Threat Elimination Protocols: Active

[Okor]

The gangrenous giant watched the impertinent sorcerer recline upon a throne of malevolent wood, the sheer number of protrusions adorning it almost qualifying it as a lethal weapon, denied only by its lack of mobility. One of the rare few functioning nerves left in his body twitched, a malformed eyebrow narrowing around his cyclopean eye as he saw the curved blade atop the staff the warlock wielded.

He could still remember his Gene-Father’s own blade. Silence. He had not dared to ask his Primarch why it was named as such, or from what dark place he pried it from. The bloody toll it had reaped, even before his Lord’s ascension, had ensured his place in legend, Mortation carved upon the pages of history in bloody letters. His own work on that dark day was a pale reflection, a- No. There was naught but shame and terror. This was a new day. Claws clenched as he looked over the vista of impending violence, laying eyes upon the gathered vigilantes. They were stern, disciplined, ready for-

It was at this point that one of the primes was battered over the head, a scabbard-clad blade slapping against a mop of unruly hair, leather pounding against a youthful skull. The sword-wielding amazonian figure towered above the cowering form of the youth he encountered during his time in that damned Graveyard. The fact that the victim did not seem to be overly damaged was a fact lost on the worm-ridden warrior, potent stimulants slipping into porous veins as he began to rise, hand eagerly racing for his blade and-

Laughter permeated the air as the valkyrie dragged her victim to his feet, Lyre (he had yet to place a proper name to that youthful face) still rubbing the welt on his temple. A shudder ran through his body, combat drugs stagnating in his system, with no immediate chance to release the fury induced. He could never understand mortals. They would brawl, scrap, and bicker, demeaning each other and forcing their friends into the dirt. For millennia, he had been forced to carefully cultivate his reputation, building up his identity as warriors with lifespans and memories of centuries judged him. To endanger the ego in such a way, to risk slipping into damnation and ignominy, was unthinkable.

The dying display of pyrotechnics, however, did not suggest a being with a deficit of ego. The voice was filled with power, resonating with the energy contained in what seemed to be a mere piece of jewellry. The theatricality surrounding his introduction was almost painful, the dramatized entrance and show of power a needless affectation. They were all Primes, were they not? Their power was beyond question, and the dismissive nature of this newcomer towards their prey was insulting. Primes were capable of anything, and to forget that was to invite misfortune. Children bent the fabric of reality around themselves, and wielded a blade with skill more akin to that of The Phoenician than a youth.

Speaking of children, a young mutant flitted around the group, a uniform of some description making allowances for the raven wings sprouting from their waist. A device of sorts was clutched in hands unsullied by labour, seemingly leading her through the crowd, in search of… something? It was only a few moments before they arrived at the ancient aggressor, chitinous carapace creaking as he loomed over the Tengu, baleful eye burning into her soul as a rusted vox burst into life, static quickly being replaced with his booming voice. “You had…” A cough interrupted him, a hacking rejection of the disease consuming him forcing a pause, bloody gobbets of his four lungs tainting his tongue. It was a brief moment before he resumed. “...Questions? Ask, and I will answer.”