Exit Thread

[Okor]

As his very essence was lost to the wind, the deadened dust that was once the vibrant ecosystem that was Okor drifting away, he rose his other fist, clenching the weapon in skeletal hands as hate burned in his hearts.

Hatred for this ‘Warlock’, which wrapped itself in illusion and trickery, that fought with taunts and tricks, rather than anything worthwhile.

Hatred for The Smiling One, for fabricating this farce, for expecting these primes to dance like puppets upon his strings of empty promises and false glory.

Hatred for himself, as his body turned to ash, the corpse that had ravaged the decrepit Imperium left behind by his hated Grandfather for millennia, the mummified memory of aeons past that had brought vengeance upon the Empire had had built, failing him at this crucial moment.

He howled in rage as the particulate matter that was once a God’s Son drifted into the void, as reality itself collapsed around him, darkness claiming the Millennia-Old Marine, dragging him down, down, down into the abyss.

The darkness claimed all, eventually.

A rheumy eye slowly forced itself open, cracking the cocoon of pus and pestilence forming around the crimson orb. Emaciated appendages struggled to lift his dead weight off of the marble floor, dripping diseased fluids over the pristine plane of existence the ‘Hero’ created. What kind of a man made his prison so sterile, so clean of life? Idols of unworthy gods, carvings of legends long since faded into rightful obscurity, a pool of water so clean that it could only offer up a reflection of life, rather than nurture existence within itself.

A lifeless place, home to nothing more than ghosts, echoes of the past clamouring for but one more shot at glory. Was he among those blighted wraiths, those rage-filled remnants haunting the living, throwing themselves into the breach again and again, determined to scrawl their name in some shrouded saga? Would he become like this abandoned hero, begging mortals to play along with his games, whispering into their ears in the hopes they may one day mention his name?

He grit his teeth, fangs gnashing together as he looked upon the condescending visage of his tormentor. Not Destined. His plague-ridden blood threatened to boil over. Claws dug into his palm, shredding his skin as a sphere of that damnable Omnillium was thrust towards him.

He snarled as it wormed its tendrils into him, gravitating towards his irreparably corrupted corporeal form, glaring at the translucent Teucer.

”I do not need your… charity, corpse,” spat the marine, venom lacing his words. ”I have been abducted, stripped of my sacred wargear, and made to fight your battles. And now, you offer me pity?”

“I have walked a thousand worlds. I have seen Gods come into existence, and… die. I have broken legions beneath my boot, and seen my own shattered, and cast… to the wind. In my Ten Millennia of existence, I have been shot, stabbed, beaten, burned, and have been subjected to tortures I lack the… imagination to describe. And after every defeat, every step closer to death, I got up on my own.” The spirit stared through him, the statue of a forgotten god watching the scene impassively. His chitinous chest heaved, the anger seeping from him like a lanced boil, flooding from his blackened maw. ”I am Okor Paleblood, son of The Fourteenth Legion, Vassal of the Lord of All, and I will forget you.” He snarled at the ethereal explorer, the teal translucence that tried and failed to recreate a man that might once have been great.

It all fell away, the empty nothingness that he had come to associate with Omni’s machinations and deplorable lack of imagination surrounding him, a resounding cackle quieting as he careened through a haze of regal purple mist, returning it to the darkness from whence it came.

The subtle hiss of the eternal hourglass crept in at the edge of his perception, the infinite process of creation that took place in this damned realm, the cycle of life and death broken to feed the seemingly insatiable creative appetite of its God-child. He took in a deep breath, toxic gasses filling his lungs as he approached his prison once more.

Perhaps, this time around, he’d get things right.