its emissaries knew nothing of true love, for they often molested and defiled such emotions with eager intent: so why did this infatuation affect him?
He'd spent years weaving a web of lies and deceit across the vastness of the Materium; chains of illusion and subterfuge that stretched into darkest edges of the galaxy. For once he wanted something simple: the company of another like himself, someone who understood what lurked beneath his mask.
Yiriel noticed her lover's distraction when she placed herself before him, spruced up in a lascivious mockery of a wedding gown; pale and sensual flesh swathed in an exotic, writhing shroud of dark red silk. The once-human girl's face was painted white and black, adorned by eye-tearing patterns of purple lines and crimson stars; horns sprouting from her brow and wings from her back. Pointed ears protruded from the sides of her head and hands shaped into wicked talons glimmered with arcane energy. Her body, lithely muscled and heavily-breasted, dripped with intricate charms and thorny necklaces; rings, bracelets, belts, sashes and earrings inlaid with silver runes and polished bones.
"Are you feeling well?" Yiriel asked, holding his gaze, while the guests assembled to witness the union.
Sobek nodded, and to his great benefit, a heavy, azurite helm concealed the warmth beneath his ancient cheeks. Sobek's flesh had long been entombed within the tight confines of hulking power armor; twisted plates of silver trimmed ceramite embossed with winding motifs of Tzeentchian symbols. His fingers were those of an armored gauntlet, and his voice was low and cold; like gravel crunching beneath boot heels, or ice cracking beneath the weight of a passing ship. As Sobek's armor had long bonded to flesh, feeling had eluded the chaos sorcerer, but with Yiriel he could feel everything. The fallen sororitas boon as a favored mistress of Slaanesh was one Sobek's few instances of reprieve from the callous existence he'd created for himself. He stood like a pillar carved from granite, every inch a master sorcerer and champion of Tzeentch, yet before this woman he was not but a man in love:
"I have felt better."
The daemonette woman smirked, flashing rows of razor-sharp teeth and grinning at him as though he'd just said something clever – as indeed, he might have, if it wasn't so utterly stupid. Yiriel's talon-tipped digits slowly met the rim of his helm, tenderly rapping along its impenetrable surface. "Well," she purred, the last syllable laced with mischief, "relax. The heights that await us are more than enough to distract any man...or monster..."
The discordant rabble of the swelling congregation subsided once the officiant arrived: a twin headed daemon with the mirrored heads of two craven vultures; billowing robes of turquoise and amethyst draped along its emaciated figure. It stood heads above the lovers before it. It chanted through gritted beak while stilted, feathery wings fanned into life, flapping behind it in time to the tempo of its recitation:
"Lord of Change, God of Unmaking, we assemble in this hallowed hall for the joining of ruinous serendipity, of this blasphemous union. O' Treacherous Tzeentch, give pardon to this binding of Slaanesh's will to your own." With an airy rustle of feathers, the avian monstrosity spread out his arms wide, presenting his subjects a panoramic view of the chamber they had assembled within. They could see hundreds of eager spectators crowding every corner of the hall; revelers who had been summoned by spell or curse from distant lands and dimensions; and thousands of eyes focused on the altar at which Sobek and Yiriel were joined together.
The corrupted sister looked upon the treacherous astartes with feverish adoration. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her body painted like an idol's statue – long legs bare beneath satin sheets, shapely hips wrapped with a crimson sash, dark lips bared for kissing, black hair piled atop her head in languid waves. She turned back to gaze lovingly up into his faceplate, feeling the heat radiating from those ceramite plates; sensing his pounding hearts throbbing in time to hers; tasting his breath as it brushed against her cheek. "I love you." she whispered.
Sobek drew a deep sigh. His twin hearts thrummed like a kettle drum, but the noise was muted somehow, muffled by the sound of the gale outside and the chanting of the priest. He feltYiriel's soft embrace around him, and smell the scent of her intoxicating perfume waft into the serrated grill of his helmet. "And I love you, Yiriel."
There was no need for further ceremony, as the fiendish assembly ruptured into a chorus of congratulations and sin. Awed by this act that defied all reason and convention, the gathered worshippers swarmed closer to offer their blessings; so much so, they surged over Sobek and Yiriel alike, sending them sprawling backwards across the dais, though neither fell far from grace. The two lovers lay entangled upon each other, bodies locked in lustful abandon while the frenzied crowd leaped above them in mindless celebration:
"This is a great day!" shouted the fat man with an oboe-like proboscis. He wore a garish suit of pink silk, slashed at the knees with blood red cloth.
"For glory and pleasure," bellowed a blue-skinned cyclops, wielding a golden club in one hand and a fleshy, flayed monstrosity in the other; the bloody corpse dripping its last drops onto the floor.
A monstrous woman – who had taken the form of a winged serpent – swept into a bow, fluttering her membranous wings like a dancer. She gestured for her comrades to do the same, and for a moment it looked as though a host of writhing snakes were encircling the pair, before dissolving back into the sea of faces that crowded the chamber.
As the revelries died down, Sobek led his newlywed wife to the heights of the resplendent citadel's apex, eventually reaching its nuptial chamber; towers of whispering tomes, Prosperine tapestries, and varies relics had been set aside for a canopy of velvet pillows.