Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red. That is what was spreading through the massive room. A tidal wave of rust. The slow machines of grey metal, no matter how big or powerful, every one of them fell victim. And in the center of it? The Harbinger of Death himself. Noiratrom. The Plagued Son. A constant pale green cloud surrounded him; what had simply rusted away and died was now eroding, crumbling away into nothingness. The Primarch of death -and life, in an ironic way- walked over the dust of the former Necrons, his scythe well in hand. The teeth on the edges of the scythe were drooling, its wicked tongue whipping at the moist air. It was thirsty for blood, disappointed in a way, since Necrons shed no blood. The burning devilish grin stapled to Noiratrom's face also drooled a sickly mixture of... well, if only it could be described as saliva. The mighty primarch of death advanced on the field of carnage, barely stretching to wreak destruction upon the foes. None stood a chance. None could raise an effort. There was no fighting him. Not here, not ever. All the cold machines could do was wisp away and die pathetically, since escape wasn't an option. Where could they escape? This [i]was[/i] their home once, but now, it was home to one thing. Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red. Eventually, the Primarch was struck. Not by his current foes, no. By a far more fearsome monster. Boredom. They were not putting up a fight; they couldn't. Resistance was futile. So, Noiratrom got an idea. It was something he had been storing for a little while, now was the perfect time to use it, seeing as finally, something worthy of being dubbed a challenge presented itself. A necron floating fortress hovered forth, presenting itself as a force of destruction. It fired darts of heavy green gauss energy straight towards. Foolishly, this machine believed it would work. As soon as the dart entered the pale cloud of smoke that hovered around him, it disintegrated, as if it's very particles had succumbed to the rot. Raising his hand forward, a huge pillar of green smoke rose from the ground before Noiratrom. A shady figure was pulled from the ground, via a hellish portal. The figure kept coming out more and more... it was around fifty feet in height, taller than even the necron fortress, taller than even the mighty Omen. [url=http://i.imgur.com/72Q0qKk.jpg]this being... it was once a machine. Something mechanical.[/url] but after the warp had embraced it with it's touch of madness, of sickness, it could now only be described as... an horrific creation. It's armour plates were rusted, coloured with a white pure rust, much like the Primarch's own armour. It was covered in sickly pustules. It's mechanical head was now dotted with a toothy, fleshy mouth and a diseased tongue. It's armour was doubled with old, plagued leather, it's flesh falling off with rot, yet unfathomably resilient. It's rail cannon had now been mingled with a horror of the warp, it was a being of its own, its power was too fearsome to be known by mere mortals... Out of its back grew torn wings, much to the image of the Primarch. Its exhausts were now releasing the same toxic fumes as its master's. It's hands and feet were now clawed, covered in the same rotten leather. Simply looking at this monstrosity was enough to make any mortal topple over and drown in their own vomit. A grossly overwhelming nausea filled the massive room, making the bones of even the other warriors itch with an uncomfortable feeling of disgust. The stench was unbearable to those unused to the folly that is chaos. The smoke had cleared out, and the demonic apparition let out a roar so mighty that it made the entire room tremble. Staring down its opponent with its hollow eyes, it unsheathed a massive, twenty feet tall whip-sword of firery rust, and in a dash it cut the Necron fortress. Its speed was illogical for a being of this size. This was simply a complete and total defiance of the laws of physics. In the realm of the immaterial, there are no laws. The monument to the sins of the Necrons fell, cleaved cleanly in two, both of its halves crumbling away into a fine, rusty powder. Other necron creatures of amazing power attempted to defy this champion of darkness. But none stood a chance. Soon enough, Vile plumes of green smoke appeared around the room. Through these pestilent portals poured forth the Death Guard, Noiratrom's personal legion of chaos. The husks of Necron deposits were now a new addition to the Legion of the Undying, since their rusty necrodermis floated ominously into the air and attached itself to the Chaos Marines' armours, now embedded with the remembrance of the Necron. More power. Always more power. These soldier's sorrowful black armours were now covered in rust. For the first time in their non-empathic lives, the soulless machines felt something. Fear. An unsurpassable fear. This threat was greater than they imagined. It was greater than what they had fathomed within the realm of the possible. This threat needed to be annihilated. The Necron army, what was left of it, focused all of their might upon this great foe. They would overwhelm them with sheer numbers and firepower. They assumed distance would be their key advantage. They assumed wrong. Taking up artillery position, the Necron tides unleashed Gauss energy upon the Guard of Death. Returning fire, the hail of unholy bolter fire had an unexpected yet devastating effect. Every bullet, wether it missed or hit it's target, unleashed a small cloud of rot. Every necron whom found itself within that cloud would see its body and mind slowly overtaken by the rust cloud. Then, the rusted husks transformed into shelters, generating more of the deadly cloud. It was a chain effect of incalculable damage. Meanwhile, the Carrion Sentinel, massive being of plague, fired it's shoulder-mounted weapon into the rear masses, where artillery cannons were pounding on the Guard. Each inhumane shell that struck the ground left a green dome of explosive fumes, like a hydrogen bomb causing the ground where it appeared to have cratered into nothingness. No trace of any necron was left. It was just an empty waste. The remaining necron footsoldiers fled for their lives... or what seemed like it. The last foe standing, challenging, was a Necron lord. It's troops had been reduced to utter nothingness. Although this challenge was for the Plagued Son to tackle. And he did so, with a demonic grin upon his mouth. The Necron lord's rushing of the champion had come to an unexpected halt. The pale green cloud struck him like a whipping strong wind, eating away at its armour, skin and very soul. It struggled to step forward. Every painful step was more challenging than the last, while the Primarch stood there, taunting him with his cold, hollow look. Eventually, the Lord needed to crawl. It had crawled to Noiratrom's feet, it's ornate armour was now a rusted memory, a mere shadow of its former self. It's legs were crooked, it's arms weak. It grasped the rusty ashes weakly as a means to propulse itself forward. It was no longer seeking to kill the Harbinger for what he had done to his comrades, to him. It was seeking death. And Death granted. Hoisting him off the floor with his free hand, Noiratrom stared the Necron Lord dead in the eyes, rust and pustules spreading from his hand. He then pierced the necron lord in the gut with [i]Silence[/i], his scythe. The Necron lord was struck with an awful, horrific fear. It saw its soul, its C'tan energy being ripped out of its body and fly into the scythe. Now robbed of its existence, the lord vomited out of its mechanical mouth its rusted innards. It... it was literally puking itself to death. Soon enough, there was nothing left to vomit. The literally empty husk rusted away and faded into the dunes to join its dead comrades. Even the dreaded Nightbringer would quake under his hood. Soon enough, the room was split into two. A small half of the room contained the fleeing Necrons who attempted to escape their timely demise, only to be met at the hands of the other warriors hailing from the bloodwrath. The other, larger half of the room was a literal sea of rusted dunes, through which walked the Harbinger of Death. At his side was his Legion, his Guard, and his champion, his creature of wickedness, the Carrion Sentinel. This was... beauty. A filth, a plague so immaculate, so perfectly wicked and disturbingly fearsome... this moment was true beauty in the eyes of Noiratrom. For once, the very first time since his first voyage through the warp, the Ashen Son felt something different than hatred towards his arrogant, foolish father. He felt, momentarily only, a deranged, peaceful bliss. This death... this Decay... he felt as if he had surpassed his lord Nurgle. As if [i][b][u]He[/u][/b][/i] was the true and rightful God of life. And his monument to perfection was just that. Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red.