Waiting for the Worms (Dark Data)

[Okor]

Okor’s heart beat in slow stereo, a steady rhythm providing the only stimuli in the empty void between life and death. He pressed his hands to the side of his head, dull brown locks shifting beneath scarred palms. His movements were sluggish, as if he had awoken from a century of dreamless sleep. A distant rumble that only intensified in volume signalled the shift in the status quo.

A massive maze of mirrors manifested, slowly rising from the nothingness, its reflective walls obscuring whatever laid in its heart from view. A voice pierced the din, a phlegm-filled growl resonating within the Marine’s guts.

”And so it comes to this, Whelp.”

It echoed off of the mirrored walls, eventually succumbing to entropy as it faded into nothingness, leaving him alone within this abstract hell. A monster lurked within this labyrinth, dwelling within its foul lair, awaiting his arrival.

Pure silk, white as snow, billowed from his statuesque form, the tunic left unadorned so as not to distract from the simple purity of his purpose: Purgation.

“I have come to end you, foul beast,” he cried to an uncaring world, clutching the gleaming steel of his blade as he began to stride down a corrupted corridor, a new perversion of his perfect form presented in every facet of the material.

In one reflection, he was a red-handed warlord. He rested upon a throne of skulls, blood flowing from a thousand cuts upon his body anointing the ossified ornaments with a steady stream of sanguine. Armoured supplicants stood proud beneath his morbid mound, the violence embodied in every fibre of their being just barely held in check by the palpable aura of aggression radiating from this warped warrior. Two eyes like smouldering coals turned to face him as a mouthful of brass fangs opened in a rictus grin, boiling blood seeping from its metallic maw as the mirrored marauder mouthed a name.

Paleblood.

The image faded as Okor stumbled backwards, his noble face contorted in a grimace, disgusted at the possibility that purported to be him. Such barbarity was far beneath him, an addiction to atrocity that had no place in a pure heart.

Another nightmare greeted him as he turned, a gleaming smile matched by hollow, black, soulless eyes. Flayed flesh stretched as the depraved demigod beckoned them forward, golden blades piercing its pectorals, divine blood seeping from these self-inflicted scars into a fountain at the base of a golden throne. Snivelling sycophants supped from this bloody bounty, whispering praise as the chains embedded into their flesh constantly reminded them of who owned them, body and soul. The debauched deity beckoned him in, eyes devoid of humanity hungry for another soul to sample. From languid lips, it whispered a single word, ripe with power.

Paleblood.

The paladin recoiled, the perversion before him driving him backwards. Every moment in this maze brought a new form of-

Madness.

That was the only appropriate word for the scene scarring reality before him. He stood before himself, gilded armour melding with pale flesh, a thousand unblinking eyes of a thousand different colours staring into eternity. It clutched a staff with birdlike claws, feathers and fetishes adorning its golden length, sorcerous power swirling around the wrong symbol topping the shimmering shaft. A black beak surrounded by eyes, each of which seemed to scheme some different slavery for his immortal soul. It creaked open, a universe swirling within its dark depths, speaking in nine different voices.

Paleblood.

They were thrice named and thrice bound, each ruinous reflection’s voice echoing off of the walls of the prison. One last corrupted characterization remained, awaiting him as he turned away from the mind-warping warlock, the air itself turning foul.

A corroded and corrupted carapace encased the entropic warlord, one eye burning with hatred beneath a cracked horn as a corrosive claw was raised in a striking motion. There was no rulership here: No supplicants, no minions, no infinite array of eyes seeking to swallow his soul whole. There was naught but strength, hatred, and the Gifts of the Grandfather.

A black-fanged maw twisted itself into a mockery of a smile, a rotting tongue running over infected incisors.

And then, it struck. Glass shattered, shards shredding the skin of both combatants as the undying warrior roared out to the absent heavens.

”I have had enough of this.”

A claw locked around his throat as he struggled against his assailant, his blade falling to the floor, forgotten as he tried to dislodge the festering fingers strangling him. His eyes bulged, staring into the crimson cyclopean oculus.

”Every time I face defeat, you return to... haunt me.”

With a heave, the pure paladin was sent flying through a set of mirrors, every single shard reflecting his death: Bloodied, broken, beaten, and bowed. Refusing to accept this, he attempted to rise, grinding glass into his body as he struggled to stand, only for a boot to arrest the motion, shattering his kneecap as the full weight of his foe came down upon him.

”No more,” the mouldering monster snarled, the boot coming down again, shattering his skeletal structure once more. ”No more,” though the Templar was barely conscious, he was ‘fortunate’ enough to feel the fists crashing against his face. The beast spat in his face, the spittle sizzling against split flesh as it spoke, every sentence punctuated by bloody strikes of his iron fists. ”I am not some misguided soul to be... saved. I am not some whimpering weakling living off of the gifts of the Gods and my Gene-Father. I am not just some twisted, tainted reflection of what I could have been.”

Through shattered teeth and a flensed face, the paladin spoke, unhindered by such things.

“Then what are you, Paleblood?”

The chosen warrior of Chaos stopped for a moment, panting as blood dripped from his claws.

”I… I am Okor Gods-Damned Paleblood. And I answer to no-one.”

“That is not an answer,” hissed his own mind from beneath him. “We are-”

”Shut up. You reside somewhere within my mind, don’t you?” He pressed a claw to his head, the blackened nail sinking into leathery skin. ”I’ll find out where. I’ll carve it out, and devour it whole. You will remain in the darkest depths of my mind, and trouble me no more.”

“And if we refuse?” Dozens of different interpretations on Okor surrounded him: dead men, children, Daemons and kings. A hungry grin heralded his answer.

”I’ve walked the realm of dreams. I will hunt each and every one of you… down.”

A gold-clad champion advanced forward, their skin fair, unscarred. “You’ve slaughtered your way through life, Okor. Do you truly begin that you can solve your own madness with violence?”

The rotting reaver moved with speed belying his bulk, claws clasping at the King’s skull, their neck snapping as he wrenched it to the side. The corpse collapsed, eyes still wide in shock as the Apex predator of the psyche strode off towards a growing, glowing portal back to what passed for reality in this realm. He raised a single finger over his shoulder to the lesser personalities and possibilities, snarling as he spoke, crossing the boundary between worlds.

”Witness it.”