Dead Man's Dreams

[Okor]

The confidence was little more than a veneer, a mask of self-assurance projected over the doubt that wormed away at the princess from the inside. She had been drawn here by the corruption seeping into the Astral Realm, the damage that was being done to dreams, and the shining beacon of a damaged soul, a situation that demanded her attention. She had expected to save a lost dreamer from some form of dream monster, and instead... This.

What kind of a man dreams with his sword drawn, and his body clad in armour? Most people let their guard down in their dreams, clinging to the belief that these were mere dreams. Luna had seen more than enough to discount the theory that the Astral Realm was safe and innocent. This creature was a mystery, a wounded mind that needed to be healed. She refused to leave a single soul behind in this land. The princess closed her eyes, and delved into the rotting hulk's mind...

... And tasted the decayed flesh of a brother. A gobbet of meat, torn from the fallen corpse of a warrior nearly identical to himself in every way, was shoved into a twisted maw, broken and blackened fangs masticating the life-sustaining material. Cooled blood splattered against the dark hair that matted his chin, as his claws reached forward to salvage more flesh from the deceased. A long piece of shrapnel piercing the decrepit helmet of the warrior marked the wound that slew him, the blow that ended a legacy centuries in the making. It was no use debating mortality, or the morality on what had occurred. The lives of the Death Guard were at Nurgle's liberty to spend, and nothing would take them without his permission. Not the gifts he blessed them with, not the cold void of space, and certainly not hunger. A dead eye gazed up into the heavens, piercing the clouds as it looked upon the planet it orbited. Or rather, the planet it used to orbit. A molten core began to disperse, a glowing ooze, its dying light shining through the great emptiness, spreading over the splintered remnants of a planet he'd never bother to remember. He could muster no oaths of vengeance, no howls of rage to mark the demise of his brother. This was just one more debt to be repaid to the Imperium, a single death when entire Legions had been gutted and slaughtered at the walls of Terra. Justice would be done, though the heavens themselves bled and burned. Even here, things would be made right, the damned eternity forged by a mad god would bend and break under the Gods' will, and he would be anointed their champion...

There. That was it, the key, the mental lock to crack, the one that would end his madness. She focused her mental energies upon the grim scene portrayed, and began to change it, warping and twisting his consciousness, seeking to sever what man might remain in that blasted shell from the corrupting influence of its strange beliefs. He would need to face his fears, and emerge from his trials reborn…

Okor opened his cyclopean eye to the emptiness that prevaded this damnable realm, blinking away bloody tears as he forced himself off of the porcelain plane. Where was the creature? He began to seek for his foe, an endeavour which ended as he settled his sight upon the hallowed ground in front of him.

A mound of skulls, every one a unique facet in the titanic construct, some larger than a battle tank, others disquietingly small, stood before him. Frozen torrents of liquid rage stood in stasis on its monolithic flanks, glowing tributaries resplendent as they burned their immortal hatred into his retina. Two massive skulls, great burning rents marring their ivory surface, capped twin cliffs of bone, sparks of infinite anger still burning in empty eye sockets. Leaning against this macabre monument was a blade of legendary proportions, the hate-spawned runes rampaging across its length giving it the strength to shatter reality itself, carving through the thin barrier between the material realm and the Etherium.

Resting in the seat of this ossified temple to murder, the capstone to this petrified plinth, was nothing.

Where the great blood and grass God of Slaughter should have rested, was a silent void, a chilling emptiness utterly devoid of the smouldering rage that defined Khorne. Pressing his hands to his temples, Okor spun away from this scene of existential horror, only to be faced with further evidence of inexpressible terror.

A crystalline tower, iridescent geodes containing enough arcane power to annihilate the world and remake it in a maddened parody of what it once was, stood empty. It’s ever-changing master was absent, his constantly warping seat of power frozen in time, defied its uncontrollable mutation. Tzeentch, the changer of ways, the shaper of fate, was removed from this damnable reality.

A marble chaise, it's unmarred surface veined with gold, its structure shaped to support an anatomy that was largely up to the creature’s whim of the moment, stood resplendent in a sea of faceless, impossibly beautiful androgynous figures. Diamond barbs idly twisted along its surface, seeking to aggravate and intensify both pleasure and pain, stimulating every possible sense in the hopes of making the Dark Princeling feel anything. This world was denied the twisted vision of perfection and hedonism, the joy of life, and the drive to exaltation offered by Slaanesh.

A throne of thorns and swords stood shrouded in the shadows, its average size making it seem miniscule in comparison to the monolithic structures that surrounded it. An aura of aggression radiated from it, undirected hatred of all things infusing the air, carrying a silent promise of bladed death. Even the seat was not safe, innumerable points facing inward to ravage who dared to claim this place of power.

Still reeling from these revelations, the Plague Marine stumbled backwards, the sheer nothingness where there should have been the very essence of both creation and destruction overwhelming him. Slipping on a patch of his own putrescent emanations, he slammed to the ground, rusted armour clashing against the illogic that formed this realm, cracking his horn against the solidity of madness. Hastily drawing a corrupted breath into leprous lungs, he was unable to do naught but stare at the scene before him.

A massive construct of rotten wood rose above him, warped spires of pus-stained timber connecting a seat of massive size to twin curved rockers, their size nigh-incomprehensible. It was the throne he had dared to dream to take for his own, the titanic relic filling his vision. It was the seat of power of The Grandfather, The Lord of All, his patron. The great God that had kept him alive during millennia of warfare, the one that had blessed him with all of his gifts. It was an age of constant war, of endless death and decay, but while Battle Brothers were created and destroyed, Entropy was the one constant, the only thing that he could be sure of in this life.

The emptiness dispelled that notion. Translucent tears slid down his rotten face, claws clenching as he laid in this anathema, this godless realm.

“There is no reason to fight here, Warrior.” Came a voice without source, its presence intruding upon this hallowed ground. “Your fight was left behind you, in a realm you are no longer a part of. There is no need for conflict, no want, no need.” A ghostly image of the mage’s equine visage floated into view, their prominent ivory spear shrouded in an aura of tangible power. “You need only lay down your arms, and this can become a paradise.” Images of an idyllic land, a veritable pleasure world began to seep in at the edges of his vision, peaceful vistas starting to overlay themselves over his vision.

”No.”

He hauled himself upwards, wrapping an arm around his greave to steady himself. ”This world is devoid of gods, without any king worthy of his title, and I have seen not even half a dozen that… deserve to be called men.” He raked a claw down his helmet, wiping away his bloody tears. ”There is no life without an end, no glory without failure. A legend in this world is… consigned to ignominy in reality. Every blow I strike here, I strike to bring meaning. I kill and I take trophies, so that they remember their failure. I slay and bring shame, so that they will... never oppose me again. I force an end upon them. I bring fear, and I bring pain, so that the primes remember their mortality.” Infected saliva dripped from his fangs, falling into the cesspool of his pestilent mouth. ”If there are no Gods to bring strife and forge mankind into something greater, then…”

“I will bring them here.”

He coughed, wracking his ethereal form with plague-wrought spasms. He stumbled to his feet, Omnillium coalescing around his being. ”I will save this realm from its indolence. They will know pain. They will know… hunger. With every torment they endure, they will scar and grow stronger. The weak will fall, and the worthy will rise.” A hole-ridden tongue slid across shattered teeth. ”And I intend to be on top.” Hissed the monster, as chains forged of raw potential wrapped across him as they pulled him downwards, tearing him from the Astral Realm to the mundane world.

The princess was able to do little but blink at the chasm where the man once stood. She had given him purpose, but was it proper? They had been galvanized into action, inspired to wield blade and bullet against the Omniverse at large. Had she done the right thing? They nervously swallowed before flexing their wings of starlight, lifting themselves into the ether on pinions of power. Whatever fate had in store for him, it was no longer within her power to control.

There was little she could do but watch.