The Elfbone Extraction [M]

[Okor]

The massive blade of the Draconian descended, whistling through the air as Okor's dead flesh moved, bringing his rusted blade to bear. His one eye narrowed in concentration, focusing on the death-bringing steel careening towards his collarbone. With a primal roar, the two weapons clashed, sparks and flakes of verdigris flying from their contact. Four lungs and a corrupted vox system amplified it further. The countless glass displays and window panes began to shake as his scream increased in volume, a howl of hatred and anger impressing itself upon the environment. He stepped to the side, offering no resistance as Axorn powered through, used to Okor constantly confronting his every motion. The half-dragon stumbled along, bringing a weapon that was as much a half-breed as himself to bear, the crystals within humming as they gathered power, ready to end the Chosen of Nurgle's existence. He never had a chance to fire.

A solid mass of ceramite and rusted iron crashed into the Draconian's face, the familiar, comforting sound of snapping bone and a spray of blood indicating the success of this maneuver as the abomination of man and mutant staggered backwards, dropping his blade as he clutched his muzzle with his hands. Okor strode off, a withered length of intestine slapping against his armoured thigh as he stooped down to collect his bolter. Clutching it within his diseased hands, he looked it over with his infected eye, reassured by the familiar patterns of rust and rot coating his weapon of death. "Imperial Storm Troopers! Fre-" Okor slowly turned towards the source of the disturbance, patterns of fluorescent light playing across his massive frame, illuminating the impossible physiology, the languidly beating, worm-ridden hearts nested in his torso, the tendrils of flesh beginning to knit his shattered form back together. The calcified, corrupted mass of bone lodged in his abdomen began to snap and warp, tearing apart the papery skin that shielded the abomination from the light of day. The two storm troopers leveled their blasters on the Plague Marine, shouting demands that Okor no longer cared to hear. He hungered.

In a burst of tattered flesh, withered, barbed tentacles formed of viscera shot out from the ravenous maw of teeth gnashing in his stomach, the screams of the storm troopers a soothing melody, a musical accompaniment to his sustenance. A trooper scrabbled against the floor, his weapon dropped far behind him in a panic.Spines dug deep into his flesh, pulling him closer and closer to his doom. With an ear-splitting boom, Okor's bolter barked, ending the miserable existence of the storm troopers, sighting his weapon on the similarly restrained foe. He rejected his base desires, forcing the hunger to the back of his mind. There were far more important things. With a dull thump, a bolt shell detonated within the remaining trooper's head, spraying the wall with the contents of his skull. Okor's feet crashed against the floor as he broke into a sprint, focusing his sight upon the glass window in front of him, the rapid lights of the airborne traffic beneath mesmerizing. He could hear the clacking footsteps of the pervasive abomination behind him, coming for his crown. With a final push, he threw himself through the glass, a fine mist of glass fragments filling the air as he turned, Bolter firing as he fired a single shot into his foe's right wing, the radioactive round shredding the leathery hide, ruining its chances of following. He began his long fall-

Soft leather greeted Okor. A shell of steel and glass surrounded him, occupied by a young human male, his eyes obscured by ridiculous pink shutters. He began to open his pathetic mouth, the teeth within white as bone, straight as an arrow. An unacceptable waste of time and effort. His fist swung, shattering the boy's teeth, knocking him into blessed sleep. Their vehicle began to careen, falling towards the darkness below. Throwing himself over the plastic partition, cracking it beneath his weight, shattered shards worming their way into his exposed organs. Clutching the strange controls desperately, he forced the craft upwards, inertia sloshing the diseased liquids leaking from his corpse-like body into places they were never meant to be. He threw the hovercar into a sharp turn, its original owner falling from the vessel, coming to a stop on a platform not far below. A corrupted receiver on his throat coughed to life, broadcasting a signal across Legion channels. "Marines. Re... port." The hovercar scythed an erratic path towards the museum, as Okor attempted to guide it towards his brothers. A burst of boltfire greeted his reply. "I shook the bugger off. Where in The Emperor's name are you?" Okor winced at the mention of the Corpse-God's name, millenia of hatred running deep in his psyche. "And where is Gal-"

His question was interrupted by an inferno of impossible fire, colours that could only be described as wrong filling the right wing of the Museum, transmuting solid rockcrete to gibbering mouths and maddened eyes. Melted glass reformed into screaming faces, their visages locked in an endless expression of terror. Psykers. "Nevermind. Find Galel's... outburst. I will be waiting." He did not have to wait long. The Son of Horus threw himself threw the window, the warped glass screaming as it shattered. Lasfire followed him, accompanied by a burst of bolts. Loyalists. His brother landed in the seat next to him, Larraman's cells already starting to scab over his numerous wounds. Too numerous. It was a discussion for later. In the reflective surface adhered to the top of the glass pane he could see flashing lights, the local Arbites approaching. He leaned back, adjusting the mirror, tightening his grip on the controls. "Buckle up, Tartaros..."

"The ride is only beginning."