Regenesis

[Okor]

Okor's infected eye blearily opened, its reddened surface covered in a milky film of unknown origin. How long was he unconscious? For how long had he been subject the Gods' unknowable whims? He pushed off of the stone floor, scratching its grey surface with skeletal claws that had grown in size since last he walked, cracking the brittle cocoon of corruption that had shrouded him. He staggered to his feet, still groggy with sleep, his head feeling as if it had been subjected to a great weight. Armour-cased feet, rotten through with gangrene and maggots, stumbled across the once-pristine floor, as the staff parted before him, fearful of his prior monstrous actions in the arena, fully aware of what abominable blessings his patron had bestowed upon him. Like wolves before sheep, he thought, disgusted by the weakness and softness of these people. They were indolent, cradled by the foul magicks that permeated the air. His fevered eye settled on one of the worst offenders, a pale, fat-jowled man with a paunch evident through his frill-adorned doublet, a truly massive ruff failing to disguise his double chin. The offense to Okor's spartan nature was oblivious to the ancient warrior advancing towards him, a strange, unfamiliar clacking sound emanating from his heavy footsteps. While the plague marine's movements were far from rapid, they were like lightning in comparison to his target. An arm, any pretense of flesh long gone, the radius and ulna clearly visible beneath pallid skin, slammed into the corpulent merchant's throat, his piggish eyes widening in panic, his skull impacting against the wall. The filthy surface of his horned helmet pressed into the poor excuse of a man's face, rivulets of sweat betraying the fear, growing like a cancer, in his heart. The Chosen of Nurgle spoke in a low, wet growl, corruption dripping from every painfully slow syllable. "Mirrors. Medicae. Where?" The man stuttered, evidently trying to come up with some empty threat related to his ephemeral, useless power. Okor did not believe in things he could not see, feel, kill. Words were wind, writing was nothing but scratches, and gold was nothing more than heavy, soft metal. Seeing the inhuman will evident in Okor's eyes, the merchant thought better of it, gesturing down the hallway towards what was presumably what passed for an apothecarium in this realm. He moved back his arm, and the waste of flesh collapsed, gasping and clutching at his throat. Chuckling darkly, laughing at cosmic jests only the dead can understand, the marine advanced down the corridor, a cloven hoof clomping against the cobblestones. If all people of this realm are as soft as he, this should be simple. It was easy to mistake an archaic lifestyle for a difficult one. They were coddled by their sorcery, kept aloft by nothing. They convinced reality itself to protect them, rather than pick up a sword. Would it be so simple to topple this kingdom as merely cutting off their connection to magic?

If only such a thing were so easy, he thought, stepping through the archway to the apothecarium.