The Battle of Death Mountain: Alpha

[Okor]

The strength-sapping sulfurous heat of the wasteland permeated the air, twisted systems within his ancient armour registering the fatiguing atmosphere. The warnings, however, were not intended for one as Blessed as Okor, mummified limbs encased within several centimeters of solid steel scarcely moving as his bolter barked, his graves digging deep into the ash as he steadied himself.

The charge of the warrior was unfortunate, a deplorable lack of discipline, a selfless act of heroism in a situation that called for precisely applied, unrelenting, merciless violence. While they undoubtedly cast a noble figure as their shining armour carried them towards the great Wyrm, lifting into the air as their divine powers made themselves manifest.

Even more infuriating was Gildarts, the augmented arcanist still standing, albeit smouldering, after facing Volvagia’s wrath. While a testament to their force of will and physical strength, their foolish charge doing little but earning the Drake’s ire. The incandescent white light that accompanied their magic flared, a great gout of gluttonous flame dispersing upon their arcane aegis.

Heroes.

The word brought forth acidic bile from within him, the sulphuric spittle quickly being swallowed down as he organized himself.

The colossal corpse adopted a noticeably different tactic to the ambitious Asgardian and accompanying mage. Snarling out an order with a voice like an apex predator gargling broken glass, he began to move. ”Ten meter distance. Counterclockwise rotation, sustained fire.” Corroded boots trudged through the cinders of the weak, the fallen failures that had crossed Volvagia falling in a thick blanket across the volcanic vista. The verdigris-coated mass of his bolter howled, launching detonating rounds bathed in the lethal entropy of the universe, irradiated projectiles blossoming into ragged flesh wounds across its length.

They were many against one, haphazard barrages of magecraft and more conventional projectiles eliciting an earth-shaking roar of pain and primordial rage, the undulating figure of the fire-breather now scarred with the combined firepower of Alpha Team. Lightning streaked from the fingertips of the Dean of Unity, blackening the great beast’s hide, while the God of Thunder followed it up with a flying strike, the god-forged hammer cracking against its horned skull, the son of Odin quickly evading its frenzied retaliation with his gift of flight.

A net of searing white light cascaded against the writhing form of the beast, geometry forged from naught but willpower slicing into its scales, the rhythm of a carbine joining the cacophony, anthropomorphic ammunition adding itself to the fusillade.

Under this unrelenting rain of lead, explosives and witchcraft, no foe could stand for long.

Volvagia, however, refused to tolerate this great indignity.

It plunged beneath the earth, its rock-reinforced skull shattering the stone as it descended, geysers of magma erupting as the cataclysmic battle continued. ”Scatter. Maintain a minim-” It was at this point that the dragon chose to exact its vengeance on Okor, meting out some fraction of the shame and pain it had endured on The Chosen.

Fragments of obsidian flew from its point of egress, a red-hot maw opening, revealing flame-wreathed flames as it flew towards the plague marine, molten rock cooling over its wounds, fortifying its afflictions with the blood of the earth. His cyclopean eye opened slightly in surprise as fangs larger than a man savaged him, piercing his armour, shattering fused bone, and impaling one of his twinned hearts, napalm seeping into his lacerations, the savagery of the beast outmatching his antique armour. A skeletal fist drove a corroded blade into its gums, the twisted dagger burying itself in pink flesh, the necrotic infection carried within the unholy knife spreading into its still-living body. The Lesion-ridden legionnaire snarled out a curse from beneath its fangs as his flesh flowed freely and melted, leaving the sacral blade lodged in its mouth.

”Choke on it.”

With a crack, the marine was forced into the rock, the durability of the dragon shielding it from the impact, while Okor’s own impressive vitality was nothing in comparison. It quickly turned, its fire-feathered tail cracking against his shattered form as it moved along, its undulations carrying it onward in search of fresher prey.

Ivory ichor leaked from massive lesions upon his body, organs pierced, lying in ruin. Bones were broken, shattered, osseous shards burying themselves within his life-sustaining vitals. It was a massacre that not even one of the noble Adeptus Astartes could hope to walk away from.

The corpse clambered on broken limbs to its feet, the pulp of his body slowly reconstructing itself, the ooze into which he had partially dissolved sparing him from the worst of the impact. Shaking hands went to the weapon on his back, undying fingers wrapping themselves around the iron shaft as he approached the rampaging drake. A voice broke into his vox, the heavy blade and hair adorning the squad symbol indicating the speaker as the mercenary Zack Fair. “How in the hell are you still alive?” Genuine curiosity, perhaps a tinge of worry affecting his tone.

Through a mouthful of shattered teeth and blood, Okor spoke the truth.

”Force of... habit.”

859 words according to Google Docs, apologizes it's not longer.

Used Tier One Super Move: Septic Shiv. 4/5 SP.