Infection

[Don Isaac]

Bolter Fire.

It echoed through his mind in the quiet hours, disrupting concentration and contemplation. He knew that there were no weapons to birth that cacophony, but he had grown more used to the sound than the silence. Betrayals upon the blasted world of Istvaan IV, the breach in the very walls of Terra, and the millenia since- only the worms gnawing at his flesh were a more constant companion.

His armoured knees rested beneath him, the fug of smouldering mold rising from the brazier set before him, the verdigris-coated bowl held together more by sheer stubbornness than any sensible act of physics. The toxic fumes rose through his hole-riddled helmet, searing his parchment-thin skin as it wafted through the ruin of his nose, scarring what few functioning olfactory nerves still clung to life within his twisted skull.

He exhaled smoke, hallucinogenic fumes slipping past his twisted, yellowed fangs as they filtered through the thick helmet that obscured the horrorshow of his visage from the world at large. His hearts beat- once, asynchronous. Lightning danced across his grey matter, pulsating within his malformed skull.

Where was he?

This was a question he was unsure he could answer. Myopic eyes slid open, simplistic life-forms wriggling within the vitreous fluids as he gazed out at the void beyond. And it was a void- a blank emptiness, a tooth-ache throbbing within his corneas as he attempted to process the nothingness he was within- there was no burning brazier before him, no cold steel to buoy him as he pondered the eternity of entropy awaiting him.

He remembered- Millennia of War. A world that was not His Own, battles across strange realities-

One more day within the swirling morass of Chaos.

He could not simply stop. The world ground on, a constant cavalcade of madness and death- and he was not the sort to lie down and accept being ground down to grist within the mill-wheels of mortality. He breathed in, now- sucking down those toxic fumes into his hole-riddled lungs, strength starting to course into his limbs.

How long had he been idle?

The thought was nearly unbearable- his armour-clad fingers twitched into claws, hateful at the very idea. He had been dragged from his War, and now-

He could see a new world opening up before him. Luscious canopies growing overhead, trunks as thick as a titan's legs reaching skywards as brachiating beasts capered from tree to tree. His joints protested, cracking and gurgling as he slowly rose, pestilential bulk taking a staggering step towards the portal opened before him.

And now?

He felt earth beneath his boots, for what felt like the first time in an age, the distant feeling of his bulk sinking into soft soil. For the briefest of moments, he simply stood there, reveling in simple existence, the wind caressing his armoured form as his eyes remained closed, basking in the simplest of sensations.

Finally, he started to stalk forwards, pauldrons hunched, shoulders squared as his gaze cast itself around this new world, verdant and lush. It was a predator's gait, a carnivore's grin beneath his helm, and a hungry gleam in his eye.

Now, he would Worship.

His hand reached out, withered husks of fingers shrouded in rusting adamantium and decaying ceramite drifting through veils of luscious vines. Each point of contact was corrosive- the simplistic life beneath his touch revolting as it attempted to comprehend the sheer breadth and depth of the contagion it had been exposed to. Unnatural sicknesses that had no place within a living semi-human being eagerly made the pilgrimage between organisms, a conquering army disembarking into this brave new world.

Every step was one shrouded in sickness. Small plants withered and died in his wake, shriveling in on themselves as new, fungal blooms erupted across their decaying forms, leaving a contrail of contagion behind the undying hulk.

Bloodless lips twitched back beneath his helmet, malformed teeth claggy with carrion making a mockery of a smile.

It was good to be back.

 

[Don Isaac]

The world around him seethed with vitality. It was a familiar sensation, to be swaddled within the eternal cycle of life and death, to claw one's way along the food chain and become an indomitable fixture, the grit within the gears. It was not his place to master it- simply to be a part of nature, and ride the cruel and errant waves of mortality.

He was kneeling, now. The moist earth practically tried to swallow him whole as a river coursed before him, murky water eternally eroding its confines as it strove to grow greater, barely kept at bay by the roots twisting through its banks, imprisoning the earth as they drunk greedily from this stream.

He simply remained there, watching. Moisture cascaded down from the canopies overhead, running down his massive pauldrons and slithering down his pitted horns, accruing a whole new host of microorganisms on their pilgrimage to the running water beneath.

Nature is a beautiful thing, he thought, smiling ruefully beneath his helmet as he watched his simple presence enrich the local biodiversity. His experience thus far had been almost pleasant- a stroll through the jungles of this strange new world, a peaceful opportunity to reflect on the philosophies of the faith as he attempted to reconcile the ambient sounds of his environment with rainfall, rather than gunfire.

Yes, he could nearly get used to-

Claws scrabbled against his war-plate as a great weight impacted against his side, the sheer force of the blow pushing the plagued marine into the muddied waters that laid before him. The cool waters were a welcome respite from the muggy and humid air, though he did have to admit that the curved fangs scraping against his gorget were an impediment to his enjoyment of this unexpected dip.

He could scarcely glimpse his attacker, flashes of saurian scale and gnashing fangs visible through the murky river. Fury was absent from his mind, at this point- his arms struggled to reach behind him, his attacker familiar enough with hominid anatomy to deny the cult-marine the use of his oh-so-useful opposable thumbs. Filthy water streamed through his helmet, filtering through his jagged fangs and working to fill his expansive lungs.

Was he choking? Drowning?

While Okor was far beyond fear, this was worrying. He could certainly accept a death in battle, warring for the Faith and leaving his corpse to molder on some distant battlefield, permitting new life to sprout from his remains and continue this eternal crusade. But to drown, at the hands of some opportunistic ambush predator?

He could practically see his Gene-father's baleful gaze, calculating his failures and dismissing him as a failure.

Struggling beneath the constant assault that had so far only managed to slice a meager cut into his mutated flesh, the pestilential pilgrim fought back, pushing back against the beast seeking his blood as his feet grazed the riverbed. Whatever it was, it wrapped claws the size of knives about his pitted helmet, twisting and scraping at his armour as it sought to pry the ceramite from his skull- or perhaps snap his neck.

It would not succeed. Pushing himself off the bottom of the river, he cast his gnarled claws out towards the root-ridden riverbank, the equally twisted flora entangling around his claws- only to hear them snap, splinters embedding into the deteriorated joints of his gauntlets. He floundred within the current, the creature atop him scrambling to avoid the water itself, powerful legs launching it free as it scraped gouges within his warplate.

He had nearly begun to praise his good fortune when he realized the reason for its sudden departure. This was not a beast that had simply tired of attempting to pry carrion from its hard shell- this was a creature that had wisely taken note of the gurgling rapids downriver, and the sheer drop immediately following it.

Gargling a curse through waterlogged lungs, coughing out blasphemous incantation regarding the gnarled toenails of His Lord, Okor's claws flailed wildly as he grasped at the slick stones. He arrested his progres for only a moment before the momentum of his bulk carried him forth and over the waterfall, twisting within the cascade of corrupted water as he tried, and failed to right himself.

Rheumy eyes stared downwards as the rain-laden winds whipped at his form, drifting clouds of mist obscuring the bottom of this great descent, outcroppings of unyielding rock looming from those low-lying clouds like icebergs the only prospect of stalling his fall.

"Hell," he gurgled, his private curse whipped away by the winds as he plummeted to earth, a falling angel of a decidedly esoteric faith.

 

[Don Isaac]

The first impact was one that the pestilential pilgrim hardly felt- the moss-laden stone simply shattered beneath his bulk, sending Okor into a spin as shrapnel surrounded him in a halo of splinters. His claws reached out towards the fast-flowing white waters of the fall that baptized him in a spray of foam, slickening his gnarled fingers as he attempted to end his fall.

This was, however, not successful as the second spire of grey stone broke against him, a flailing arm cracking against its solidity. Shards of corroded ceramite flew free, mummified flesh nearly reduced to pulp. The hairline fracture spreading across his forearm was a concern that he could safely relegate for later as he spun about, falling head-first towards the mist blossoming out from the base of the waters. He was, he had to admit, mildly concerned by the fact that the jagged spires piercing that distant fog were growing at a pace that suggested he had a good deal more falling left to do.

He was, thankfully, inured to fear, the hearts that should be hammering long-since stilled, worms coursing through their valves as sludge-like vitae slid through his veins. He curled in on himself, desiccated flesh and desecrated armour compacting into a foetal pose as he hit another water-slick spike jutting from the falls, sending broken fragments of his fused ribs digging into his engineered organs as he spun off-course, plummeting at an erratic angle.

He was hardly one of the Host Raptorial that descended upon the walls of Terra bearing the cruel fangs of the Night Haunter's twisted children- he had precious little experience in aerial combat, and a simple foot-slogger such as himself was decidedly out of his- well, Element, in the air. A chortle escaped his ravaged lungs unbidden at that private pun, the amusement a stark contrast to his perilous predicament.

There was nothing that could be done. His life was in the hands of The God, now, as it always was. At times, the Plague-father worked through his flesh, the many gifts that had bestowed upon him practically rendering him a manifestation of his Lord's will. The wind whipped around his falling form, driving him into an even deeper death-spiral. His eyes were closed, bleeding lips mouthing silent prayers, seven-syllabled hymns uttered to the wind and the distant divine Garden.

His recitation of the Benediction of Decay was interrupted as he at last, made impact. He was fortunately knocked off his original course by his prior encounters with the unyielding stone, meaning that he was not left impaled upon the piercing outcroppings at the base of the waterfall- instead, he hurtled into the treeline.

The trunk of a great mahogany practically disintegrated as he span into it, splinters of rich wood piercing the mucus-encrusted joints of his warplate as he continued his tragic trajectory. The next tree was somewhat better off, its venerable girth cracking and beginning to collapse as he careened elsewhere, landing upon the fertile earth and skidding along it like a fungus-caked stone tossed into an unending sea of naught but rotting bilge. His armour's machine spirits spoke to him- hallucinations filtered across the cracked lenses of his helmets, reporting the injuries he could not feel. Broken bones, torn ligaments, muscles pulped into a fine, soupy mush that his host of parasites now swam through, feasting in the liquified flesh.

A full assessment of his wounds would have to wait until he came to rest. Which, fortunately, was nearly immediately. He slammed into a vine-ensnared boulder, the stone- and his own bones- cracking as he made contact, collapsing into a heap of shattered bones, battered armour, and decidedly deep bruises.

For but a moment, there was silence, only the subtle susurrus of the waterfall permeating the tranquil surroundings. Then, the quiet crackling of splintered timbers intensified to a dread cacophony, an ancient tree crashing through its still-standing companions as it careened directly towards the fallen Plague Marine. It careened into the shattered boulder, practically pulverizing it into dust as it stalled atop the wreckage a hand's breadth above Okor's abused frame.

The chosen of Nurgle wisely chose not to breathe, staring upwards at the fallen tree that was nearly his end. A mangled arm reached out from his broken body, the forearm twisted at a decidedly unnatural angle, clawing at the earth as he dragged his bulk away, leaving a slug-trail of blood and fouler fluids. His legs were practically ruins- but he still offered a prayer of thanks, resting his broken antlers against the furrowed earth as the damaged tree collapses, a cloud of dust rising like a specter of death, settling over his fallen form like a grave-shroud.

As far as first steps go, Okor was forced to admit that this was a stumble.

 

[Don Isaac]

Pain was a concept long since forgotten by Okor. He had plunged into its depths, back aboard the bleak vessels of his Legion's fleet as they sailed the waves of Hell towards holy Terra, seeking to cast down its hallowed walls. His every nerve had screamed as the destroyer hives had gnawed upon his gangelions- and now, this simple series of misfortunes was attempting to match it.

A gurgling chuckle erupted from his ruptured lungs, barely audible over the creaking, crashing of the massive tree collapsing behind him, destructive in its death throes. Shattered branches embedded themselves in the earth around him, clattering off his splintered ceramite as he continued to crawl, his chuckling continuing to grow into full-fledged laughter, stomach threatening to burst as paroxysms of mirth burbled through his blood-drenched lips.

Standing unaided was far beyond him. The only reason his legs were not simply oozing into the earth was because his armour was serving as an exoskeleton, his mortal carrion left more or less invertebrate by the damage that had rendered him into some kind of tenderized mollusc. Claws twitched, spasming as they wrapped themselves about a battered branch, twisted wood splintered by its catastrophic descent. There was no hiss of pain as he pressed its jagged end into the rotten, rubberized joint beneath his pauldron, sinking into the mummified meat of his armpit- but there was the quiet hiss of injectors embedded within what was left of his armour.

Combat narcotics flooded the ruins of his veins, chemicals that would stop the heart of a Grox seeping into his flesh. This was always the worst part, Okor ruminated, using the broken branch as a makeshift crutch as he dragged himself upwards, leaning heavily against the wood as it gave a creak of protest. No stimulants for him- no chemical imitation of the old battle-lust that he had felt upon ancient battlefields. No- only the sweet soporific that stalled his blood loss, the curtains of curdled vitae seeping from his cracked plate already starting to dry over his etched warplate.

He shambled forwards, bleary eyes blinking away tears of blood and mucous as he stumbled. He was not well- but this had been a truth for more than ten Millennia. He could feel broken bones grinding against each other within his mutilated body, but such hardship had never stalled him before as he pressed on beneath the boughs of trees that only seemed to grow larger with every passing moment.

It took forty-nine seconds for him to realize what fresh hell he had dragged himself into, seven counts of seven beneath his breath as he anchored himself with sacred numerology. Something had broken- within his body, certainly, but also within his armour. Some limiter was shattered along with his bones, a corroded electronic finally given out after long millennia of misuse. The drugs had not stopped flowing. Fear was beyond him, panic an ancient memory. But some distant kin of it, some ancestral fossil that had lurked within his twisted brain stem for centuries, was now shaken loose as the toxic morass cascaded over it, steeping his maggot-ridden grey matter in a hallucinogenic pickling solution.

The trees were losing their coherency, fern leaves flexing and twisting as they clambered up twisting trunks in fractal patterns, deep mossy greens shifting to emerald hues. He could scarcely pick out motion from the rapidly twisting surroundings, let alone a stalking predator. Grasses grew and curled about his boots as he stepped forth, embracing him, only to be reprimanded, denied with every stumbling step forwards. His crutch drew blood as he pushed forwards, reality melting around him as the spike of shattered wood tore at his ancient muscles.

Step by exhaustive step, the blighted warrior trespassed deeper into the jungle, his mind slipping away from his shattered frame. The canopy overhead started to burn- a bright, retina-scalding viric green that ushered him into his staggering somnolence, dragging him into the dusk of sapience, as all that remained pushed forth. Muscle memory, malevolent machine spirits, and the sheer, undiluted stubbornness of something that had been in nigh-perpetual motion for a myriad delved deeper into the forest.

But Okor- Okor was elsewhere.