The Garden, Gutted.

[Okor]

Okor waded through waist-deep organic matter, every stride he made forcing aside dead materiel. Petrified branches crossed the green sky, titanic trees standing stark white, all life drained from their once-vibrant bodies. Where once rivers of filth flowed, where nurglings capered in the pools of pestilence, where life was once abundant, here was only dried pools of cracked mud, and alabaster bones. Underneath his heavy tread, the ground coughed up dust, making it quite evident that he was the only being to have walked this plane in aeons. He squatted down, his hands sinking into the encrusted filth, tearing out a pure white, misshapen skull. A winding horn sprouted from a cyclopean, jawless bone. Tossing it away into the sea of filth, he trudged forward, his lone eye gazing over this realm of death.

He ran a skeletal hand over a petrified Copse of trees. The ground around them was stained with tears, a reminder of the warlocks' eternal punishment. They had dared to tread upon Nurgle's realm, dreamed of tearing away his prize. Isha. The maiden Goddess of the Eldar, their supposed saviour, the one who would deliver them from Nurgle's gifts. The arrogance. Did they not care how Nurgle showed mercy, by taking her from the clutches of that hedonistic ur-God, Slaanesh? For a race who's members can recall the times before the Great Crusade, they seemed to have such pitifully short memories. Isha. The name came from all around him, from the sky, the earth, his mouth, his weapons, a seeming fact of nature, as sure as gravity, that the universe had waited until now to reveal. He took a moment to look closely at the trees, where the warlocks had been made into a permanent fixture of the garden.

There were hollows in them, fitted to the contours of a slim, waspish body.

A blade sunk through his ribs, the wraithbone, studded with gems, slick with his pale blood. He whipped around, as the warlock twisted through the air, tearing the blade from his abdomen, landing cat-like on his feet. His hand rose, clutching a rusted bolt pistol. He mashed the trigger, sending a bolt screaming towards the Eldar. The Warlock, his face concealed beneath an impassive mask, began to display the skill his ilk were known for. A burst of warp-lightning tore through the air, detonating the bolt prematurely, scorching Okor's decayed armour. Snarling in hatred, he strode forward, slipping his plague blade from its sheath. The Eldar surged forward, the bone blade skittering across his gorget, narrowly missing the crack between it and his throat. He brought his blade down, the rusted bronze slicing through the Warlock's arm, severing it from the elbow down. The Eldar was unperturbed, as dust flowed from its wound. In a blink, it's blade skimmed across his helmet, slicing into his eye. Grunting in acknowledgement of his serious wound, Okor's fist swung through the air, connecting with the subhuman's skull, despite it's best efforts. The helmet flew from its head, trailing ash. Its robes fluttered to the ground, animated by nothing more than a spirit. He slipped the dry sword back into its loop, kicking aside the empty black robes. Beneath them laid a grinning skull, tapering to a point at its end. He stomped it into dust, shattering the delicate bone beneath his heavy boots, sending shrapnel scything through the silence.

Okor stopped in front of the manor. Petrified wooden shutters hung from stained walls, as broken yellow windows looked out into the dead morass of Nurgle's realm. Atop a rocking chair so antique to have fossilized, laid the bones of a giant. Ivory ribs laid across the seat, a twisted spine laid against the back, while a truly massive skull, topped with hold-ridden antlers laid nestled in the malformed pelvis. The end of a God. He should cry. He should weep. He should scream. He should fall upon his own sword, and end his empty life. He sunk his blade and claws into the ancient throne, and began to climb, chipping holds in the sacral wood. He gritted his infected, broken teeth.

Someone has to do it.

He had lost track of how long he had been climbing. Perhaps mere seconds, possibly months. He had never stopped his climb, purpose filling his bones. At long last, he threw an emaciated arm over the seat, pulling his heavy frame on top of the preserved wood. He walked forward, tabard following behind him. There was no wind to blow it, no motion, no life. He clambered on top of the dead god's skull, scratching it underneath his boots, sending chips of legendary bone falling to the ground seemingly miles below. He pulled himself over the brow, and sat, surveying the realm from the viewpoint of a god. At the heart of it stood a tree of colossal proportions, wider than a mountain at its stump. Yggdrasil. It bloomed and grew, flourishing amidst all this death. Flowers topped its branches, birdsong could be heard from its canopy, and laughter seemed to fill the air. It was a sole speck of shining life amidst the darkness of the dead garden.

Antlers began to burst from his skull as he grew, and pondered the situation. Death, and life, torn apart. Separated. Two sides of a coin. They must be rejoined. Yggdrasil must burn. He chuckled through necrotic lips, as he belly swelled from fetid corpse gasses. He wrapped his rotten fingers around the arms of the throne, his damaged eye gazing through pus and blood towards the tree. Soon.