The Elfbone Extraction [M]

[Okor]

Okor murmured curses beneath his laboured breath as he looked down upon the Museum from the spire. The climb up had been long and arduous, necessitating caution and careful pacing. Blasts of steam and sharpened fans had impeded their movement, but in the end, they failed to resist the will of the Astartes. Of course, it had been rather simple compared to the trek through the lower tiers. The damnable being Omni had seen fit to infuse even the lowest dredge with some fraction of his power, making lightning strikes impossible. Discretion was key, if they were to succeed. But still, every step back was painful. They were the finest warriors humanity had ever created, and to walk away from a fight? Anathema. His soul writhed and twisted in shame. First, they had been felled in gladiatorial combat. Now, we had been forced to flee from lesser beings. He would avenge this dishonour at the earliest opportunity, as thoroughly and as completely as possible.

The mention of the Black Legionnaires was interesting, to say the least. The fact that they had made their way to this... 'Omniverse', meant that they were cut off from Abbadon, and removed from the dark deals that consumed their Legion. They would be a useful ally, that was for sure. While they had certainly... devolved, in recent millenia, they still remained a potent fighting force. But, the sheer concept that hive scum would dare to attack Astartes, let alone succeed in driving them off? Okor's single eye glared at the white armour of Tartaros, scowling beneath his helmet. The Luna Wolf was weak. He could see it now. His denial of the truth, his early demise in the death games... Yes. His infected eye pierced the miasma cloaking the marine. At his core, the Luna Wolf was hollow. But for now, even a scarecrow would suffice. Tartaros would be culled later. He returned his attention to the museum, lifting an antique telescope to his raw, red eye as Galel and the weakling channeled the essence of Omni into a Landspeeder.

It was so close. The crown of bone was visible through the skylight above. While such an architectural decision did make a splendid environmental display in the day, now, it only served as a point of ingress. The Crown of Blackhand was almost beautiful in its purpose. A bent elvish spine formed the base, bound in preserved gut and sinew. Its ribs rose up, shortened for practicality. It was a device of hate and malice, the centerpiece of decades, if not centuries of silent loathing. It was magnificent. There was no ornamentation, no glorious inscriptions. The material was purpose enough: I have fought back. I have won. Okor's black teeth grinned beneath his helmet. Soon, he would too. A call from the Sorcerer interrupted his lust for the relic. "Brother! Our transportation is prepared. While you are renowned for your patience, I foresee speed being of the essence." Okor chuckled as he rose, moving away from the precipice. An azure and golden landspeeder was parked in front of him, although, curiously, an Aquila had appeared on the chassis by the passenger seat. Okor was sure to shatter it with a kick before clambering into place. He reclined in the seat, as Tartaros tensed his grip on the wheel. Galel took a position of command in the rear, a customized seat serving to cradle them in comfort and protection, while the others' seats were decidedly spartan. "And so, we strike the first blow. And so, we.... fell the first foe." He chuckled, eager to shed blood. "And so, we reclaim our…. birthright as conquerors."

The Landspeeder descended from its perch, the miracle of human engineering transporting three exemplars of its arrogance towards the archive of artifacts. It silently glided towards the roof, its shadow falling over the skylights and windows that displayed the ample beauty held within. He took a moment to look over his rusted bolter, verdigris coating the metal beneath. Encased within were Irradiated bolter shells. Curious, how mankind had sought to warp natural phenomena into weapons of destruction. Rocket-propelled, explosive rounds were deadly enough, not requiring the addition of a slow, painful, radioactive demise. However, the great crusade had called for more. It had called for death itself, and so they forged it. The warring tribes of Terra, conquered by the hated God-Emperor, warped and twisted into living war machines. He remembered when they came to Barbarous. How they had stolen all they had earned with their blood, how they had turned them into nothing more than another vassal of the Imperium. He still remembered the implantation. Those weeks enduring the attentions of the apothecaries, the organs and augmentations inserted into his flesh. He lost his humanity. But he gained so much more. Immortality. Power. Purpose. He had thought those things lost when he was stolen from his reality, but it offered those very same things. He would not die. He would not falter. He would not want for glory. He chuckled as the speeder stopped over the glass portal. “Tartatos. Bring the speeder around to ground level. Initiate a flanking… action once you settle it. Primary objective is the… recovery of the Crown. Acquire, and extract. Do not… fail us.” With that, Okor and Galel threw themselves over the side of the Landspeeder, their massive weight shattering the crystalline substance, creating a fine mist of shimmering dust as they crashed to the floor, alarms ringing through the complex. Stumbling to his feet, Okor whipped around, bringing the stock of his bolter down upon the glass casing, exposing the crown. He grabbed it in his diseased fist, chuckling. Far too easy.

“Okor. Something is not right.” Galel spoke, urging him to caution. “Hah! These… False Imperials are simply incapable of -” Galel stopped him. “The defenses are too light, even for a people as soft as this. I can sense… something. Weak, of course, but still present.” “Then there is nothing to worry about. Come, let us meet with Tartaros before he manages to crash the-” Okor was interrupted by a sudden snap, and pressure mounting on his leg. Looking down, he saw a metallic contraption trapping his leg. “Dammit.” Cursing, Okor trudged forward, tearing the chain from its mooring, leveling his bolter. “Prepare for contact.”