A Rotten Return

[Okor]

The apothecary scampered around the pocket dimension that had been reserved to quarantine the pestilent undead and their unfortunate opponent. A gloved hand ran over the treated hood, massaging the shaved head underneath. Things were not going as they had originally intended. While there was little hope of restoring the dead man to whatever half-life he had, there was no intention to. The plagues and malignancies that rested within that tormented corpse were manyfold, each one an insidious threat to the glorious Kingdom. Tinted lenses looked upon the plethora of alchemical paraphernalia that had been gathered at significant expense, their pseudo-magical properties unused.

His gaze fell finally upon the resized bed used to hold the patient. Most notable, aside from its size, was the lack of a patient. The rotting heap of malformed flesh and rusted steel that dared to call itself alive had disappeared shortly after the discharge of their victim. Concealed hands wrung themselves, leather-clad fingers expressing the internal turmoil within the medicine man. To find a cure, or even a treatment to one of those plagues! He would be praised, nay, exalted! His name would echo through the hippocratic halls, be etched into plaques and monoliths from Camelot to Coruscant! He would-

It was at this moment that the air tasted purple, and Okor began his return.

A tear in reality made itself apparent where the titan once laid, rainbow-tinted tendrils of Omnillium slithering from the rent as the gangrenous giant stepped from the portal, cracking the bedding underfoot. The screams of a thousand damned souls, cast adrift in the chaos of the Astral Realm, seeped from his portal, their howls generating a veritable hurricane within the triage, forcing the doctor to his knees as priceless equipment shattered around him, shards of glass whirling through the air. Hands pressed themselves against his ears, attempting to block out the lamentations of the lost as they called out for the living to join them, promising eternal torment and infinite paradise alike.

The necrotic warrior reached out, trailing claws through the eddies of power and madness, relishing in this return to the primordial morass. As always, all things had to come to an end. He allowed the rollicking madness that surrounded him to subside, the terrifying tides of the realm of dreams fading back into their warped home. Silence dominated the pocket dimension, the only sounds being the muted whimpering of the medic, and the rasping breath of the titan.

It took him but a few strides to reach the catatonic chirurgeon, talons dripping with corruption plunging downwards and hefting the terrified man up to the height of his blazing eye, the feverish eye staring past the treated glass of his mask and into the horrified eyes beneath. Fetid breath issued forth from the battered helmet, corrosive emanations burning away at the hooked mask, alchemical protections faltering before the wrath of a pestilent god. Gurgling laughter assaulted the poor man’s eardrums, mirth pervading the voice of the dead man despite all encouragement to the contrary as a rusted gauntlet closed around the throat of the apothecary. ”You tired, didn’t you?” Claws clacked as they panned over the vista of property damage as a breath forced its way into whatever abominable anatomy resided within the monster. ”There’s no stopping it, no cure. They’ve tried, and tried, and… sacrificed.” Peals of warped laughter escaped the marine’s mouth as he dropped the gasping apothecary to the hard floor. Thundering footfalls punctuated the ambulatory abomination’s abscond, each impact of armoured feet splintering the wooden floor. ”You cannot cure a… Blessing.”

Gurgling laughter prevaded the room even after the half-life warrior left the room, the portal rippling and darkening as he returned to the horrific parody of reality. A man would need to be mad to miss the countless miniscule facets of twisted insanity that infused this realm. A man would need to be mad to not burn this nightmare to the ground.

A twisted grin of blackened fangs spread beneath his helmet as he saw the twisting sigil burn itself into his vision, reminiscent of the squad runes, in the era when those still mattered. His infested eye blinked, as he opened a line of communication with an unknowable abomination from beyond time and space.

He was perfectly sane.