The Battle of Death Mountain: Alpha

[Okor]

Mummified entrails wrapped themselves around the God’s waist, dessicated intestines riddled with twisted barbs scraping against the silver plate of his divine armour, unholy strength pulling him out from the meteoritic descent of the boulder. Both the Asgardian and the stone hit the ash-strewn ground at the same moment, the plague marine grunting in exertion, a plagued claw wrapped in his own innards providing the needed strength to pull such a blessed being from their fate. Stoney shrapnel bit deep into his dead flesh as his bolter howled, spitting hatred and death as his internal organs slowly receded from the god, slithering back within his warp-touched corpse. A snarl issued forth from his battered helmet as he pressed onwards, the massive heft of the Gigaton Hammer strapped across his back. ”Get up.” The Asgardian scrambled to their feet as ancient hands performed the time-worn task of reloading, an emptied sickle clip dissipating into Omnillium as it fell from his weapon, a magazine that threatened to set off every geiger counter in the ‘verse taking its place.

The crimson length of the great Wyrm coiled in the fire-tinged skies above them, a fanged abyss of a maw dripping with molten flame turning as emerald eyes set into an Obsidian mask settled on the irritant of the infectious warrior. The beast sank lower, its wingless, lithe body surging through the sky as it roared its rage at the pathetic mortals that dared to challenge it, the flame that personified its limitless depths of anger bathing the Chosen in napalm.

He burned. There was no other way to describe the sensation. Rivulets of rusted iron dripped from millennia-old ceramite, superheated metal sizzling against deadened flesh, silvered droplets forming intricate patterns as they bonded with scarred skin. A laboured step brought the pyre that was once the Dean of Security forward, the bolter clutched in flame-wreathed hands screaming back a battlecry of its own as charred chunks of flesh fell from the conflagration. Irradiated shells burst against Volvagia’s ruby hide, shards of hazardous shrapnel burying themselves in nigh-impenetrable scales.

He could not fall here. The thought was unthinkable, Anathema. His every neuron cried for blood, every cell within his blighted body calling him to war. This was his reason for being, the validation for his existence. His tabard burned to cinders as singed claws pulled the trigger again, the savage sentience inhabiting his wargear howling in joy, the agony of its immolation secondary to the fulfillment of its purpose.

Kill. Maim. Burn. The words came easily, muttered beneath his breath as an accompaniment to the roaring flame that consumed him as he broke into a run, the coiling drake above them screaming its infinite hatred at the foolish Primes beneath it. Survival was not a priority. Nurgle watched over him, shielded his soul, strengthened his bones. To fear for his life was to fail in his faith, to doubt that The Lord of All would watch over his child in this accursed land. As if on cue, the sonic wave of Volvagia’s anger made manifest washed over him, the sheer power of it forcing Okor to brace himself, scorched remnants of dead skin flying from his carcass as the flame died out, extinguished by the beast.

Staccato bursts of fire met this latest exhalation, Primes responding to its fire in kind. A mercenary took cover behind a suitably scorched rock, the carbine in his hands peppering the flank of the Dragon with lead. Murmuring hell-born curses beneath his breath, he continued his fusillade, the distinct lack of combustion occurring about his person a noted benefit, his once rust-resplendent carapace scorched black, the molten steel that cocooned him cooling against his charred flesh. The murderous recoil of the bolt weapon was noticeably muted due to his augmented armour and the blasphemous blessings engraved into his soul as it added to the barrage, the explosive shells doing what damage they could to such a massive beast.

A figure caught his eye. Standing between the Onyx horns of the great Wyrm, Gildarts stood, one mechanical hand gripping an obsidian pillar as burning white geometry flowed into their flesh, a fist poised above Volvagia’s skull. Chuckling, he hammered the tetanus-infested trigger. The Primes showed spirit, at least.

The shattered shards of ebon bone set within his infested chasm of a mouth forced themselves into a grin.

The only question was whether that spirit could withstand the ever-burning wrath of Volvagia. The Ashen Steppes were littered with the remains of those who had dared, the souls of those sacrificed to the pyre of its rage howling their torment in the winds, the ash that was once their corporeal form whipping through the air.

He did not intend to join their Choir. His weapon spat defiance at the volcanic God before him, his Deicidal intent announced.

Kill. Maim. Burn.