Once more into the breach

[Okor]

The death rattle that was Okor's breath briefly dominated the atmosphere as the ship began to pull away from the docks, ripples forming in the tug's wake. He shambled across the deck of the ship, heavy feet beating a steady rhythm across the steel surface. The bright lights and searching patrols of Costa Del Sol began to fade away, becoming a distant memory. He chuckled, blood and phlegm vibrating inside the horrific excuse for a throat he possessed. His titanic body was wracked with coughs, Nurgle's blessings reminding him of his presence, how they infused his four lungs. Bacteria, parasites, viruses, fungi... Every creation of filth and disease infested him, taking their sustenance from what he consumed, sapping the life from his emaciated flesh. The eternal hunger gnawed in his gut, entrails twisting and writhing in their famished state, deprived of the sustenance they desired. Flesh. He shook his head, attempting to dissipate the lust that seeped into his mind. His bare hand drifted idly down to the dirtied ivory crown upon his hip, and conviction ran through him. They had won a victory here today. Those who would oppose them laid broken and disgraced, unable to protect their treasures. And yet, we stood tall. He breathed in polluted air, ravaged lungs filling with a toxic mix, tender, newly-born flesh bleeding as it stretched to accommodate the deadly substance. He chuckled, the sound drifting across the eerily calm ocean. "I must say... Brother, I have not felt so alive since.... Istvaan." He could almost smell the blood and fire. The life-eater Virus, the greatest of Nurgle's gifts, still foolishly used by loyalists. It left nothing, scourging organic matter, leaving naught but death, without rebirth. The ultimate punishment, to entirely remove a planet from the sacred cycle. He was a kind God. A good God. To bring such wroth down upon them...

His infected teeth broke into a sickening smile. The scum deserved it. Slaving away to a greedy, distant king, denying themselves their true potential. He remembered wading through hip-deep organic matter, all that remained of the life on the planet, his weapons roaring death at the entrenched loyalists. As he recalled, naught but a few wily Wolves had escaped their doom. But drops in the dead sea. Finely toned instincts, as of yet undeadened by rot, screamed at him. Movement. His horned head shifted, sighting a small child in his gaze as they clambered from the irrelevant cargo. Little Sister. They stumbled towards him, a pale blue dress clinging to their sickly, pale frame. He kneeled down, reaching out an armoured hand to the small, weak child.

It was then he realized his mistake.

The child's eyes glowed from within, something... else, swirling beneath the human skin it wore. He had played right into its hands, danced like a puppet on its strings. He was too late to act, too late to make a difference in what was to come. Eldritch light shined into his own eye, as everything but It faded away.