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Time passes strangely, in this realm. The unending crawl of aeons across reality, grinding every seemingly immutable facet of life down to dust, was absent. Whorling eddies of power manifested within the Omnillium-forged bodies of Primes dictated the pace, tempests of change raising and razing as they pleased, an ever-fluctuating balance of power dictating the truth within this absurd realm.

Mutated maggots writhed within the Astartes’ flesh, wriggling through the ever-regenerating membranes of his lungs as he breathed deeply, a breath that corroded iron rattling around his verdigris-coated helmet. His lone eye remained closed, crimson oculus weeping pus as the necrotic behemoth pondered.

There were words spoken, within the realm of dreams. There were battles fought, wills pitted against each other as each mind struggled to assert the dominance of their truth against the other.

Burning this place to the ground wouldn’t make any of this better.

The words echoed within his yellowed skull, the singular horn rising tall, piercing his helmet and ascending towards the empty, uncaring heavens of this cruel mockery of existence.

But it would make it gone.

Oblivion. Omnicide. The complete and utter annihilation of all that this wretched realm stood for, to lay low its false god, and lay waste to every shred of hope that it had. To bring a blessed End, so that something new might enter its place.

A deep, rattling breath echoed through his lungs, shaking loose the rust that had built up over his body, the ever-living, ever-dying morass within his skull afire as thought after thought clicked into place, neurons springing into action as the gangrenous giant began to awaken.

Armageddon was not a gentle thing.

Fingers curled into talons laden with a dozen plagues twitched for the first time in aeons, flexing and twisting as they carved through the air, hungrily clawing at it as if he could gain raw and bloody sustenance from the aether itself.

And he could.

Strands of power spawned from the whims of a mad demiurge wrapped around his talons, shining rainbow patterns tarnishing and disintegrating into ebon dust as they made contact with his caustic will. Rotting hearts riddled with worms beat beneath his fused breastbone, spurring toxin-laden blood turned a milky white by an untold legion of pathogens lurking within his system to flow through dilapidated veins.

An ancient reactor core, containment long since breached hummed to life, radiation leaking over the tumour-ridden, rotting body contained within the armor it powered, twisting the genes of the parasites feasting within. Servos ground into motion, pistons hissed with effort once more as slowly but surely, the titanic figure rose, the motion erecting a monument to decay as he stood, a heaving mass of starvation and suffering, the silent gnashing of the fangs that lurked just beneath the thin veneer of parchment-like skin a testament to the eternal hungers that drove every twisted step.

His eye opened, baleful and virulent, every maddened twitch of its vermillion sclera casting his blighted gaze over the rolling expanses of the Nexus, utterly devoid of life, entirely divorced from the cycle of Decay and Rebirth. A low growl burbled up from his tormented throat as he began to walk forward, whirling tempests of Omnillium coalescing in his claws as the familiar bulk of his instruments of death bound themselves to his wretched essence once more. He had delayed, delayed, delayed- put off his sacred, necessary duty out of a fondness for those who inhabited this cursed, wrong existence.

He had forgotten the lesson he had learnt upon a dozen altars, slitting the throats of the priests of The False Emperor, and sending them on their way to the Garden of the Grandfather. To hesitate simply prolongs the agonizing death that they have already been destined for by the sheer fact of their existence.

He looked towards the gate that loomed before him, vines intertwining themselves around a solid arch of living wood, the scintillating sheen stretched taut over its construction beckoning him in, an iridescent mirror that showed the truth of what he was in all its glory.

His Father’s Son.

Beneath his rot-drenched warplate, Okor smiled as he stepped forward into the Tangled Greens.
The End Times

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