Author's Note: For all of you that ask, yes, that quote is from Kingdom of Heaven. How Avarian uses it in this context is up to the reader to decide. :P

Chapter 36

Karduk Bloodfist snarled hatefully at the skeletal construct that loped slowly into his axe range. Clad in dirtied rags and wielding a rot-defiled pickaxe, the thing most likely had been some peasant in life whose work tools had been buried with him in some long forgotten grave. It, along with many others, was denied its eternal rest when the necromancers of the Scourge spread their foul magic across this realm. The Kor'kron looked deep into those hollow eye sockets and saw nothing but darkness. Soulless automatons these monstrosities created by Arthas. Wondering the lands without conscience and enslaved by dark masters. He had every right to hate them.

The orc took the swung blow with his shield, grunting as the skeleton's weapon connected with layered steel. The unholy being's strength was impressive. The necrotic energies that surged through its fleshless frame was the fuel for its mindless rage towards the living. But, for all that rage, its effectiveness was limited by the dullness of its mind. Instead of using the sharpened point of its pick, the undead had struck Karduk's aegis with the blunt end. Whereas the point could potentially pierce the thickness of his shield, especially when wielded with such unholy vigor, the blunt end could only jar his arm. A mistake that could only be attributed to the lack of intelligence within its cranium. He returned the strike, axe-head cleaving through the air. A spray of splintered bone chips followed as the aged warrior's own weapon drove deep into the cadaverous skull. The skeleton gave a death rattle through its skinless jaws and dropped to the ground, coming apart into a pile of its own gaunt body parts as the sorcery that prevented its frame from disintegrating vanished.

This was unsatisfying to him. Deeply so. He wanted sprays of blood to greet him when he killed, not minute fragments of bony material. Combat was made boring without the crimson liquid from the foe's body. The orc way of war celebrated bloodshed. Reveled in it. This was one of the reasons why they as a race had been so eager to offer themselves to the Burning Legion under the sway of Ner'zhul. This choice, willingly accepted at the time, earnestly approved by most, would be their downfall.

The Kor'kron growled spitefully as the memories of carnage and slaughter assailed his mind. All orcs who had participated in the consumption of Mannoroth's blood were subject to these momentary lapses of unwelcome remembrance. The varied elements of the Alliance were quick to cry out for vengeance against the Horde for their barbarity years past, but they did not realize that vengeance had already asserted itself. Visions of mindless butchery and dreams of bloody mayhem. Haunting reminders of crimes done at the command of demon overlords. Rightful punishments for their involvement in the Burning Legion's plans for domination. It is doubtful that any other race could have remained sane with such potent reminiscence assaulting their thoughts day in and day out.

Another of the Lich King's damnable servants lurched towards him. This one was a soldier in life. Clad in rusted garments of mail and plate, its unsteady gait was accompanied by the clink of metal on metal. In its tattered gloves was a broadsword, a favorite amongst the footmen of the Alliance in all three wars. It was entirely possible this former man had been killed by orcs and given burial once his body was sent home. The irony that he, former member of the Old Horde that waged slaughter upon the humans years ago, was now in the position to do so again upon this skeletal remnant was palpable.

Karduk laughed. A deep, resonating sound from within his black helm. The humans on both sides of him adorned in the garb of the dawning sun shot strange looks in his direction, and not without suspicion. He understood their misgivings. Even though the Argent Dawn accepted all races into its ranks, the undying odium that resulted from the two main factions on this world could not be downplayed. Just because human and orc alike was willing to unite against the Scourge did not mean old hatreds would fade.

Thrall had been optimistic about the Argent Dawn's future when news of its formation reached Ogrimmar. Both he and Varok had not. When and if the Lich King was defeated, what purpose would such an organization serve? When and if the Scourge was wiped off from the face of Azeroth, what would prevent both factions from leaping at each other's throats once more?

The answer was of course nothing. The warchief believed that there was always hope of peace between the Alliance and the Horde. Karduk respected him for that. Hope was what allowed their race to overcome the demonic taint that turned them into bloodthirsty beasts. Hope was what kept their kind alive when Thrall first freed them from the internment camps. But hope was not reality. And reality oftentimes was vastly different from what the warchief envisioned.

The remains of the human footman leered at him, its bare mandibles parting to form a rictus grin. Its emaciated frame staggered into his attack range, corroded sword held high in an arm stripped clean by decay. A laughable attempt to inflict harm. Whatever skills this soldier had in life, obviously did not follow his transition into undeath. Karduk reacted immediately. His axe swept horizontally towards the skeleton before its own weapon could descend. The keen edge made a mockery of the crumbling armor, driving through the rusted metal and cutting deep into the foul thing's ribcage. The skeletal warrior's teeth clattered together in a hideous imitation of his own laughter. With a bellow, the orc jerked his axe free from the Scourge minion's side with one limb, the other hurriedly raising his shield to withstand the retaliatory sword blow. The clash of steel that followed sorely tested his arm strength, and he found himself disgusted by his own weakness.

He was old. Fifty seasons and over. Not yet sixty. But close. His plated hair was white as snow. Wrinkles found their way onto his skin. His movements every year became less vigorous and as much as he hated to admit it, slower. If he were a human, then retirement would have been a valid option. But he was not. The blood of his ancestors flowed in his veins, forever calling him towards the path of war. He was an orc. And any decent orc's resting place was on the field of battle.

The next swing from his weapon was aimed at the automaton's neck. Axe-head connected with dirt-clogged vertebrae and sheared through it with ease. The decapitated skull bounced across the soil, teeth still chattering in unholy mirth.

Once more disappointment seeped into his mind. No blood spray again. What worth was in a battle fought when there was no blood to be spilled? He knew that Thrall would be most disappointed with his mindset should he discover them, but the warchief did not truly understand the warriors of the Old Horde that now served him. He, Varok, and many others who fell to the demonic taint were regretful for their actions, yes, and undoubtedly so. However, there was always that one niggling doubt that haunted their thoughts for repentance. That perhaps, that just maybe, they enjoyed the slaughter they inflicted under Mannoroth's influence.

A familiar rattle caused the Kor'kron to look down, just in time to see the pickaxe wielded by the supposedly dead peasant swing for his legs. With an oath that would have made a doomguard blush, Karduk stepped back to avoid the tool turned weapon. Too late was his action. He roared in anguish as the pointed end punctured through his leg plate and sank deep into his thigh. A spurt of crimson ichor emitted from his wound, and at once his bellow turned back into laughter, though this time in agony, as he recognized what quirk of fate had befallen him. Within his pain hazed mind, he attributed this wound to his own advanced years. Had he been younger then such a strike would have been easily evaded.

The skeleton hissed in victory, its body reforming rapidly before the orc's very eyes. Dark tendrils of energy lashed around the fleshless frame, repairing its damaged figure and instilling new life into the decrepit frame. Its torso and arms now functional, it crawled closer to him, intent on freeing its weapon. The unholy thing halted in its progress when his axe came crashing down upon its head, staving in the cranium and once more reducing it to a lifeless corpse.

A sudden hand gripped his shoulder and he tensed, an instinct driven behavior from many battles. The plated gauntlet that dragged him back into the circle was meant to help him. He resisted. No orc needed the assistance of a human. The hand was followed by a voice, and though reassuring, did nothing to quell his disgust at being aided.

"Again, greenskin? How many times is this?"

A grunt escaped from the confines of his helm as he landed on his rump

The inside of the circle meant respite for a short while, protected by a wall of Argent Dawn soldiers. Not that he needed protection. He was fine as is, despite the pick still lodged in his thigh. No measly injury could keep an orc down for long.

A human woman, young by his standards, perhaps barely above twenty-four in age, stood glancing down at him. Her hair was brown in color, and cropped short in military fashion, though not enough to vanquish her femininity. Her figure was hidden in bulky steel plate, gleaming with silver radiance. A simple buckler was strapped in one arm while the other clasped tight an iron war mace that shone dully with light. Another paladin. The healer kind. And blood sister to the one known as Gyran Truthseeker.

"Four," his reply was as curt as he could make it. He did not usually talk to humans. His hands were stained red with the blood of their kind. There was already ample enough hatred between their species. He did not need to increase this loathing with spoken words. Besides, killers do not converse with the descendents of their victims.

"Including this time?" this woman liked to ask questions. He didn't like to answer them.

"Five," he clenched his teeth in pain as he wrenched the rusted iron implement from a now numb thigh.

The female paladin kneeled alongside him, a plated hand glimmering with luminescence. Karduk heard the prayer being murmured by this human and recoiled inside. Being healed was not a new thing to him. But he was used to the shamans of the Horde who relied on the spirits of his ancestors in their work, not the priests and priestesses of the Alliance who utilized their devotion to the Light.

A familiar feeling of warmth spread across his wound and into the surrounding area of skin. The gory hole that was apparent through his ruined legplate disappeared in a veil of flaring brilliance. His eyes shut from the glaring flash, and he heard the woman snicker at his barefaced discomfort. How dare this human amuse herself over his agitation! He bit back an insult that had all too easily made his way to his tongue.

The warmth left his limb slowly and his eyes flicked open at the change. Where the wound once violated his leg, now there was nothing but creased green skin, unblemished and immaculate in texture. He snorted in satisfaction. At least this paladin was capable in her abilities.

Using his weapon as leverage, Karduk raised himself back on two solid feet, the lamellar plates that covered his body clinking together. The human woman planted two gauntleted fists on her hips and tilted her head in a gesture of sardonic outrage.

"No thanks again? Do your kind know no manners?"

The Kor'kron paused. True, this female and the two other healers that patrolled the middle were the only reasons why he and the rest of the Argent Dawn had not been overwhelmed yet. Five times his own blood had been spilled by enemy blades, and five times he had been pulled back into the circle where his gashes were mended by quick and efficient hands. He could not deny the contributions of these men and women of the Light and remain true to the tenets of honor and duty that was the New Horde.

"Thank you," Karduk nodded gruffly, his features twisted into a scowl behind his helm.

The paladin chuckled at the grumpiness apparent in his voice. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, a grim smile on her lips.

"Are all orcs this stubborn? Or only you?" the templar's question sounded almost cheerful in tone. As though if the whole spectacle that was raging before her was merely a game, and she, an onlooker.

His retort contained the same naivety but minus the optimism.

"Are all humans this foolish? Or only you?"

The smile never left the woman's face.

"Only me I suppose."

He disdained from replying. His body was freshly reinvigorated and the battle lust sang once more in his veins. War called him and he would answer. With a tight grip on his axe, the Kor'kron lumbered forward, intent on shouldering past the two Argent soldiers who had replaced him in the ring. The paladin's voice once more caused him to halt.

"You've been injured five times already, greenskin. Two, seriously. If it wasn't for the Light watching over you, you would long be dead. Wouldn't it be wise to sit awhile and rest before berserking forward again?"

"You are not of my race, human. You would not understand," he called back over his shoulder, "We orcs constantly lust for the drums of war to beat in our ears. And when they do beat, it is a glory we cannot decline. Under any circumstance."

He saw the woman's eyebrows rise in bemusement and grunted in derision. Thrall had often spoken of the need for both the Horde and the Alliance to understand one another. Karduk, as a famed veteran and a reminder of the Horde's past, was often asked to accompany the warchief as a show of solidarity from the older warriors. He had agreed each time, for he knew the importance of unity, especially now when the first generation of orcs had been born without the influence of Mannoroth. Yet, while he outwardly supported the son of Durotan, inwardly he knew there was no hope for understanding. There were too many differences between the members of both factions for any treatise of peace, too many obstacles that waylaid the road to friendship. Indeed, even here, on this barren patch of despoiled soil in the Plaguelands, surrounded by Arthas's undead servants, his own musings had been proved correct. This female human who had been so willing to heal him of his wounds still could not comprehend the basic necessity of his race for combat. If such simple comprehension was impossible, then how could the two factions ever seek common ground?

The paladin spoke again, much to his annoyance.

"Any circumstance? Well, the second time we dragged you into this circle, your arm was nearly separated from your shoulder. Would you still have fought without the use of a limb?"

"Amputation," he snorted, "a mere flesh wound."

The woman furrowed her brows together and achieved a look of perplexed amusement.

"Oh? Is that so? What if both your limbs had been amputated?"

The Kor'kron shook his head in irritation. The answer was obvious. How could this human not see that?

"I can still fight without the use of my arms, healer. My legs, while old, have enough strength in them left to deliver bone-shattering kicks."

"And if you were missing your arms and legs?"

"Then I have my teeth."

"You are seriously suggesting that after you have lost all four of your limbs, you are willing to crawl on your belly towards the foe and start biting them?" the locks of brown hair that dangled from the woman's head bounced as she laughed.

"Yes," he could find nothing funny in his declaration. He had been serious.

"Well, then. Blessings upon you, orc. May your enemies fear the tenacity of your jaws and the vigor behind them as they close on their hapless victims," the templar made room for an Argent soldier pulled from the ring, freshly hurt by skeletal hands.

Karduk squeezed the boar leather that was his weapon's grip reassuringly. Without further hesitation, he shoved his way back into his old position, ready for the next leering face that staggered into his axe reach. One last thought crossed his mind before the tumultuous din of battle fully overwhelmed his senses.

So strange, these humans.

Idiots. She was surrounded by idiots. And not the mild, buffoonish kind. She could at least remain tolerant in their presence. These were the insufferable, believe-they-were-superior-than-thou kind of idiots. They called themselves the Argent Dawn. She called them many assortments of words. Words that were best used in a place of liquor where drunks reigned or in the bedroom of two frolicking trolls.

She had not wanted to go on this mission. Not at all. Her place was much more secure with the Scarlet Crusaders. Sure, they hated her for her long delicate ears and almond shaped eyes. They loathed her for slim yet shapely figure. For her heart-shaped face and the alluring beauty it contained. And her long, silken hair tied into a bobbing ponytail. Yes, they hated her for all these things, and more. However, it was not her fault that whatever omnipotent being that ruled the universe had molded them into humans. They were merely jealous of the perfection one of the quel'dorei could reach. Still, she would rather be the object of derision from the crimson clad humans than be here on this misbegotten battlefield where every minute that passed was a chance some moldy skeleton would bury a rusty sword or axe into her delicate features. At least then she had a thousand bodies in front of her to take the brunt of the Scourge assault. Watching others die was much better than dying yourself, after all.

Vareesa ducked gracefully under the clumsy swing of a skeletal warrior, hissing with displeasure as the worn blade sliced a few strands of blonde hair from her ponytail. The blood elf riposted the hastily aimed blow, driving one of her keen daggers into the bony thing's jaw. The undead puppet clacked its teeth together as her weapon aided by what strength she could muster from her arm forced its mandible upwards. The sharpened point continued upwards in its motion, and emerged from the dome of the skinless skull. The Scourge went still immediately, dropping its corroded sword from its lifeless fingers with a clatter.

Her stiletto was not poisoned. Against the risen dead, venom was all but useless. Skeletons had no blood to carry her concoctions into vulnerable organs, or even organs for that matter. Zombies were immune to her carefully made toxins, for the Lich King's plague that circulated every vein in their decomposed bodies was far stronger than any she could create. So she was forced to use brute strength instead of her usual guile and trickery, and while there was much deception in her frame, the same could not be said for the vigor in her muscles. This was a fight where her most valuable traits were rendered null by the circumstances, and while usually she avoided these fights like she would a dead murloc left in the sun for days, this one she could not avoid without risking displeasure from the giant.

The rogue slid her dagger free from the skeleton's fleshless jowls and watched it disintegrate into a pile of motionless bones. Like that would do any good. She had probably killed this one at least four times. The cauldron lord was reconstructing each skeleton as fast as she and the Argent soldiers could slay them.

A decapitation strike, the god had told the paladin called Gyran. A decapitation strike. That was what they were supposed to do. A quick and efficient assault that would behead the opposing force's leadership and leave the lower ranks baffled and confused. Standard procedure when facing the Scourge. Instead, the Argent templar lead them straight into the massed packs of skeletons guarding their target. That was not what Avarian had ordered. And even then, the human could have redeemed himself for his stupidity by doing any number of things. Retreating, namely. Falling back. Withdrawing. Running away screaming at the top of your lungs. All of these were valid options, and ones she would support without hesitation.

But, it gets better. Not only did these Argent fools not retreat like any rational man would, they actually pushed forward into the mass of skeletons, harried along the way by spindly limbs clutching well-worn blades. And when they found themselves trapped within the pack of undead warriors, what did they do? They formed a circle. A circle. Even an intoxicated dwarf would have seen this tactic a mile away. Sure, the protection it afforded with each man shoulder to shoulder was decent, but such protection could only be temporary. Had it not occurred to the paladin that once the Scourge had them entrapped, there would be no escape? Had it not occurred to him that the cauldron lord would easily re-summon each and every one of his minions they killed? Had it not occurred to this man that soon their energy will diminish against their unrelenting foes?

Of course not. He was a paladin. Bellowing out prayers and charging blindly into the enemy was what they always did.

Her train of thoughts ended as a spiked mace hurtled towards her head. She leapt lithely back, and the bludgeoning instrument did nothing more than caress empty air. In one smooth movement, the blood elf dodged under her assailant's return swing and stepped into its nonexistent guard. So simple, these creatures. Always attack, with no consideration of defending themselves should their assault go awry. The skeleton let out a harsh rattle at the sudden intrusion into its private space, filling her dainty nostrils with the revolting smell of graveyard earth. She made her disgust known by ramming both her dirks into the thing's empty eye sockets. The gaunt frame went taut and then relaxed, coming apart as it fell into another heap of grimy body parts. The bone warrior's mace thudded to the ground beside the bits and pieces of its master.

She had no time to celebrate this small victory, for the remains of sword armed skeleton she had eliminated earlier was shuddering with dark tendrils of necromantic energies. No doubt she would have to kill it again when it shambled back up from the floor.

This battle was like an endless loop of violence. The process would repeat for an indefinite period of time, with the skeletons reassembling themselves again and again at their master's behest to attack the ring of idiots that she unfortunately was part of. For all their dullness and lack of intellect, the cauldron lord's minions were taking a toll on the occupants of the circle. Most of the Argent warriors had suffered grievous wounds from the remorseless tide and would have certainly perished if not for the three healers that dragged them back to mend their injuries behind the protection of their brethren. Luckily for her, these healers did not seem to have any qualms about aiding nonhumans, unlike their Crusader kin. Indeed, the orc, Karduk, had been pulled from the front on no less than five separate occasions, each time kicking and bellowing in spirited resistance.

There were only three out of the two dozen that remained free of injury from the raining blows of the skeletal creatures. Herself, the kaldorei amazon, and the former Scourge instructor.

The former was fighting stoically by her side, matching her kill count with the glowing blue blade that was originally meant for the giant. The night elf had long stored her ancient bow via a leather strap affixed to her shoulder, realizing the futility of using ranged weapons at such close quarters. As such, she was reduced to wielding a melee weapon that should have hampered her combat prowess. But it did not. Keina moved with the innate grace bequeathed to all elves, hacking, slicing, and cutting at the skeletal horrors that encircled them with frightening effectiveness. In the kaldorei's fighting form, Vareesa saw a fleeting resemblance to her own style of combat, a reliance on agility and dexterity over strength and muscle power. Of course, this was to be expected. The Highborne were once night elves themselves and their many practices of warfare became the standard for generations of quel'dorei to come.

Her emerald eyes locked remorselessly on the night elf's curved sword, watching it neatly part a Scourge's bony forearm from its elbow. It should have been hers. Like the giant's attention, the sword should belong to her. But, due to the fickle nature of fate, it and the god's interest had been taken from her by the sentinel. And that was what infuriated her the most. She was better than this wild woman, more civilized, and more attractive by far. Yet each time she was about to weave her web of seduction for Avarian to fall in, she was always foiled, not by Keina herself, but by unwelcome providence.

In the depths of Blackfathom Deeps, where her attempt to garner the god's favor with the very blade the kaldorei now wielded for herself. At Darnassus, where her scheme of seduction was unveiled by Keina and her meddlesome sentinels. In the bowels of the Undercity, where pure chance graced the night elf with a wound that the giant took notice in. And just recently, in the Scarlet bastion, where the sentinel captain's outburst had earned Avarian's grudging respect.

She easily could have outperformed the night elf in any one of those scenarios, if only fate had given her its blessing.

Yet, for all her wishes to the contrary, she could not undo what already had been done. Keina ranked higher than her in the eyes of the god. She could not deny the obvious. But… she could worm her way into the giant's heart via other means. Just because the kaldorei had scored these early victories did not mean the conflict between them had been decided. Yes, the amazon had won the first few battles, but the war was far from over.

"Abominations!" a voice from the other side of the ring drove her fantasies away in a heartbeat.

My laughter rings within the confines of my helm. It is a deep sound, and one I am not used to hearing. My vocalizers distort it. Perverse it. Makes it sound even less human. What comes out is a static laced snarl, akin to the thrum of some gigantic machine. It is strange. Hearing the laughter that escapes my lips combine with what my helm construes laughter should be. Two different interpretations of what I am. Strange. This noise.

I have laughed before. Mostly in the company of my brothers. Some times on the battlefield at a particular gruesome fate dealt out to the enemy by fellow Astartes hands. Dark humor. Black wit. This time is different. Different from the other times.

The servos in my power armor whines as it propels me forward, as though if protesting my actions. My chainsword delivers a similar sound, a shrill keening wail that begs me not to proceed with my plan. My boltgun, now gripped tight in black plated fist, seethes with displeasure at my actions. I can sense it. The venerable weapon decries this, orders me to haltimmediately. But I cannot. The crosshair that is implanted directly into my visor display flashes in warning, vanishing and reappearing with a whim of its own. The bolter will not allow me to aim properly. Its machine spirit condemns me for the act I am about to perform.

I go to the aid of traitors and xenos.

I laugh at the sheer ignominy of it all. The shame of consorting with alien breeds and their human sympathizers taints my soul. The shame is like a blazing bonfire, and I feel its scorching fury encompassing every inch of my body. My very being is in the throes of desecration, and I am helpless to stop it. Honor forces me to do this. Honor, and a promise. I laugh because I tread the path of eternal damnation. I laugh because I tread upon it willingly.

The circle of Argent humans and xenos are faltering. They are tired from the fighting against an enemy that knows not the meaning of human limitations. It is a miracle that they have held out for this long. The skeletal, walking corpses that press their attack outnumber them ten to one. If they were Guardsmen, loyal to the Emperor and steadfast to the Imperium, then they would have earned my respect long ago. But they are not. They are traitors and aliens. All they can earn from me is my scorn and undying loathing.

Now a new enemy approaches, three in number, their fat, obese bulks swaying as they lurch forward on stubby legs. My enhanced eyesight spots the pallid skin distended on their bloated frames, stitched together like a patchwork quilt. Diminutive heads sit on massive shoulders, the eyes that bulge from their sockets glimmering with bestial intelligence. Blasphemous barely describes these heretical abominations. But what catches my attention the most, what disgusts me the most, are the thick tails of intestines and innards that sprout from deep gashes in their corpulent bellies. My revulsion is like an ashen taste in my mouth, mingling with the pungent tang of hatred that has already taken hold of my tongue.

I placate my bolter's protesting spirit with a vow that soon a chance will come for it to vent out to its frustrations.

The paladin would not commit his paltry forces without my promise. A promise for aid should the opposition becomes too much for them. I cannot say I blame him. Even the bravest of mortals will not walk into the cold embrace of death without hesitation. I had agreed then. I regret my agreement now. Better to let these heathens die on the battlefield. At least then they can go to the Emperor with some honor to their credit.

But an oath is an oath. I promised Gyran. I will not fail him now, xenos-lover he may be.

I power my way into the skeletons, chainsword sweeping in long, brutal strokes. Their weathered skulls twist to peer at my advance, before my weapon demolishes their scrawny features in explosions of bone chips. There is no finesse to my blade work. I do not need it against these weak and fragile foes. I simply lash out again and again, felling these living cadavers with each vicious blow. My bolter hand mirrors the devastation wrought by my blade, descending on fleshless heads and obliterating them in sprays of splintered bone. I carve my way deeper into this unholy mass, seeking the three gargantuan forms that disgust me so.

I am still laughing, I realize. Even as I kill and kill and kill, my mirth remains unquenched. My brothers would think me mad if they see me in such a state. But perhaps I am mad. Insane, even. After all, in aiding these turncoats and their xeno cohorts, I already walk the path of a renegade. My laughter turns bitter at once. Renegade. Who would have thought a former Honored One of the Death Spectres would fall into such obscurity. What is next for me, then? Will I continue to justify my actions as they become more blasphemous in nature? Will my mind turn to sedition and treachery when it realizes that there is no turning back? Will I eventually bear the mark of the eight pointed star?

The sobering thought drives away the amusement from my conscience at once.

Dimly I hear the Argent soldiers cheering my advance. It is a sound easy for me to ignore.

The first of the overweight beasts looms before me, knocking its skeleton companions aside in its haste to do battle. My boltgun rises from its melee work, pieces of bone sticking to its revered frame. I aim for the thing's chest, a patch of blotched skin even wider than mine. I depress the trigger, and a series of thunderous roars belches from my weapon's barrel. Three head-sized craters erupt into the obese monster's torso, splattering chunks of shredded meat and visceral gore into the air. Unbelievably, it does not die, and instead, bellows out a guttural challenge. It seems to be unmindful of the thick streams of blood that now run in rivers down its misshapen body, or the three gaping holes freshly dealt to its upper frame. I raise my bolter higher, and my visor automatically corrects the targeting reticule embedded within my image display.

The corpulent creature takes another step towards me before my next bolt shell finds its face. The thing topples over, headless, and crushes half a dozen of its skeletal kin beneath its massive weight.

I shift my bolter in the direction of the next flabby beast. My chainblade hacks apart two milling skeletons that strayed too close and a violent kick from my boot smashes another's legs from its hip.

By the Throne, the abomination is fast! In the space it took me to down three of the spindly foe, the monster is almost within my sword's range. Its waddling gait has taken it far, and contrary to its almost comedic appearance, is quite fast. The beast is taller than me by several heads, and I have to look up to see its malformed features. My weapon discharges its lethal payload at point blank range; the mass-reactive projectiles detonating against the fiend's hide and driving it backwards. Before I can capitalize on its weakness, the fat monstrosity swipes at me with a meaty paw, and batters away the boltgun clenched in my hand. A distorted cry of anger escapes my helm's vocalizers as my fingers clutch at the empty air where my instrument of His wrath once rested.

My chainsword snarls with rage at the fate of its fellow weapon, and drives forward into the creature's extended belly. My war plate is immediately assailed by a mad welter of ichor and I push my blade deeper into the thing's revealed entails, seeking to shred its inner organs. If the beast notices the churning teeth that are sawing through its insides, it certainly does not show it. Instead, a throaty chuckle escapes its fleshy lips, as though if it were enjoying this experience. I try to pull my sword free, only to discover that it is ensnared within the Scourge's innards. A most devious trap.

The beast's gargantuan hands affix themselves firmly to my sides. I wince at the strength behind those brawny fingers, each as thick as an Ixillian python. Before I can do more than blink, the abomination lifts me from my feet and brings my struggling form near its mutilated countenance. No small feat, considering the total mass of my power armor and my own body. Its face is scarred horribly, displaying a mismatch of deep cuts and nasty furrows, akin to the toil of some mad apothecary. Iron bolts are stapled into its flesh, and it is with dismay that I realize they are for keeping the thing's skin from peeling off. Its fatty lips part into an almost childish grin and the eyes sunken in their sockets gleam with malicious glee.

"Well," I say into my helm's external vox, "you're an ugly frakker aren't you?"

Its response is as hideous as its face.

"LIDDLE MAN GO SQUISH!"

"Your command of the Gothic tongue astounds me." I reply dryly.

My retort is ignored. The monster bellows into my faceplate, splattering flecks of drool onto my sacred vestments. Immediately I feel the pressure in my ribs as the monstrosity attempts to crush me in its grip. I marvel at the creature's strength, more than enough to match my own. Still, despite its impressive might, it has committed one fatal flaw. In its eagerness to catch me within its grasp, it has not pinned my arms to my sides. Now one such arm draws back to punish this blasphemous creature for its brazen audacity.

The brute sees my pulled back arm and chortles. It has probably done this before. Snatching some unfortunate human into its huge paws and slowly squeezing them to death in its iron hold. It most likely enjoys the thrashing of its victims as they flail impotently, its hulking frame invulnerable to their feeble strikes and blows. The Scourge monstrosity thinks I am no different from the mortals it so loves to murder.

I make it realize its mistake.

I hammer my fist into the beast's still grinning face, relishing in the following crack of splintering bone. At once its leer vanishes, along with its right cheek, utterly demolished by my vengeful blow. A long, undulating howl erupts from its opened orifice, followed by an incoherent babble of words too bestial to understand.

"HURT! HURT!" is about all I can make out.

Once more my arm shoots out, but this time, my plated fingers latch onto the Scourge's unhinged mandible.

"Gothic is the language of the pure. It is the language of humanity," I state to its anguished visage, "one such as you does not deserve to speak its holy words. Let us rectify this problem."

My muscles, both real and artificial, strain as I pull. The abomination gurgles something incoherent, and I ignore it. I do not parley with scum. Ligaments tear, one by one, snapping apart like taut string. Skin stretches and rips, revealing the gray flesh beneath. Bone is dislodged from its rightful joints, coming away just like everything else. One final grunt of effort from me, and one final yowl from the monster, ends this. I display my prize to my captor, its own lower jaw, clutched in my bloody fist.

The abomination makes a wet, gurgling sound, the only sound it can make without a mandible. Its sickly green tongue flops uselessly down from its throat, devoid of the support that I now hold in my hand. One immense paw leaves my side, and swipes futilely at its ghastly wound, poking and prodding with infantile curiosity. Stupid brute. Even with blood leaking from its mangled jowls, it still does not comprehend fully how grievous its injury is. Its hesitation is all the time I need to make its wound even grislier.

My fingers wrap themselves around the grip of my combat knife and pulls it from it's sheathe. The blade glistens in my gauntlet, eager for its turn to shed the foe's life fluid. I reward its eagerness by ramming it into the Scourge's maimed maw. With both hands firmly behind my weapon's hilt, I shove it deeper and deeper into the monster's disfigured face, ignoring the thing's frantic attempts to resist. And then abruptly, I am let go, and my armored frame plummets to the ground. It is not a high drop, merely four feet, but it is a testament to just how tall my assailant is. The unholy thing jerks and shudders as it falls, my knife still protruding from its mouth, and I step back to avoid the beast's death throes.

The act nearly cost me my life.

I hear the whistling of metal cleaving air before I can fully register the threat. From the periphery of my vision, I see a crude blade arcing for my head, propelled by one monstrous arm. Not enough time to react. Not enough time to dodge.

My helm is ripped from my skull as the blow hits home, and I roar in pain as the mind-link between my faceplate and the black carapace is brutally severed. I stagger forward, away from the foul enemy that would dare strike me from behind. My conscience reels from the lost connection, my carapace literally bleeding agony into my brain. My opponent takes advantage of my lapse by smashing its weapon into my ceramite pauldron, forcing me to my knees. The haze of suffering that refuses to lift from my mind is crippling, and I find myself unable to do anything but snarl in pain. Helpless, would be the word to use in this situation.

I spit in disgust as a shadow looms over me. This is no way for an Astartes to die. To be slain in such a manner. There is no glory in being cut down from behind. My abhorrence for such a fate spears through the veil of agony and motivates me to defy my tormentor. I roll forward, ceramite plates creaking with protest, just in time to avoid the blow meant to detach my head from my shoulders. Using the momentum of my movement as a spring, I push myself back up, and swivel on my heel to face my attacker.

The last of the obese monsters greets my sight, fatty rolls of tissue quivering on its broad form as it approaches. I can smell its stinking, decayed scent wafting from every porous inch of its body. I can sense the killing rage that drives its animalistic intelligence. I can hear its heavy, strained breathing as it nears, like the sound of a man inhaling air with augmented lungs. It lifts a cleaver-like blade with one ham-fisted hand, pointing it at me in an obvious challenge. It thinks I have been weakened. It thinks I am defeated. It thinks I am weaponless.

It is wrong.

I have my hatred. I have my fists. They are enough.

Wind whips into my bared face as I surge forward to vanquish this monster.

Corax is watching this.