(Pre-Show) The Barracks

[Okor]

Okor ran an armour-clad hand down the steel door, nodding his approval. These cells would be acceptable. Pushing the door inward, the hinges gliding along a thin layer of grease. This 'Syntex' was sparing no expense on their part. He ducked underneath the door frame, taking care to avoid scraping the roof with his twisted horn. It appeared they had neglected to accommodate the proportions of a Legionnaire, the room barely affording him space to properly maneuver in. He lumbered inside, looking over the bare grey walls of his cell. It was as Spartan as any Astartes' room, devoid of filigree, weakness, and distraction. Grunting as he bent over the almost insultingly small bed, he looked through the bag they had provided him with.

A meager amount of rations greeted his gaze. Four packs of nutrient powder, not unlike Corpse-Starch rations, and four bottles of water. Accompanying it was a map and a compass. Grasping the paper, he raised it to meet his visage, and began to inspect it. A simple island, dotted with isolated settlements, dominated by a tall mountain. He ran his finger over the elevations, seeking out a choke point to use to their advantage. Grinning, he laid an infected finger down on the map, marking it with a dab of decay, satisfied with what he found. While the lack of proper defensive fortifications was appalling, it would have to serve. He folded the map up, staining it with the slime seeping from his body.

He cracked open the tome taken from this Librarium. The attendants were recalcitrant to allow him to leave with it, citing his entropic nature. It was only with the aid of a plastic covering that he was allowed to leave with it. Pulling a maggot from its place between the pages (And dropping it down his breastplate), he turned to where he last left off. Chapter 4: The Tribes of the Tangled Green. He began flipping through the pages, absorbing the data presented within. Yggdrassil. The Hidden Temple. Mokugakure. The scattered Orcish tribes. The endless beauty and power of the elves. Delicately setting the book down, Okor rose, hunching himself to avoid an unintended head injury. Wiping his pestilential hands off on his tabard, he laid down upon his hard bed, silently stewing on the information he was processing. A land that never dies. A people who remain in a stasis of perfection. Outcasts abandoned to the endless forests. A realm awaiting Nurgle.