Once more into the breach

[Okor]

A spray of salt and splinters rose up from the impact of the creature, brine-soaked daggers of shrapnel embedding themselves in his desiccated flesh. Rotted lips peeled back underneath his horned helmet, pointed, ruined teeth awash in acidic saliva. Every time he believed he had found his footing, this maelstrom of unrequited creation threw another obstacle at him. He was reminded of an ancient adage as he began to draw his bolter. To remain strong, you must be eternally tested. Every step, every rattling breath, it was a testament to his will. A single second of life was worth the cost, a screaming rage of defiance against cruel reality. As the shattered fragments of the boat began to sink into the sea, dead fingers spat fury and hate, the bark of the bolter adding to the cacophony of chaos caused by the colossal Charchadon, its grey hide suffering as shells exploded into nuclear-touched shrapnel within its hide, black eyes rolling back into their sockets in its maddened frenzy.

A plan formed in his head, writhing currents of thought winding their way around the decayed architecture of his mind, foreign thought raising long-neglected pillars to the sky, shifting runes etching themselves into existence behind his eyes. An intricate net of suggestion ensnared him. Step forward. Defy gravity. Reject reality. Rusted greaves stepped over open air, distorted reflections and madness keeping him aloft as he spat death from his trusted weapon. The scream of a chainsword disappeared as the Luna Wolf descended beneath the waves, white gauntlets clinging to the patchwork chainsword embedded in the beast's side. A foamy wake heralded its disappearance, a flick of its massive tail sending it diving beneath the surface, the water turning crimson in its wake from the wounds it had suffered in their battle. His fingers twitched, adrenaline and rage still flowing through ravaged veins. He still hungered, still lusted for battle. The blood of conquerors infused him, calling him to war. Okor. Jump. The words slid into his thoughts like silk and honey, two things entirely unknown to Okor up to this point. It felt as if the Primarch himself, the rightful King Mortation, calling him to war. The Bolter mag-locked to his thigh, he drew his blade from its loop of rotten cord, the rusted metal slick with sickness and salt water. Chanting a benediction to Nurgle in dark tongues, thanking the Lord of All for the strength to survive, he leapt.

As he flailed through the air, he could see the encroaching darkness. The predator began to rise out of the sea, his brother screaming curses above the whine of his weapon. All Okor saw was its mouth. A cavernous, gaping orfice, filled to the brim with razor-sharp teeth. Soft, weak flesh, hiding beneath pain. Pain was an illusion of an unworthy shell, something that the faithful rejected. He fell into that ravenous maw, antique blade slashing out, carving into the vast expanse of flesh facing him down. As he plunged his sword upwards into the roof of the monster's mouth, he grinned savagely, exulting in the brutality of combat. He was made for the crucible of war, his body scrapped, melted, and reborn to be a god of war. Vitae splattered across his armour, eliciting a roar from the monstrosity. And he was damned good at it.