Chapter 1
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The Long Slaughter
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He awoke, the last thing he could remember was being surrounded by watchmen, a plasma bolt headed straight for his heart. It made its impact and he lay there, slain on the field of battle, rage and plasma still burning through his veins. He opened his eyes to find himself lying down in total darkness, the perfectly smooth surface he was on slick in what he could tell only by scent and touch was blood, for there was no light. The fallen soldier stood, there was nothing to be seen, but he could feel a presence, a dangerous aura. He instinctively turned to face the threat and waited, hands ready to fight as he had no weapons to rely on but himself. It wouldn’t be long before this threat revealed itself as a burst of massive flame bellowed in the distance. By his guess the flames must’ve been well over two hundred feet tall, and standing in front of it was an equally massive figure, only his silhouette visible among the flames. The figure slowly revealed his full form, raising his four arms; in one hand was a skull, its top open and overflowing with liquid, in another was a sword, black and dripping with blood, the third held a crown from which he could very faintly hear a weeping, the last held a pile of gold coins, glittering in the light of the fire.
The soldier heard a dark voice that echoed from the back of his skull. It rattled him to his core as he could feel the figure glaring at him through the darkness with his five red eyes. The figure spoke, “You are strong, they are weak, you have crushed many but it is not enough, for there you lie dead on the battlefield… some would say a fitting end.” The nameless soldier listened, troubled by the words of this being, he replied “If I am dead, let me live again so that I may fight, otherwise do not waste my time and let me rest in peace―”
“Peace?” The being abruptly interjected. “There is no peace for ones like you and I, and rest comes with the stench of defeat. I do not tolerate such weakness. But you… With your hate and your body count you surely make a fine exception. I’m going to give you a choice; I’ll let you rest, but there’ll be no peace as your foes will ravage mortal kind. Or…” an assortment of weapons bubbled out from the infinite pool of blood in front of him “... you become my champion, and pile more bodies onto your sizable collection in my name, and never taste defeat again.” The soldier paused for a moment, one question bouncing around in his mind, “Why me?” The voice from within spoke, “The continued survival of your people requires my champion, and while most warriors would consider wasting away in old age to be their preferred fate, you were never content with such a life, you were willing to sacrifice everything to see your enemies destroyed, you are not like most warriors. You are strong. And with my blessing, you will see your enemies destroyed.” The choice was clear, he reached for the mace in front of him, and when his hand had a firm grip the voice called out again, “What is your name, my child?” He paused and eventually realized he couldn’t remember, “You don’t know, of course, your mind so filled with blood and hate in your last moments nothing else mattered… From now on you will only be known as Azrath, champion of war, born of slaughter, avatar of Belosroth. Go now, for there is blood to be shed and bodies to be piled high.” Azrath could hear the bellowing laughter of the thirsting god thrum around him as he was violently dragged backward by an unseen force. Gripping onto his mace, the light of the fire quickly recedes and he is in darkness again.
He awoke, flame erupting around him on the battlefield upon which he was slain. He stood, Belosroth’s gifted mace in one hand, a cursed scattergun in the other; the tools that would enable his imminent rampage. As the flames subsided he looked down and noticed the searing hole in his chest where his heart normally would be, no doubt vaporized by the plasma that should have killed him. And now in its place was a new pumping heart, blackened with hate, exposed for all to see. The battle around him had seemingly paused, with all fighters around him looking in awe at an act of divine intervention, and a living symbol of destruction rising among the corpses. He felt rage well in his new heart and overflow through his body and into his head. He let loose a roar that shook all men on the field that day down to their cores, and with his might threw the massive mace with such force that it flew hundreds of feet, cleaving through a column of watchmen. Upon witnessing this, the watchmen switched their target priorities and beset themselves upon Azrath. They were no match. He shot and smashed his way through dozens of watchmen on his way to pick up Belosroth’s mace. He retrieved the mace, now standing on a pile of what was once watchmen and what is now scrap metal. Slick in the black oil that runs through the watchmen, Azrath surveyed the battlefield. The odds were stacked against him and what little of the organic army remained, they were outnumbered at least four to one.
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He considered this a fair fight.
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He thrust his mace into the air with a thundering warcry, inspiring the soldiers on the ground, rallying them to fight once more. The watchmen and the army of flesh clashed, plasma and plasteel ripping through each other's bodies as Azrath led the charge. He cleaved through hordes of watchmen with a single swing of his mace, while others were subjected to a hailstorm of durasteel flechette with each trigger pull of his infernal shotgun. He found that his new body, resurrected by Belosroth, could run faster, jump higher, and hit harder than anything else on the battlefield that day. Nearly one thousand total watchmen fell to him alone, crushed by mace, shot to pieces, or torn asunder by the hands of the great destroyer. As the last of the watchmen were routed, he stood atop a mountain of their dead and for the last time surveyed the battlefield for any that would stand in his way. He turned his attention to the victorious army below, who was now staring at him, awestruck by his power. He paused for a moment before he took a sharp and deep inhale, his thundering voice overtook the dormant battlefield, “I AM AZRATH! HERALD OF BELOSROTH!” He pointed his mace in the direction of the fleeing watchmen.
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“YOU ARE NEXT!”
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