Once more into the breach

[Okor]

Okor grunted as he hauled his dead flesh onto the precarious bank of loose silicate, chitinous armour splattered with gore, slick with blood. His rusted blade glistened with the unmistakable crimson of battle, its pitted surface a testament to a thousand other combats, its verdigris a constant reminder of how long he has crusaded in Nurgle's name. His infected eye took in the massacre before him, the floating remnants of the titanic beast floating on the water, little more than chum. Already, the ever-present Razorfins returned, engaging in vicious brawls over the chunks of flesh. Beside him, the small child gazed up at the blazing sun, pale, glowing eyes, unused to life above the surface taking in every aspect of the world. Combat drugs still flowed in his deteriorated veins, infusing his toxic blood with largely redundant painkillers and adrenaline, the rush from combat slowly ebbing away as the orb of fire in the sky approached the horizon, the military installations and gaudy tourist attractions of Costa Del Sol forming a dark silhouette, black smoke from their passage rising into the night sky. Toxic, refiltered air that he had breathed a million times before was sucked into his ravaged lungs, the lethal mixture right at home in what passed for his respiratory system, swirling clouds of airborne disease filling his lungs. He tore a jagged tooth from the papery skin of his dead arm, casting the fragment into the reddened sea as his companions began to repair him, weaving flesh and skin from within him, squirming and writhing through dead meat.

What a time to be alive.

Their mysterious patron and his battle-brother glided across the waves, the stranger's robes strangely static in the wind, unknowable symbols worming their way across his cloth coverings. The Luna Wolf seemed haggard, his warplate ravaged and scarred, somewhat limp, as if drained. Their savior glided down gracefully onto their temporary respite, limbs hidden by his all enfolding-cloak. All he could see were a trio of eyes, burning with otherworldly light from the recesses of its hood. Okor struggled with the urge to kneel, the feeling of majesty and power present in the being nigh-overwhelming. He bowed before a false Emperor once. He would not risk it again. He slammed a clenched fist into his breastplate, pallid skin impacting against warped, organic ceramite that writhed beneath his touch, its internal sensors confused by this sign of devotion while the area was devoid of Legion brothers. "We thank you for your... aid, Daemon." Okor gurgled, words bubbling up through tumors, filth, and mutation. Light burned from the trio of eyes set in its black hide, hinting at the power and knowledge it hoarded within its immortal form. His cyclopean visage gazed down upon the hooded figure, moving slightly too late to a more respectable position, ancient knees grudgingly bending to bring himself down to the eye level of their benefactor. But he knew that the aid of Daemons always came at a cost. Blood, knowledge, fealty. The beings of the immaterium were not prone to charity (Save the servants of Nurgle of course, spreading their patron's blessings wherever they walked), and he doubted that this trend changed between realities. "What... sacrifice will suffice for your... boon?" The Plague marine gestured at the ravaged remains of the shark, even now swarming over with vicious razorfins, adding to the blood in the water with their small wars over gobbets of meat.

The entity's eyes glowed.

Sacrifice? What I offer to you, marines, is a mission. A purpose, something greater than the sum of your parts. It hovered around them, an elegant replacement of simple pacing. Its words bypassed the inefficiency of mere vibrating particles, transcending the mind and worming their way into their thoughts. You've yearned for purpose, haven't you? Deprived of meaning, cast adrift over millennia without that animating spark, fighting in wars you can barely remember the beginning of. There is no life to it, no joy. A mere task, taking lives, conquering worlds, awaiting the blow that will end your hollow existence. I offer you a chance to carve your name into this reality, burn it into memory with flames fed by the corpse of The Smiling One. The entity cast its arms over its head, framing the savaged corpse of the beast they slew, robes slipping down its arms, revealing the polished, shining obsidian that formed its body. I offer you a war, a war that you hunger for in your bones. You've been starved, emaciated by ennui. No longer. Join me, and we shall burn the heavens themselves. It offered a reflective hand, the infinite darkness within it reflected through the multifaceted surface, seeming to force away the sight of the beholder. A diseased palm slapped into the shining stone of the being's hand, as Okor grinned beneath his helm. "We have a.. compact."