Strange Eons

[Okor]

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Artillery shells rained from the sky, streaking meteors of iron and explosives, martian-forged ammunition crashing down from the heavens to end the lives of traitors and loyalists alike. The air was awash with the smell of blood and smoke, Chaos and death permeating the atmosphere as decades of rage and righteous fury was unleashed upon the mongrel lapdogs. The blood of angels daubed his armour, the crimson vitae adorning him concealing his legion livery from view: It was unneeded. There were only his Squad and the Dead here, battle-forged brothers in arms pulling fresh magazines from the fallen, the ebon skin of the Salamanders that they had slain marred by bolt rounds and brutal assaults of blade. His pitted gladius slowly sank into the throat of the last survivor, a curse dying on the loyalist’s tongue as the knife claimed their life, their final breath stymied by Iron.

“Gletch. You hear that?” Came a clipped voice through the vox network

Okor’s head turned, the sullied steel of his armour barely visible beneath the blood as he looked upon his sergeant, their chainsword held idly in their grasp as they stared outwards at the distant detonations on the horizon. His own ears strained, the autosenses within his battered warplate seeking the mysterious noise as the other five marines began to establish a perimeter, trying to forget the trio that lay behind them in the dirt. Vash; slain by an Iron Hand wielding a power sword of exquisite design, and the brothers Hak and Mugin, atomized by a stray shell. To think, they had endured throughout the great crusade, only to be ended upon this worthless rock. They had survived the trials of Barbarus, the ravages of their creation, the Kajor Compliance, the Jorgall Execution, and all they had to show for it was…

Nothing.

“I do not, Brother-Sergeant.” His commanding officer merely grinned, his once-noble face marred with scars and radiation burns. Iron teeth broke open in a grin, his own lost to the whims of the destructive weapons carried by the squad, the life-ending implements dreamed up in the midst of a mad fever by the most murderously inventive minds mankind had to offer. The sacred sanguine fluids of their former siblings stained the steel teeth, shining in the dying light of the distant star and the war raging about them.

“You don’t need to hear it, Gletch. You should be able to feel it by now.”
As if on cue, spent bolt shells and shrapnel began rattling, tremors spreading through the earth as a rising tempo of footfalls approached, the incessant whining of chainblades piercing the air, a hundred voices raised in thoughtless rage. A red wave of unfeeling murder, scouring this world clean of life.

They were no longer human. They had abandoned that privilege long ago, abandoning reason and empathy for the honour of being a force of nature, a weapon to be wielded against the enemies of mankind.

And now they turned on the hand that wielded them, the double-edged blade biting deep into the Imperium they had carved out.

Against such a tide, there were few options.

You could hide, sealing yourself away in a forgotten tomb and praying to whatever gods would even consider helping a damned soul such as yourself, entreating the deities of the warp to save you, for nothing mortal could.

You could die, run down by the rampaging horde, broken before their might and left behind like so many others. You could not run, you could not entreat the frothing hordes. They were death.

But there was one final choice left, if you still held any hopes of survival within your damned soul. Join. Ride the tides of blood, fall into step with the horde, and taste of life alongside the berserking mass.

Ride the tide.

The squad broke into a run, their heavy footfalls falling into the rhythm of the horde as they raced to become one with the irresistible storm of slaughter. Bolter fire spat forth from a ravaged fortification ahead, the Sons of Horus within it, their livery defaced, wolves carved over gouged eyes of their Primarch. His hearts hammered in his chest, a steady beat driving him forward, to kill, to maim, to burn, to rip and tear, until it was done. The landscape slowly began to fade with every pulse of his twinned organs, turning a pale white, an empty void that lacked the decency to even darken his path.

He stopped, entirely alone, the legion around him faded into nothingness, the camaraderie and unity of bloodshed he had known once again abandoning him. He breathed in heavily, the bulbous throat-maggots infesting his tonsils threatening to suffocate him as he attempted to inhale the toxic atmosphere within his systems. His emaciated frame collapsed, dropping to armoured knees as he drove a fist into the ground.

He had failed. Again.

His men had fallen, burnt alive in Volvagia’s flame, all because he was not strong enough to do the deed himself. Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, shame permeating his being.

Would he ever be strong enough?

Whispers seeped in from the spirit within his helm. The Gamesmaster called, baying for blood, vengeance for his lost men.

He took a step forward, setting his course for the gate of living wood he knew would be there, deadened limbs moved by cold hearts.