Dance of the Dreamers

[Kuzuru]

Once again the demon found himself within the nebulous realm of dreams known as the Astral Verse. This time however, there was no painted girl and there was no city. Instead Kuzuru appeared sitting atop a boulder in the center of a glade. A breeze danced through the trees and nipped at his flesh, drawing out goosebumps. Birdsongs filled the air, underpinned by the buzzing din of insects. Squirrels and other woodland critters scampered from tree to tree each of them completely oblivious to the paragon of murder placed among them. It wasn’t until the demon scanned the heavens that this place appeared to be anything more than a forest. Once his eyes crawled past the horizon the sky gave way to a star-filled void. Vertigo clamped onto the demon and he returned his gaze back to his surroundings.

Instead of the forest he found a desolate wasteland. His boulder was still present, but there was no life in sight. What few trees still stood were nothing more than shriveled husks of their former selves. Dust-covered skeletons littered the cracked clay earth. A harsh gust of wind slapped the demon’s face. He scowled and hopped down from his perch. He sniffed the air and frowned. There was no blood here. The death that surrounded him was the worst kind. It was a lethargic and bland wasting that occured over the course of centuries. Yes he was an avatar of slaughter and he courted the lovely lady death, but this lack of action sickened him. Kuzuru spit onto an animal skull.

“What a boring dream,” he mused and continued to walk through the badlands.

Every step that Kuzuru took sent slight tremors through the clay underfoot. Spiderweb cracks propagated out from his footprints, mulching the clay into piles of red gravel. Spires of twisted stone breached through the earth and climbed towards the sky. These spires morphed into hellish facsimiles of skyscrapers. These towering leviathans were made from the same red clay and looked as if they were made by giant cavemen. A single curved sprouted from Kuzuru’s forearm which he dragged against the stone structures. This horrendous scraping noise echoed throughout the barren city.

“Anyone out there?” he called, raising his voice as loud as it could go.

[Okor]

As the Demon traipsed down the ruins of the city he forged, every step shattering freshly-made stone beneath his feet, a change came upon the aether. The scent of steel and blood that Kuzuru naturally cultivated around himself began to fade, the stench of the aftermath starting to fill his nostrils: rotting offal and rusting iron, the buzzing flight of flies, the silent war of worms. Cracked spires began to crumble, gnarled roots writhing through the rubble, toxin-tipped thorns glistened beneath the sunless sky as they constricted the constructs of men, seeking to drag them into the earth from whence they once came.

Smoke, fire, and ash came on the plagued wings. Ethereal green flame burned across the astral realm, turning this twisted forest to cinders, wooden tendrils writhing and flailing, barbed lengths lashing out towards the warm flesh of the cursed Swordsman, desperately seeking to take root within this bloody soil. The Demon’s blade cleaved through them with ease, hungering floral fingers curling and shrinking on the cracked cobbles beneath his feet as they combusted, burning with banefire.

The ashes shifted with the wind, buoyed on smoke and the silent screams of scorched souls. They warped themselves into mouths and screaming faces, contorted in fear and pain as they whispered towards this trespasser.

He’s coming, breathlessly spoke a woman, eyes barely visible but for the memory of jewels adorning every inch of her face, a feathered headdress brushing past the Demon as her soul fled the coming conflagration.

Warrior of a thousand worlds, stated what was once a man, an over-large head marked with steel studs set into his brow, half his face left a charred ruin, blackened bone resting beneath the grievous wounds.

Prophet of Pox, gleefully cried out a rotting rabble of faces, buboes and boils deforming their festering flesh, but the eyes set within the diseased visages glimmered with joy, each eager to spread their cursed contagion.

Innumerable apparitions fled past the dreamer, each one whispering another snippet of warning, a seemingly unending susurrus screaming past him as mere memories sought to escape a doom that had already come upon them centuries past.

They were banished with a distant, echoing impact. And another. It was unmistakably real, a solid force in this ephemeral land of dreams, coming closer and closer with each step, the sound returning the ash-wraiths to particles as they gave out one final cry, of despair, of fear, of joy.

The source of the reality-shaking impacts arrived, without much further fanfare. Chipped ceramite armour, the scars of centuries and millennia of mutation having turned it into more of an ingrown carapace than mere war-plate covered the massive man, only an emaciated stomach and one mummified arm emerging from beneath the entropic aegis. A rusted blade rested over his pauldrons, three boils bursting forth from his shoulder-plate. A smouldering censer hung from his waist, a loincloth marked with dark sigils displayed with pride, alongside a bulky pistol and stockless rifle. A crimson, cyclopean eye looked out at this newcomer, its intents unreadable beneath a horned brow.

”And… another dreamer walks this realm,” he spoke in a deep half-growl, tumour-ridden throat struggling to speak in anything that could not be constituted as a threat.

A gauntlet slammed against his cancerous chestplate, a sickly, hollow impact resounding from the strike, fused ribs and festering organs lurking beneath leathery skin and corrupted carapace.

”I am Okor Paleblood. By now, I would hope that… My name has spread across the Smiling One’s prison. I would ask for your own title, Dreamer.”

[Kuzuru]

“Well now, what a pleasant surprise,” Kuzuru mused.

Like a starving coyote the demon began to circle the interloper. A single yolk-colored eye followed Kuzuru from beneath Okor’s grime-encrusted helm. Around them the ethereal realm twisted itself to accommodate their standoff. Kuzuru stepped over a puddle of brackish muck and as he did the pus-puddle turned into fresh blood. Wooden posts wrapped in barbed wire sprouted from the ground like wicked saplings. Kuzuru came to a stop and glanced around. A hellish yin-yang of blood and pestilence had formed beneath them.

“Believe you me, your reputation precedes you Paleblood,” Kuzuru said, “you’re on my list, towards the bottom sure, but you’re on it.”

Okor said nothing.

“Though I suppose it is a bit rude to not introduce myself,” the demon continued, “name’s Kuzuru, I’m the leader of the Ashen Blades, badass mercenary group, the kind of group that’d love nothing more than your head on a pike, but you’ve probably heard of us.”

Okor’s body shifted and he answered, ”I… have not… but that is… not surprising, if you want my head… this will be more than just a… nightmare for you.”

Kuzuru lowered his guard as he laughed. If Okor had anything resembling lips they would have been scowling. The impish individual before him stood at least two if not three feet shorter than the Nurgle-worshipper. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that was covered in hundreds of aggressive words like “SLAY” or “DEVIL” or “RAMPAGE”, each of them written in bright red. His skin was stretched tight across a lean but well-defined musculature and the faintest tinge of burgundy stained his flesh. But, most striking of all, was the series of three curved blades jutting out from his forearm their steely black points aimed in the same direction as his fingers.

As Kuzuru’s chuckling subsided he stood up straight and spoke, “nightmare? I think you’ve got it wrong friend-o, I live to fight guys like you, I’m a bit of a sadist that way, and I also think you know what happens next, it’s just a matter of when not if.”

Kuzuru took a few sudden steps towards the corrupted astartes who shifted his weight in response. The demon cut his charge short and stumbled to the side in order to kill his momentum. Kuzuru chuckled and pranced a few steps away from Okor.

“It’s a shame your face is fucked up, I would’ve loved to see the look on it,” Kuzuru said, “you’re not in a rush to die are you? I’m hoping to savor this.”

[Weiss Schnee]

Weiss rested one shaking  hand on the pommel of her rapier, her body tense and readied for an attack from any angle. Even after everything she'd been through in the frozen fields, this was an unnerving first. She woke up in an unfamiliar place, a forest that had once felt comfortingly similar to home...
Until all the skulls and blood and uncomfortable gore, that is... this wasn't some common-place thing for her... it was terrifying. Whatever did all this, and the fact it might come back for her...

Weiss gulped. She was familiar with having horror after horror dumped on her, but that didn't make any of them less horrifying.

But what she'd stumbled upon now was somehow even less comforting. The dim voices in the distance had gradually given way to shapes... and while the other shape was utterly unfamiliar to her, there was no way she'd ever be able to avoid recognizing the warped and deformed figure of Okor Paleblood standing in the distance.

As she came closer, though, she realized the other figure might be a bigger issue. She recognized a mock charge when she saw it, as well as this man's threatening motions. She'd had people challenge her like that, but in Okor's case, it couldn't have just been some moron who didn't know how to judge someone's strength - Okor's appearance showed immediately what kind of horror you were tangling with... Weiss knew from experience.

She froze for just a second, wondering what sort of confrontation this was... maybe she shouldn't get involved. At the same time... Okor, at least, knew a lot more about the omniverse than she did, and whatever else he'd done to her, he'd always answered her questions truthfully. Okor had never been less than honest with her... even when he was trying to seperate her head from her shoulders.

Besides... maybe it was a little twisted, but there was a mix between irritation and concern welling up in her as this guy threatened the plague marine. Okor was... if nothing else, he was someone she knew, and while she didn't think he was a good guy... where the heck was she going with this?"

Eventually, she made her decision, walking up to the two with a hand on her blade's hilt. She chose to address the new person first, keeping her tones clipped and brief. "Weiss Schnee. What business do you have with my..." Weiss's tone started to falter, as her vocabulary hit a sudden blank spot when it came to defining that particular relationship.

"...With Okor." Weiss finally finished in a quieter tone.

[Okor]

Mirthful laughter blossomed forth from bubonic lungs, leprous flesh giving rise to sickly chuckling as Okor turned to face the newcomer, her voice familiar to his grime-packed ears. The rusted, horned helmet of the marine gave precious little hint as to what emotion lurked beneath, but the genial glint in the crimson sclera of his eye gave his joy away. A hand almost absent-mindedly reached out, impaling itself on the lengthy blades of black iron sprouting from the Dreaming Demon’s arm, pale blood leaking around the self-inflicted wounds as the gangrenous giant pushed the erstwhile bounty hunter away.

”Schnee. It is good to see you once more,” Okor growled, a phlegm-choked throat rumbling as he spoke. ”I trust you’ve kept well?” Behind him, the Demon of the Blade was doubled over, retching silently as near-translucent vitae glistened on his gore-streaked claws. “Better than you,” she said, pointing her fingers towards the mouldering marauder, her thumbs cocked back. “... Because... You’re... Rotting. Yeah.”

A corrupted chuckle came forth from the corroded vox-mechanisms of the Plagued Paladin, the malevolent machine spirits lurking within twisting his emenations as they added their own static susurrus. ”A jest. I would simply… love to tell you of my travels, but I fear I have encountered an…”

A gentle grunt interrupted him, air forced from festering lungs as curved claws sunk into his side. Kuzuru leaned against him, his face a pale green as he seethed through clenched teeth. ”... Irritant.” Weiss started to spring into action before restraining herself, ivory claws sprouting from her fingertips and a mask of bone etching itself across her features before she forcibly restrained herself, sickly eyes instead choosing to survey the scene.

The bounty hunter spat against the earth as he attempted to recover, silently cursing his unfortunately literal bloodthirst. “The hell is wrong with you?” He snarled, a twist of his blades drawing more of the septic sanguine fluid running through the Chosen Champion’s venom-laden veins.

Vertebrae cracked as Okor turned to face his unsuccessful assailant, single eye bearing down upon the Demon, brief glimpses of other beings lurking beneath his skin, struggling to free themselves from this plagued prison. ”I could ask you the same thing, Whelp. From what desolate hellscape does Omni dredge these… madmen from? I have faced Dragons, Daemons, and the depths of Dante’s Abyss, and yet you think you can threaten me?” A compulsive chuckle rose up from his newly perforated gizzards. ”You stand before me, clad in this… Harlequin’s garb, proclaiming your madness and murderous strength,” Okor laughed, turning to face Weiss once more as another bladed rabbit-punch sunk into his abdomen. ”This is why I like you… Weiss. There is no bluster, no absurd demands or threats. Simply skill and strength, bent towards victory.”

Corrupted claws reached down, wrapping themselves around the blades sunk deep into his side, prying them out as a sickened Kuzuru glared at them, the fluctuating Omnillium within his being palpable as he prepared his very being for combat.

”Mind you, the rarity of primes like yourself does wonders for my odds of victory.”

[Roger Smith]

The landscape around him was a chaotic mess of broken imagery of conflicting, impossible terrain. A confusing kaleidoscope of half-formed thought and lingering fancy, flickering this way and that. But his gaze never swept aside to observe or pay it any mind. For all the riot of sensory overload around him, one thing was certain: the path before him. Nothing more than dirt, cracked and broken. Deeply furrowed and stained with blood and the stink of death. A field suited only to carry corpses within it. The aftermath of a horrid battle. A battle he had fought in, maybe. Some long-buried nightmare, trying to crawl back up to torment him.

Distantly, the thunder of guns echoed; the ground shook and trembled underfoot.

The priest only sighed, bowing his head as he marched resolutely onward. Arms folded behind his back, tired green eyes ever facing forward, he marched onward. Bent and weary, the weight of years pushing him down and slowing his pace, but he marched onward.

Another pace brought with it the taste of blood in the air. Another pace brought the metallic smell of rust. A third pace carried the noxious impact of death and disease with it. Drifting from a place beyond his endless path, stretching forward out of sight.

He paused his aimless, meandering march, head finally turning from its forward cast. Off to the side he stared, his attention focused on something he knew not what. But it was something...definite. Something that seemed real, not born of his own fragmented and shattered past. Not the phantoms of war; not the spectre of a thousand crusades; not the lingering regret of his own death; but something real, in this land of dreams. His exhausted mind took far too long to grasp the concept, grappling and throwing aside the weight of this accursed sleeper's torment keeping him down.

As he did, a new light rekindled in his eyes, and his posture straightened. The noise of artillery and gunfire ceased all at once; the thunder of war dropping to a dull background rumble. Distantly, the tolling of bells sounded. Church bells.

His glasses shone with silver light, and his expression twisted from the despondent, aimless grimace of a man who only wanted a respite to the manic grin of a predator who had finally found something to hunt. It was hard to say why, but the chaotic whirl of scent and taste riding on the winds had revitalized him, and spoke of things he knew quite well. Demons, monsters, heathens; just waiting for him.

He never broke his stance — arms folded behind his back, hands clasped together, shoulders hunched forward and leaning into his walk — as he went, though he redoubled his pace. Every step he took, the ground behind him was left withered and barren; coated in ash and dust, the bloody battlefield lost from memory as it ceased to have hold over him. Spears and lances of silver, each one capped with a cross and fluttering pennant of rich blue, burst through the ground before him, forming a menacing lane to herald his arrival. Each weapon was cracked, splintered, bloodied from use, but still proud and whole; still serviceable as weapons, if one should merely take them.

He went onward, flanked by his armless honor guard, the fields behind him drowned in ash and dust. Before him, the ground was ripped apart by thorny vines, tearing the crazed landscape apart and leaving it broken, but clear of any other obstruction. Pools and puddles of muck and filth, diseased blood and rusted skyscrapers, all were shredded and torn down, masses of thorns and fallen spears forming bridges and stairs to let the steadily-advancing paladin advance.

Until finally, he emerged. A corroded, snarling cliffside of metal and twisted gore was crumbled to dust. It spilled forth flakes of rust, howling in anguish as blood fountained and spilled, before it went silent, withering and dying. Desiccated, in an instant, and crumbled to dust. A harsh gust of bitingly cold air blew through the resulting tunnel, and tongues of flame, spewing forth masses of vines, crawled forth, framing the entryway as Alexander Anderson emerged.

Slowly, his footsteps even and measured, he strode down. Each stride was met with a crisscross of vines and lance, or of churned earth and fire frozen in place. Dimly, the chorus of church bells tolled and boomed, before they ceased with a noise like crashing thunder; a great many boulders and stones rolling and crashing as they were struck down and silenced by the clashing of wills in this place of dreams. Ash and dust blew out around him, his eyes peering from one unearthly form to the next.

"An' so this is what I find...lurking even in my own dreams. A group of mutants, demons and heretics, just waiting for the slaughter..." He gave a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "Suppose I should take it as a sign..." And a grin crept onto his face, the scent of bloodlust rising about the priest in a palpable cloud. "...slayin' your like is what I was born t'do."

[Weiss Schnee]

A demon, an old… enemy? Friend? Rival?... and a man of the church with a wild grin that somehow scared her more than either of them, as she looked back. The man raved of demons, mutants and heretics…

Weiss looked down at her own hand with a chilling realization, as she noticed the white, boney coating adorning her hands like some sick imitation of opera gloves. “I-I’m not a…” Weiss tried to defend herself, panic seeping into her brain as she realized just who he meant by “Demon.”.

No matter how she stuttered, though, she couldn’t find a retort to leave her lips. Hadn’t she just nearly vaporized Keldor out of convenience? And with the steadily racing, bone-white growth on her body…

The apostle’s stare felt hot, burning hot to Weiss as his eyes bored into her, as though daring her to make that false claim, and her throat felt dry and parched as she looked back. The man took another step forward, and the experienced huntress’s hand immediately drew her rapier, even as the Church-goer reached into his coat.

“Don’t come any closer.” Weiss growled in a reverberating, inhuman voice,  her widened eyes changing into a sharp glare in an instant.
She’d been beaten, stabbed, abused,imprisoned, twisted into a monster against her own will, and forced to live apart from the girl she loved, and after all of this, all of this, she’d still worked her hardest to fight for the happiness and safety of the people of the Omniverse. Even when she’d been forced to work with types like Skeletor and Kopaka, she’d kept true to her own morals, and saved an entire area of the world from Nebula’s corruption.

But because she was a ‘demon’, a damnation given unwillingly that was entirely unappreciated, this… bastard wanted to judge her?

The huntress’s vision turned red as she looked the man up and down, her rage increasing as the unfairness of the situation crushed into her. This one, and every single one before it. And for that matter, she was standing back to back with the man that had violently beaten her, left her broken and bloodied and lost, not so long ago. A being that needed no reason for meaningless violence.

No. She wasn’t in the wrong, here. It was clear as soon as someone took a step back. The tall, scarred man had just immediately judged her for what she was, and had already made up his mind about what to do. This Kuzuru was a freak only interested in slaughter, and Okor was just happy to see a chance to do battle again. All of them dangerous maniacs. All of them threats to the fragile society she’d just put her heart and soul into protecting.

Weiss was still a huntress… and it was still her job to eliminate these sorts of threats, with violent force, if necessary.

And right now? It felt pretty damn necessary.

A flash of silver shined to her right, and Weiss’s hand shot out, a small shard of red energy intercepting the bayonet in a brilliant explosion, as Weiss charged the older fighter, rapier in hand.

“Try it, then!”

[Okor]

Blades had been drawn, curses screamed, and battle joined.

In this way, the battle was much like any other.

However, in all his millennia of warfare, Okor had never engaged in battle within the very Aether.

He resolved to commit the experience to memory as the self-proclaimed Psychopath surged forward, a scowl etched across the demon’s fiendishly handsome face as blackened blades burst forth from pale and flawless skin, slick with too-dark blood. Deft footwork brought him in close as the Plague Marine’s mummified muscles slowly acted to bare his own defiled blade, the serrated shards of steel coating his foe’s skin surging towards his stomach.

Kuzuru’s crimson eyes opened wide in surprise a split-second before the skin tore itself apart, jagged fangs claggy with carrion gnashing, hungering for fresh flesh as tainted tendrils tore out from within, barbed lengths seeking to coil around the pre-corpse presented before them. Gagging on the stench of festering flesh emanating from the corrupted crusader, the Ashen Lord nonetheless raised his razor-edged limb, deft movements desecrating Okor’s ever-hungering guts as the hunter hand-sprung off the ground, momentum carrying him up and over his foe, rather than into his lethal embrace.

Carbon-black claws dug into the firmament of this unearthly realm as Kuzuru landed, turning and dropping low into an animalistic crouch, his touch tainting the fabric of unreality, leaving creation itself blackened and burning where his presence marred it.

“So,” the sadistic spirit said with a smile, “You’ve got tricks. Good. I was worried I’d be putting a corpse to rest.”

”Yes. I also have a gun,” Okor said, half-turning as he raised his Phosphex-loaded pistol. Bronze rounds coated with blue-green verdigris and inscribed with verses hand-carved onto the explosive shells. The rusted hammer clicked, a corroded cartridge ignited and sent screaming towards the sadist before him, oxidation flaking away as the rocket-propelled round burnt its way through the aether.

Grandfather, who rules in Chaos, harrowed be thy name.

The Demon was already dodging, lithe body layered with a bladed carapace buoyed by the rush of endorphins and adrenaline all combatants present had grown to love. A savage grin of too-sharp teeth split across Kuzuru’s face as his enhanced perception recognized that the bolt shell would harmlessly graze his perfect face.

He had but a split second to revel in his skill before the round exploded, an arsonistic aerosol engulfing the left side of his visage, pure, white, burning flame turning cartilage and pale skin to cinders. Kuzuru hissed in pain, wisely deciding to allow the fire to dissipate rather than attempt to suffocate it with his yet-unburned hand.

Both combatants were moving again, the surrounding dreamscape warping around the twisted psyches marching forth to do battle. Bloodied blades rose in the Ashen Lord’s wake, a ferrous forest of cruelly serrated edges and carmine dew upon life-ending leaves, iron and blood mingling in the atmosphere, seemingly suffusing every breath the participants took.

Okor answered with a tide of the unliving, the jaundiced bone and festering flesh leaping high, capering through the boughs of blades, rictus grins shattering themselves apart as they followed the sweeping motion of his blade, corroded edge splitting sable hair as it passed over his foe’s skull. Kuzuru responded with a series of rapid-fire jabs to Okor’s lower torso, shredding skin and dessicated flesh as the demon drifted past his festering form.

The pistol rose again, a bladed knee to Okor’s bare wrist pushing aside the alchemical abomination, the phosphex round screaming as it penetrated the ethereal crowds of corpses and carbon-edged copse.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, in this realm, and beyond.

The shell split apart, its perpetually burning payload erupting as a heavy blade adhered to his hunter’s forearm came down upon Okor’s forearm, ceramite splitting apart and malformed bones cracking as the blackened blade severed the limb. Tainted blood flowed from the amputation as Okor grunted, the triumphant smile upon the demon’s burnt face fading as the Chosen of Nurgle advanced rather than avoid further mutilation. A cruelly twisted blade erupted from his stump in a shimmering burst of Omnillium, tainted tendrils wrapping around the rusted iron as his maimed stump began to renew itself. Acidic emissions slid over the cursed cleaver, festering flesh sizzling beneath its touch.

”You have much to learn, Whelp,” he snarled, the ghouls behind him armed with Kuzuru’s assortment of phantasmal cleavers, what few still possessed a face bearing the blade-spirit’s rotting visage.

”A shame Nurgle’s embrace shall take you long before you have the opportunity,” Okor spat as he moved forth, a corrupted claw reaching out to wrap around his foe’s agile frame, while his plague-ridden prosthetic began an unrelenting journey towards Kuzuru’s toned stomach.

801 Words. 1 SP expended to use Septic Shiv. 6/7 SP remaining.

Injuries:
Kuzuru 'bout get shanked.
Kuzuru's had his right ear and some skin thoroughly torched.
Okor's lost his right forearm, but it'll regenerate in short order.
Okor's been ever-so-tenderly stabbed in the abdomen.
A stray phosphex round went over in the direction of Weiss and Andersen, if you wish to use that/

[Roger Smith]

Rather than words, the young huntress's demand was met only with a near silent, rasping chuckle and a teeth-baring grin. He didn't move forward to greet her charge, only shifted his posture to await her incoming attack. She met him with the full force of her momentum behind her, rapier leading the way. Lightning quick, several jabs poked and shredded at his frame, tearing holes and gashes in the cassock that signified his office. Blood poured freely and ran in thick streams, splattering the ashen ground; every drop spat forth growths of flowers and grasses, covered in thorns the dull gray of death.

And through it all, Alexander Anderson only let himself get pushed back, putting up a token defense to batter aside a particularly worrisome blow here and there.

"Why aren't you fighting back?!" the young huntress demanded, her voice mangled and distorted by the festering corruption that had taken root. "After that...that idiotic challenge, this is what you do?!" She hopped back, squaring off for another thrust of her blade, and this time the old man responded.

In a blur of movement, a streak of gray and white, his left arm came up, meeting the blade of the rapier with his bare hand. The weapon skewered through his palm, piercing it with a fountain of blood even as he pushed forward, driving the weapon into a deeper impalement, until his fingers closed around the intricate pommel. His glasses flashed, the glare of blue and silver light flickering and sputtering long enough to show his eyes. Wide, staring, manic, almost trembling in his wrath-filled glee. The sheer insanity in that gaze, of what he had just done, gave Weiss only a moment of pause. Just enough to startle and slow her, that the assassin of God was able to wrest her rapier from her grasp. Ripping it from her hands, still locked in his one-handed embrace. He had lost a hand, for now; she had lost her weapon.

His free hand shot forward, hand bared in a wide, grasping cast, seeking for her throat. But her senses returned in time for her to evade, ducking low under the swiping talons of his gloved hand. The words 'Jesus Christ is in Heaven', scrawled in a messy hand over an inscribed cross, flashed through her vision on the back of the glove. Then she struck on her own, a quick one-two strike with both hands right at the Paladin's midsection. Both blows hit full-on, resounding impacts that forced Anderson back a pace each. To a normal man it might have knocked the wind clean out of him, brought him low and ripe for a follow-up...it just forced a laugh out of Anderson.

His left arm hanging limp, still grasping the rapier impaled in his hand securely, he gave his right arm a flourish, producing one of his silver blades from within his sleeve, dropping into his grasp. It twirled, deftly, twisting into a reverse grip. "Yeh've got fire in yer heart, lass..." He finally spoke, before lurching forward into a quick swipe of his newly-brandished blade. "...it's a pity yer condition. Fallen so far as ye have...an' through no fault o' yer own!" he hissed, the bayonet streaking through a quick arc. The young huntress ducked the blow, both hands issuing a red glow as she prepared her own counter.

She was interrupted by the holy man spinning with the momentum of his missed slash, drawing his leg up into a kick. It caught her full in the side, crashing against an arm and smashing it into her ribs, leaving her to topple over and roll along the ground. She was rattled, but not knocked senseless, and managed to recover in time to flip up and away from the point of a blade burying itself in the constantly-shifting dreamscape, where her head had been laying just an instant before.

"If you know it's not my fault, then why are you judging me for it?!" she snapped, immediately bolting back for him. It was a crazed, feral lunge, and she leaped forward, one hand smashing against the larger man's face, the other surging forward to deliver a bolt of that same red energy for a follow up, leaving him to stagger back, head shrouded in smoke, and topple to the ground. Without missing a beat, she was after him, reaching down to rip her rapier from his twitching hand.

She paid for it by finding her weapon arm grasped in his now freed hand. Blood-slicked fingers made for an unsteady, slippery grasp, but it was enough to hold her fast for the split-second he needed to regain his feet. His glasses, one lens smashed, now sat askew on his face. "Why?" he repeated. "Why do I judge ye?!" He laughed, a crazed noise from somewhere deep in his chest. "Because it is MY MISSION!" And he lurched forward, his forehead colliding with hers to drive her down, sending her stumbling and staggering, releasing her from his grasp to take hold of another of his blessed blades in his mangled hand. "Regardless of its source, whatever the host it takes root in, filth the likes of which claws at your soul will be rooted out and crushed, until it is nothing more than dust and ash!"

Both blades spun and twirled in his hands, as he raked them over one another. A shower of sparks fell to the ground as he advanced, casting his face into shadow from the flickering light. "It has been handed down, by His almighty decree; and so it shall be done!" His face split into a deranged grin, teeth bared in a wordless, silent snarl. "AAAAAAAAAAMEN!"

And he struck, both blades sweeping in from either side, like the maw of a beast, clamoring for her flesh; to remove her head from where it sat, in one fell swoop.

Word Count: 980 (according to wordcounter.net)
Weiss used Myrtenaster to tear Anderson up; he Survival'd through it and then ripped it out of her hand
Anderson and Weiss traded some blows and melee combat for a bit
Weiss got ANGERY and delivered a Bala to Anderson's face to get her sword back
Anderson unleashed his inner religion powers to go for a counter

[Kuzuru]

Danger whistled through the air as Kuzuru backpedaled. His eyes caught sight of Okor’s blade careening towards his exposed torso. The prophet’s elephantine frame surged forth like a freight train. A mistake had been made and the demon was to be gutted for it. Overzealous in his pursuit of bloodshed Kuzuru had left his tender innards exposed like an amateur. He clenched his teeth and locked eyes with the charging leviathan. Maliciousness oozed forth from the demon’s countenance and mixed with an underlying sense of lethality that pierced through the plague champion’s body in a way that no corporeal spike ever could. Was this weakness a feint? Okor’s addled brain raced. No, and even if it was what was there to fear? A surprised sound choked out from behind the paladin’s helmet and he broke the assault. Kuzuru used this sudden moment of trepidation to scramble to safety several feet away.

“So!” Kuzuru shouted, scraping his blades against one another, “there is fear in that festering thing you call a heart!”

Okor quickly regained his composure and responded, “you have nothing more… than petty tricks.”

Kuzuru wagged his finger at his opponent, “ah, but which is worse? Being a petty trickster or actually falling for his tricks?”

In response Okor raised his bolt pistol and squeezed the trigger. The rust-covered machine barked and launched an irradiated slug through the air. Kuzuru raised his blades in an “X” formation and braced for impact. Shards of black iron were sent tumbling through the air as the phosphex round slammed into Kuzuru’s defense. The force of impact shattered his blades and blasted his chest with both shrapnel and the infernal payload of Okor’s insidious weaponry. Kuzuru howled in agony and thrashed about as the burning napalm-like gel ate through his shirt and chewed away his bare flesh. Another round whistled past him, decimating one of the countless wraiths that surrounded them. The demon stumbled and tore away his shirt, trying to wipe away the searing liquid. As the pain faded Kuzuru stood tall, revealing the horrid wounds that had been splattered across his chest.

“That shit hurts,” Kuzuru noted through clenched teeth, “honestly I’m not even that cruel.”

What remained of his blades were nothing more than jagged iron teeth traced along his forearms. These shattered chompers shuddered and slithered back into his flesh, leaving behind a barely visible seam. Behind Kuzuru the wraiths howled and cackled in manic excitement, the tempo of their cries reaching a harrowing climax. In this sea of spirits a massive wooden structure emerged. The ground trembled as this wooden leviathan ruptured the earth and crawled towards the heavens. It was simple in construction, two wooden posts connected at the top by a wooden beam with a braided rope looped through a hole in the center. The spirits grabbed at this rope, pulling it tight and raising the guillotine's massive blade. Barbed wire sprouted like vines, twisting itself along the wooden posts and climbing up to the top. As the blade reached its apex Kuzuru’s arm shuddered and fell limp. A slit appeared across his forearm and from this slit sprouted a singular edged blade. This cleaver forced his arm to hang limp as the weight made lifting it for any length of time more trouble than it was worth.

“Are you ready Paleblood?” Kuzuru exclaimed, “I’m taking your head!”

With that declaration the rope was released and the gargantuan blade made its meteoric descent. Kuzuru rushed forth as the guillotine obliterated thousands of lost souls. Okor, in an attempt to stymie the charge, threw a blight grenade at the rapidly approaching demon. Using the momentum of his bullrush Kuzuru spun, swinging the dead weight of his bladed arm through the air. The broad side of his weapon swatted away the grenade and sent its wicked payload tumbling towards Weiss and Anderson. There was no loss of forward progression and the demon still rocketed forth. Okor braced for impact, raising his blade to meet the incoming butcher. The horrible contradiction of blade meeting blade screeched across the battlefield. Kuzuru’s guillotine shoved away Okor’s sword and the demon moved to strike again.

“Tell me,” Kuzuru screamed as he swung for Okor’s torso, “why do you fight!?”

The cleaver slammed into Okor’s gangrenous rib cage, burying itself an inch or two before it was pried loose.

“For fame? For fortune?” Kuzuru’s bellowed, “what makes you tick Paleblood?”

The demon swung for Okor’s head, but the plagued hierophant shifted his weight and absorbed the blow with his shoulder. Metal sheared through ceramite as the guillotine sunk into its victim. Kuzuru tried to free his weapon, but the angle twisted his arm and made dislodging it a difficult proposition. Okor, taking advantage of this lapse in violence swung a fist towards the demon’s ribcage. The demon grunted in pain as Okor hammered away at his abdomen. Kuzuru finally wrenched his weapon free, leaving behind a wedge-shaped gash along the paladin’s pauldron. Despite the cracked ribs in his chest the demon did not dare to stop his assault

“Answer me!” Kuzuru shouted as his weapon was once more deflected, “is it for some noble cause? Or some selfish notion? What separates you from me!?”

For a moment the clash was broken. Kuzuru was left panting, sweating, and covered in a virulent cocktail. Gaping furrows had been carved into the stalwart and implacable frame of Okor Paleblood, not that he paid them any mind. Kuzuru smiled and raised his free hand.

“I know what it is,” Kuzuru said, his voice hoarse from strain, “I don’t have a choice, but you...”

A thin black spike erupted from the center of Kuzuru’s palm. This spike rocketed towards the plague champion, expanding in both diameter and length as it breached Kuzuru’s flesh.

“You’re just too stupid to keel over and die.”

Kuzuru used “Menace” on Okor and is unable to use it on him again.
Kuzuru used “Battle Trance” to deflect Okor’s grenade.
Popping my tier 2 super attack “Demon Spear” and targeting plagueboy

3/5 SP Remaining

[Weiss Schnee]

The battlefield was already covered in more blood and discarded weapons than any skirmish had a right to create, more than anyone would expect from a battle between two people. Amongst the blood and muck, thorns grew, feeding on the fallen blood of the deranged priest, the solemn vegetation creating a living picture frame, with the silver figure of the grinning priest, and his shining blades, as its sole subjects.

The corrupted huntress rolled back just in time, flipping towards the ground just as Anderson’s blades would have cut through her all-too-vulnerable neck, and grabbing hard into the mud. The huntress’s white outfit was covered in brown and red as she got back up. Rubbing the blood from her cheek, she realized her dodge wasn’t quite as good as she’d thought.

She’d fought through much worse. And she’d never felt so ready to do so, even as Anderson’s merciless assault continued with gusto. Weiss blocked a flurry of slashes and stabs, the larger man using reach and raw power to keep Weiss from returning any of the harsh blows, driving her back. The Schnee heiress jumped back blindly, and that proved to be a mistake, for she was stopped by a mass of brambles and thorns catching her and bouncing her back like gruesome strips of barbed wire. Weiss spared only a half second to look back, as she noticed the brambles had grown into a gruesome cage around them, leaving her no more room to run. Even the ground itself had grown to reflect Anderson’s twisted vision, as the blood and filth from the battlefield was consumed in favor of twisted brambles and the smooth stone of a cathedral.

Anderson was quick to notice the sudden, unintentional advantage Weiss’s failed flight had given him, and the corrupted huntress had barely managed to get back on her feet before the silver trails of a bayonet flurry threatened to cut her to ribbons. Myrtenaster’s blade flashed, blocking the bayonets she couldn’t dodge, but the new cuts she had along the side of her legs, and the very deep, bleeding gash to her shoulder showed her own trailing stamina.

She saw Anderson barreling in right afterwards, and for half a second, she considered just letting this end here… within a minute of fighting this crazed priest, everything already hurt.
Then, her anger finally had time to kick in, and she brought her blade back up with a sharp glare.

“Don’t feed me that!” Weiss snapped. “All I’ve heard since I've got here are people telling me how who they are or what someone else is justifies their actions! And you know what? I have a job too!”

Weiss slammed Myrtenaster forward, throwing her weight into a harsh lunge that caught Anderson’s chest mid-charge. The regenerator attempted to step forward, opening his mouth to say something, but he had failed to notice the crimson glow wrapping the blade. The flame dust exploded, and the father’s massive frame was launched back a distance twice his considerable height.

“I’ve had to kill people for the sake of it. I’m a huntress. The first line of defence.”

Weiss punctuated the shrieking with a quick quartet of slashes, firing streaking, curving bullets of ice at the Reverend’s sides before he had time to catch his breath. His bayonets flashed in his hands, blocking the strikes, but Weiss used the time he spent blocking the ice shots from his left and right to fire a small, red bolt of energy down the middle, catching him by surprise and sending him back into the mud.

Anderson wasn’t about to let this one stop him, though, springing back up before Weiss could say a word. A larger bayonet glittered with whatever passed for sunlight in this dream realm, and recognizing this weapon from earlier, Weiss’s outline blurred as she rushed the burly vampire hunter before he had a chance to throw the blade. Myrtenaster glowed with a faint yellow aura as she parried the exploding bayonet with a blast of sound dust, the vibrations destabilizing the sensitive explosives and causing the blade to explode in Anderson’s hand.

The brambles around them turned cold as a chill wind formed around them, the thorns starting to wilt as the smooth stone that was formed around their circle started to freeze over with ice.


“I never once enjoyed it. I did my duty solemnly, respectfully. You’re enjoying this.” Weiss spat, thrusting Myrtenaster towards Anderson’s head. The larger man, despite the recent attacks, caught the weapon with his palm in a scene reminiscent of earlier.

Weiss wasn’t caught off-guard this time, though, and she’d had a lot of time since her battle with Okor to think about how to deal with regenerators. Setting one hand on the back of the pommel, she pushed and twisted her blade downwards, stabbing it - along with Alexander Anderson’s palm - into the earth beneath them, forcefully dragging the man to the ground.

“Hurting someone, even someone like you? I’m not having fun doing this. This is torture someone as twisted as you couldn’t understand!”

Weiss couldn’t help but growl lightly, as she smashed his grizzled face with a knee, rocking the man for just a couple seconds. She was mildly surprised to see his glasses refuse to break after that.

The brambles around them began to collapse under their own weight, and the weight of the ice forming on them, transforming from a wall of brilliant thorns to an icy field of crystallized flowers.

The huntress held up a hand, a globe of red energy forming in front of his hands.

“So I’m going to finish this stupid, meaningless battle as quickly as humanly possible.”

Weiss’s voice crept to a lower tone, as her tirade ended.

“Cero.”

With one word, the orb expanded to a crimson blaze, bathing the spot where Anderson had been with a cylindrical blast of burning energy.

Wordcount: 993 according to wordcounter.net.
Weiss gets a bunch of cuts from Anderson doing the stabby stabby and the slashy slashy with his pointy pointies
She also falls in some brambles because she doesn't watch where she's going and has a pretty serious gash due to skipping her knife safety courses.
Anderson failed to remember which part was the pointy one and got stabbed, and then gets sent back really far because red means stop.
He then gets slapped in the face with a stop sign bullet, gets stabbed in the hand because of his religious belief that getting stabbed in the palm is A-ok.
He was informed it was not okay by getting his hand attached firmly to the ground and then getting a big blast of Spanish language to the face.

[Roger Smith]

For a brief moment, the vision of God's Executioner was filled with a baleful red glow, and his entire body wreathed in a halo of agony. His hand, pinned to the ground by the Huntress's blade, was ripped free of its impalement with a splattering of blood to send him toppling back, flopping and tumbling end over end to land in a smoking, scorched heap.

He drew in a shuddering breath, his entire body quaking, before all at once he lurched up. Rising from prone, to his knees, and leaping back to his feet. His glasses had been vaporized in the blast, his front side bloodied and his clothing torn and scorched. Only the cross hanging about his neck remained miraculously unblemished, gleaming a pale gold. His breathing was heavy, labored, and rattling as he stared listlessly dead ahead. In his brief moment of pain and agony, laying upon the ground, Weiss had disappeared. Elsewhere, into the fray, no doubt.

His eyes slowly roved over the scene, settling upon the other combatants. The hulking, diseased abomination and the thrice-damned demon. A demon of blades, blood and violence fighting a creature of disease, death and decay. There was a twisted sort of irony to it, that brought a wry grimace to the Paladin's face. He sucked in a breath, baring bloodied teeth as he flourished his left arm, drawing one of his exploding blades, and hurled it at the demon even as a spear erupting from his palm skewered the plagued behemoth to great effect. The distraction served to great effect, as the blade nearly hit home; the silver weapon sliced a neat gash across the ribs of the demon, impaling itself into the earth between the hellish combatants.

Immediately, the weapon's hilt expanded, the pommel blasting off as smoke and a red glare of light issued forth. With barely a moment's delay, the blade shattered as explosives in the hilt went off with a noise like thunder. A deafening boom and a hail of silvery shrapnel pelted everything within a dozen feet of the blade, leaving the site scorched and cratered. Wherever a shard of the weapon struck the ground, flowers and thorns sprang up, silvery marble spreading between them.

Anderson himself was swift behind the blast, his eyes set and narrowed in a predatory cast. His mangled right hand, broken and cut nearly in half, hung limply at his side, already on the mend but still mostly useless. His left had already drawn another of his blades, holding it at the ready. Through the haze and the smoke, he strode swiftly, blood dripping from his wounds. Each drop left a new growth of thorned, deadly plants in his wake, writhing and squirming for blood, thick clouds of ash and dust drifting from their leaves like pollen. It cast a shroud of silver and gray about him, and his eyes seem to glow, the gentle green iris ringed with an unearthly, pale flare of silvery-blue light.

The demon was the one to meet him first, flashing out of the haze with blades sprouting from each arm and bore down on the holy man with a frenzy of strikes. "No idea what your deal is, old man," he started, his lips curled into a smirk. "And I hate to be the one to break it to ya, but church is out." Under his swift blows, Anderson was hard-pressed to do more than mount a defense, one blade trying to contend with two. He held out for a while, dodging and ducking, weaving this way and that around strikes, deflecting them here and there, but still he received his fair share of glancing wounds, adding new tears and bloody splatters to his body and the ground on which they performed their deadly bladed dance.

Until all at once, the silver bayonet cracked. Kuzuru chortled in open amusement. "Shoddy weapons ya got there, eh?" And another parried blow shattered the weapon entirely, sending shards and splinters of the blessed metal raining down. "Tough luck, pal!" the demon snarled, as he lunged in for further punishment.

"Hold yer vile words, demon." Anderson's voice was cold and sharp as steel. He shot forward, meeting the hellspawn's charge with his own. His mangled hand burst forward in a blur of gray, the fingers trembling with the barely working nerves grasping wildly, madly, for the demon's throat. Kuzuru, taken somewhat aback by the sudden lunge, tried to backpedal, to line up for a more solid strike. The grasping fingers found only the collar of a soiled shirt, latching on with an iron grip, as Anderson threw himself forward, striking with a vicious headbutt, carrying the both of them down to the ground. A wordless roar, silver blazing in his eyes, Anderson struck out with his mostly intact hand, left arm striking repeatedly. Up and down, like a hammer, pounding and crashing against flesh and bone, grime and soil, marble and ash.

Fresh blood soon stained the already soiled white glove, the words scrawled on its back lost under crimson splotches. Ragged breaths desperately tried to fill lungs burning from exerting through so many injuries suffered so quickly, and still Anderson didn't slow down. Not until a blade pierced his arm, and a boot crashed into his side, throwing him off. He rolled in the ash and dirt of the field, the blood and grime of a war, and the rust and sludge of ages. He tumbled and rolled, springing back up to his feet in a feral crouch. "I'll not listen tae the likes o' you speak and blather at me," he spat. "I'll have that tongue ripped from yer damnable head before another word leaves you!"

With an arrogant smirk, the demon squared off his stance, wiping the stray muck and grime from his lips. "Another word," he sing-songed, his eyes lighting up at the sheer rage that flashed across the holy man's face.

988 words, according to wordcounter.net

Anderson interrupted Kuzuru and Okor's fight, then dove right into melee combat with Kuzuru. Traded blows on both sides with blades and fists, bloody and ugly chaos.

[Okor]

The sanguine-slick steel spear shot out from the swordsman’s palm, its length sinking deep into Okor’s shoulder as he charged forward, its point tearing through his flesh and bone as momentum carried him onwards, an equal participant in this brutal skewering. Bone cracked beneath its tainted tip, a roar of rage echoing over the ephemeral plains as the rampaging revenant’s right arm was torn apart, flaps of festering flesh fluttering in the astral breeze as the Plague Marine continued his inexorable advance. Shattered fragments of his skeleton were left to sizzle and hiss against the ‘earth’ beneath the dreamers, his internal chemistry dangerously volatile. A fetid fist raised high to deliver a fitting response found nothing as a swarm of silvered blades flew into their battle, finding a new home in both his own and Kuzuru’s flesh as a new challenger appeared.

A word came from the cossack-clad Priest’s lips, curled in hatred and rage. Demon.

A gurgling laugh blossomed forth from the depths of his ruined respiratory system, blade and boot lashing out to drive the latest challenger back. Had this realm truly accustomed him so deeply to such strange powers that he could no longer recognize a Demon? For a brief moment, he stood side by side with his hunter, acidic blood dripping from his wounds, a crimson eye filled with an equal mixture of mirth, cataracts, and parasites staring down at Kuzuru. ”You want to know why I fight, you who would name themself, Daemon? You, who is wise enough to seal the fortress of your mind?”

Okor’s form bubbled and warped, shifting and changing in unnatural means, a roiling mass of muscle and flesh as he reformed himself before their eyes, mouldering muscle turning crimson and filled with life as he sought another shell with which to continue his eternal war.

He stood before them, renewed and remade, his right arm severed at the shoulder, the flow of blood having long since ceased thanks to a post-human physiology. His bolter was raised high in the other fist, its blocky form cleansed of verdigris, an eagle clutching a bow and arrows adorning its flank. ”To Conquer. To save every soul in this cursed realm from Omni’s scourge.”

A thrown bayonet lodged itself in his armoured gut, the pearlescent white armour only allowing it the slightest penetration before it detonated, subsuming the now-noble warrior in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel.

He emerged, his warplate blackened and his bolter spitting death, hot brass casings falling to the earth beneath as cobblestones erected themselves under his tread. A shell burrowed through the Demon’s thigh, the slim figure of the sword-spirit permitting it no place to rest as it detonated behind him, the impact sending him stumbling forward into a haymaker punch wrapped around the hilt of a bayonet. Another blade was destined for the warrior’s throat, only for the piercing blow to be knocked aside with the unmistakable ring of steel against silver.

A ruinous blade, red runes adorning its ebon length, was clutched in a Demon’s claw. One arm was a wispy construct of shadow, but everything else was all too real: A black carapace, a fire-forged eye hungering for their souls, the smell of brimstone permeating the atmosphere. It spoke, growling as reality reverberated around its unhallowed form, blackened bones bursting forth from the ravaged earth, macabre constructs of charred remains raising themselves further to the heavens. ”To kill. To feel the blood run over my claws, and to hear bones break beneath my touch.”

The newly minted monstrosity lunged forwards, crimson cleaver sliding beneath Anderson’s guard, slicing into the flesh of his forearm, a greave striking out and hooking around Kuzuru’s ankle, dragging him to the earth as the true Demon continued his duel. The holy man was on the back foot now, slowly retreating before the bloodlust and fury he was faced with, each bone-shattering impact of blade against bayonet cracking bones and sending pain lancing up the priest’s arms. A blade was clutched in his off-hand, prepared for its journey into the beast’s breast, only for a strike from the shadowy limb to obscure Anderson’s vision, a flick of his fingers sending it sailing into a pauldron in its place.

A guillotine-like blade cleaved through the Demon from behind, Kuzuru’s face strained with pain and exertion staring down the priest as halves of their mutual foe turned to shadow, coalescing into a singular, small form.

A child, prepubescent, stood before the priest, black locks hanging over a sweat-soaked brow, Hazel eyes filled with fear and determination, a simple, well-worn sickle clutched in his hand, while his right arm, shredded by the gentle caress of claws, hung limp at his side. He spoke, stumbling forward as he raised the farming implement, defiance on his lips as he moved. ”To survive, for this is my life, and none shall take it from me.”

A contemptuous snarl came from Kuzuru, answering this show of defiance with a spray of sable shards. The youngling fell, desperation and hate still etched on his face.

The freshly-forged carrion collapsed into a primordial soup, burning the aether beneath for a brief moment before a hulking form arose from the nothingness.

Okor stood, resplendent in rot. He rose his rusted cleaver in challenge, the parted flesh of his arm oh-so-slowly knitting itself back together as he readied himself for further violence.

”To end this twisted excuse for an existence.”

935 Words. 2 SP used to activate Battle Trance for the Round. 4/7 SP remaining.

Current stats are 6/6/2/5.
Kuzuru got a gunshot, withsome shrapnel to the thigh, as well as the moral implications of killing lil' Okor.
Andersen got some fractures and cuts to his arms.
Okor's got a currently useless right arm, and some stabbing.
Weiss is presumably about to stab us all horribly.

[Weiss Schnee]

Myrtenaster’s blade was embedded firmly in the ground, as Weiss took the seconds of time she’d obtained between opponents to regain some energy. This was all…
Meaningless. All of it. These people didn’t fight to save someone, or to protect something they held dear, and she knew self-preservation wasn’t on the minds of the others.
This was bloodlust and hatred and a simple love of violence and death, a tapestry of violence, and she’d been forcibly stitched into the cloth. Her hands clasped around the hilt of her blade, partly out of frustration at this turn of events.

Weiss pulled the blade from the ground as she addressed the other problem.
The bayonet from behind was met with the tip of her silver rapier, sending the weapon into a spin. The huntress grabbed the blade, as she turned, hooking the weapon into the links of the chain blade behind her. Kuzuru stood behind it with a simple, pointed grin.

The bayonet was yanked from the huntress’s grasp, and Weiss was forced to block a savage blade manifesting directly from his arm. The weapon stopped just short of piercing through her heart.
“Well, you’re not important enough to be on my list, but I’ve got no problem taking your head anyways, ice queen.”

“Shut up.” Weiss snapped, her voice reverberating as she spoke, her free hand brushing across her face. Ebon energy swirled from her hand like ink from a painter’s brush, putting the finishing touches on a grisly mask of bones and teeth. Anderson, she could understand. Okor, she respected. But this grinning barbarian? He’d started this fight for nothing but his own entertainment.

“You are the most vile person I’ve met since I entered the omniverse.”

The furious huntress slowly broke the deadlock, pushing his blade away with a grunt. She followed up with a heavy kick to the stomach, sending the Ashen Blades’ leader back into the dirt half a dozen feet away.

The demon would have to wait, though, as she turned to see Anderson’s angered glare - and a pair of glittering blades. Weiss’s blade rushed to meet Anderson’s bayonets, silver on silver.
Before the melee could continue, both warriors were caught off guard by a pair of shots from behind. Weiss’s nerves were slightly deadened by her hollowfication, and it was only that factor that stopped her from collapsing to the ground. A gasp was all her lungs could manage as she once again felt the agony of burning phosphex.

Weiss stumbled back a couple steps at the feeling, and even Anderson’s face seemed to curl up into a wince as the pair of shots burned. A combination of the sound of metal clanking against bone, her own senses, and Anderson’s expression coming as close as she’d seen to concern was what motivated Weiss to jump back as far as possible, crossing a dozen feet in a single bound.

Had she done so a second later, she would have felt worse pain in the midst of Okor’s blight grenade.

She turned quickly to see the plague marine, firing at another opponent with the last of his phosphex. At this moment, it didn’t matter who. His movements were faster, his technique noticeably more pronounced than the last time they’d crossed blades. They locked visored eyes from across the battlefield, and for just a second, the two stared one another down.

The glare Weiss had held since the beginning of this battle softened as she stared at the mask that kept Okors face an enigma. The battle was unavoidable, but Weiss knew there was no enmity between either of them. Merely the grim understanding of their purpose in this circus of butchers.

Weiss tensed. The marine switched to his automatic bolter and opened fire. The huntress dodged the bullets reflexively, slowly, patiently waiting on the hail of ammunition to start to run dry. She still remembered the trauma and pain of their last battle in the Colosseum. In the day, she cursed all the things she could have done differently. In the night? She saw every detail again in her worst nightmares, reliving the pain over and over.

As she dodged through the swarm though, she remembered one important thing from that fatal confrontation:

The number of bullets in his clips.

Weiss wasted no time, dashing forward just as the twenty third bullet zipped through the air. The hunter rolled under the last shot, before coming up with one hand pointed forward. The plague marine had not seen this ability of hers before, and the brief hesitation she saw in his form reflected that as she charged her cero to full power. The energy raked and clawed at the outer outlines of Okor’s form, and for the first time ever, she saw him raise his armored gauntlets to weather an attack.

Before he had time to recover, Weiss charged, striking with a harsh stab to the front of his armor, piercing through the ancient metal with an explosive burst of flame dust.

A hail of strikes from every angle immediately followed, as Weiss exploited every single seam and crack she could find in her opponent’s armor. The death guard’s parries were skillful, but Weiss’s speed was overwhelming. It was also burning away what little stamina Weiss had held onto, and the huntress knew she was about to gas out. Instead of trying to prolong the confrontation, Weiss threw Myrtenaster to the side, and the blade embedded itself into the solid rock of a nearby boulder. The movement caught Okor’s attention just long enough for Weiss to jump back, channeling all the anger and fear she’d felt in their last battle into her palms. The emotions came back freely, and turned to unholy power, wrapping around her hands with a soft crimson light.

The hollowfied huntress released that energy with a hail of punches towards Okor, each jab throwing a blast of solid energy directly at Okor’s helm in a fierce barrage of destructive force.

wordcount: 997 words according to wordcounter.net
*breathes in*
Summary:
Weiss ends up in the middle of a brutal melee between Anderson and Renji. She ends up using her T1 power-up: "An Ivory visor" to hollowfy and buff up.
She then kicks Renji away, gets into a bit of a spat with anderson, before taking a phosphex round to the back from Okor and fighting her hardest to beat back
She then dodges a bunch of bullets before slapping Okor around a bunch, and is now utterly exhausted until she takes some time due to using the barrage form of her "Bala" move.

[Kuzuru]

Kuzuru groaned and rubbed his gut, “helluva kick on girly.”

For a while the sword-spirit laid in the dirt, his adversaries preoccupied with one another. Even though his brain was absolutely flooded with endorphins his painfully human body cried out for respite. Blood, slick and warm, soaked through his pants where Okor’s phosphex round had pierced through his thigh. Despite this fresh agony he grinned, and how could he not? This was truly a gift from Omni himself, a clash filled with the greatest of fighters. Kuzuru reached for the wound, and clamped his hand tight around it. This pain was exquisite. This was everything the demon had hoped for. He slipped a finger into the open wound and picked at it. Once his hand was saturated with blood the demon sat up and held the dripping mitt in front of his face. He grinned. In an act of debauchery fit only for the depraved the demon smeared this bloody paw along his face, lapping at the copper liquid as he did. He inhaled deeply and shivered at the heady crimson scent. Ecstasy was too poor a word for what he felt in that moment.

He stood, so did thousands of consumed souls. Warriors from every period in history were called forth to be Kuzuru’s unwilling conscripts. An eternity of combat experience flooded the demon’s mind. Slaughter pumped in his veins and carnage thrummed at the back of his skull. He charged across the ephemeral landscape with a sloppy off-kilter gait, still adjusting to the wound in his leg.. As he charged so did his begrudging sycophants, their war cries an unnatural byproduct of this dreamland. Covered in blood and with a fresh set of blades the demon charged towards his target. Okor was old news and the priest was more obnoxious than anything, but the hollowfied was fresh and exciting and he wanted nothing more than to eviscerate her. Weiss was preoccupied with pummeling the plagued paladin and keeping the pernicious preacher at bay that she hadn’t even noticed the approaching storm of blades until it was practically on top of her.

To her credit, in that half second of realization, Weiss managed to raise her weapon and redirect the majority of Kuzuru’s charge. Even still the pure force of impact sent her stumbling backwards scrambling to cobble together what defense she could. Blade danced with blade and, despite her rapier’s stature, she managed to contend with the flurry of black iron being leveled against her. Bloody faced and grinning Kuzuru refused to relent. A counterattack slipped past his guard and cut a thin red line across his burnt shoulder. This sudden and sharp pain only spurred him on to greater acts of butchery. His eyes went wide as the dust cylinder rotated and chambered its cherry red payload. There was no chance to react as Weiss once again slipped through his guard and tagged him with the tip of her weapon. The demon was sent reeling as the flame dust erupted, forcing him back several feet with its concussive blast. With the momentum killed the two stood panting, waiting for the other to make a move.

“Come on now,” Kuzuru said, throwing his hands out to the side, “you can’t tell me you’re not enjoying this.”

“You’re disgusting,” Weiss’s voice reverberated through her mask.

Kuzuru smiled and licked his bloody lips.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

The demon chuckled and continued, “do you hate the wolf for devouring the lamb? It must eat or it will die, surely you can’t fault it for following the natural order of things?”

Weiss did not answer.

“So then why do you hate me for simply doing what I am compelled by nature to do?” Kuzuru asked.

“You, you started this,” Weiss spit venom through her mask, “you chose to fight, you chose to attack us, you’re not fighting to feed yourself, you’re fighting because you get off on it, and it is revolting.”

Kuzuru frowned and retracted his blades. A slit opened up in his right palm and from this lipless mouth unspooled a weighted chain of black iron.

“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said, his once-fevered voice now emotionless, “I didn’t have a choice, I never have a choice, I am humanity’s violence, I am every act of bloodshed, and so long as humanity draws blood so shall I.”

With that said Kuzuru began to spin the chain high above his head, picking up momentum with every rotation. In response the hollowfiend raised her palm and channeled a wicked orb of blood red energy. The demon smiled as his chain became a unified blur and in an instant flicked his wrist towards her. The weighted cylinder at the end of Kuzuru’s weapon snapped across the battlefield, taking a wide arc. Horrible and visceral the sound of solid metal colliding with flesh and bone squelched across the battlefield. Weiss’s hand was mashed as the weighted cylinder slammed into it. Her cero disintegrated and fizzled as her fractured hand fell to her side. Weiss yelped in pain, but raised her rapier in defense. Kuzuru’s body twisted and strained as he brought the chain back around for another pass. This time he aimed for her head. Much to the demon’s surprised she stepped into the blow, catching it with Myretenaster and releasing a burst of sound dust into the iron weapon. Vibrations traveled down the chain at breakneck speed, grounding it and forcing it to rattling and shiver like a dying serpent. These pulsations propagated into the demon’s arm and he clenched his teeth at the horrendous sensation. With sloppy movements he tried to bring the chain back up to speed, but his half numb limb refused to cooperate.

“Enough of this,” Weiss shouted, pointing her weapon at him, “this is going to end now!”

Kuzuru’s smile returned, “go ahead and try girly.”

Using "Strength of the Damned" for the round. Kuzuru's new statline
ATK - 6
DEF - 1
SPD - 4
TEC - 4

1/5 SP remaining

[Okor]

The sepulchral soldier staggered, arcing bolts of scarlet energy coruscating off of his corroded helmet, cracks carving themselves across the steel surface. He drew a ragged breath as ferrous flakes began to fall from the crumbling carapace, baring pale, mummified flesh, coated in scars and sacrilegious runes seemingly forming naturally upon his hideous hide. A blackened bush of hair clung stubbornly to his chin, stained with blood, pus, and stranger, framing a crooked maw filled with jagged fangs, a single, crimson eye glaring outwards from beneath a cracked horn rising from his forehead.

”I’ve been doing this all wrong," he spoke with a twisted grin, envenomed spittle flying from his festering maw. A choir of angels descended with the priest, the silvered gleam of his blades descending upon him as saintly spirits sang the praises of the coming of the lord. A knife sunk into his neck, tearing apart desiccated flesh and loosing a thick sludge that passed for his sanguinary fluids.

His corroded blade rose up to meet another knife seeking his heart, strength and skill earned over millennia of murder on a level far above the crusader’s own, the clash of blades sending the bayonet bouncing away from his gloved fist. Weakness and blood was on the wind, calling him forward, driving a knee into Anderson’s gut as he advanced.

”This is not a battle of blades,” he pronounced as discord entered the heavenly choir. Divine voices became twisted and warped, the harmony they once possessed turning to Chaos as warp-spawned sibyls sung the praises of rot and decay. He swatted away a thrown blade with his arm, still split in twain, the bayonet detonating in the distance.

”It is one of wills,” came the decree, raising his cleaver hide over his head, preparing to deliver the killing stroke to the priest as God’s Assassin stumbled backwards. The descending blade was knocked aside, an iron chain lashing out and knocking it aside, sending its edge sinking into the aether, its soul-forged surface blackening beneath his touch.

“Yeah, yeah, will you ever shut up?” Spoke the Demon, a mocking smile plastered over his face, the joy of battle struggling to overcome the pain and fatigue inflicted upon him. Weiss’ rapier lashed out, taking advantage of his distraction and slicing through his flank, Myrtenaster
shedding his dark blood.

”In time,” he said, raising his arm to absorb the priest’s counter-strike, unhallowed blood sizzling against the blessed blade as it bit deep into his split arm. Gnarled roots began to burst through the earth, thorned, tentacular abominations rising up from the depths, seeking to ensnare the combatants.

”Look upon this world,” he snarled, shards of ice flung towards him by the Huntress shattering against his armour, splinters of frost digging deep into his mummified flesh. Weeds and thorns continued to flourish, choking out all vision as life run rampant claimed this realm.

Okor stalked through the spectral plants, the stuff of dreams wrapping around around the battlefield, isolating his prey as they bared their blades, watching the walls of ethereal flora for their foe.

”It is irreparable,” came an echoing call from within the burgeoning forest, vines creeping up the gnarled plant life. The silence and stillness did not last long, the pestilential paladin’s armoured form crashing through the overgrown undergrowth, a malachite-forged machete cleaving down towards Schnee, the fencer already throwing herself to the side to dodge the murderous stroke.

”Every weak, corrupt soul is permitted to flourish, without a True End to prune the unworthy from existence,” he shouted out across the aether-wrought jungle, blade cutting away rapidly-regenerating vegetation as claws coated with liquid corruption sought out the huntress’s flesh.

”The Garden is choked with weeds, and those rare few who bear fruit are strangled by the creepers and forgotten amongst the empty beauty of flowers,” Okor declared as demonic blades skewered him from behind, Kuzuru gagging as tainted blood overwhelmed his unnatural senses.

”It must end! This parody of life must be reduced to naught but ash, and in the silence of the aftermath, we will find our peace!” He cried out, raising his arms to the absent heavens, a shining grin looking down from on high as an unnatural heat began to rise from beneath, an emotion residing somewhere between the depths of fever and religious fervour spreading across his visage.

Bladed limbs ground their way through his guts, as a look of dawning comprehension and horror came over the heiress’s face.

Flames began to burn, astral fires turning the rampant growth to cinders and charred husks, illusory flame and smoke rising upwards as as forcible reminder of just how fragile the boundary between reality and fantasy was within this realm. A conflagration crawled up Okor’s form, charring his armour and flesh as Kuzuru struggled to pull himself free from within his all-too-welcoming innards.

A blazing eye locked within a sable-black skull gazed balefully outwards, a demonic visage shrouded in an aura of arson, his harrowed hands clutching at his ancient wargear. He rose his blackened blade, a skeletal limb scorched almost beyond recognition wrapping fingers no longer kept in motion by any form of muscle of mortal concern around his pistol.

He spoke in a voice like gravel drowned in napalm, liquid fire dripping from every word as the world burned down around them, an inferno singing the infernal smile spectating from on high.

”The fire rises.”

945 Words. 4 SP spent to activate Burned Man for the round.

Current stats:
ATK 7
DEF 8
SPD 2
TEC 7

Okor has mainly spent the round monologuing and swinging his sword around without much effect. However, Astral Realm shenaniganry has occurred, and illusory fire is consuming the battlefield while Okor continues to attempt to murder you quite horribly.

[Roger Smith]

Fire and the smoke of a thousand battles on countless worlds blazed. Ephemeral and dream-like, flickering in obscene colors born of hells too countless for the man of God to comprehend in his current state. Among it all, there stalked the sword-wielding burning hulk of the plagued titan. Crazed, maniacal, heretical words spewed from his mangled mouth.

The mind of Alexander Anderson snapped. A half-forgotten memory trailing into his quiet, wrathful slide into death awoke. Surrounded in another inferno there, death wailing and screaming all around. Hands drew blades in a a grip shaking and trembling with rage. Eyes no longer covered with his eerily shining glasses stared at the scene of chaos before him. It seemed insurmountable; even before fire had blazed forward, and the power of the pestilent paladin had seemingly surged to all-new heights, it had seemed impossible to do any true damage, to even slow him down. Almost, it seemed, like it was hopeless to even try and stand against him.

"...my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might." A soft, quiet voice; spoken mostly to himself, not for others to hear. But it quieted the crazed trembling of his limbs and stilled his racing heart. "Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil." New strength flooded his body, and his words gained volume. His posture straightened, his eyes growing wide as the former fervor returned to his expression. "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities!" The grip on his bayonets grew tight, gloves straining and stretching over his hands. "Against powers!" He crouched down, and lunged forward. "Against rulers of the darkness of this world!" Silver arcs, glittering in their wake, struck out. Not at the burning terror, but at anything within reach. "Against spiritual wickedness in high places!" He leaped up, glittering silver left in his wake as he carved through the rampant growths of vegetation, trailing illusory astral flame in his wake.

"Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand!" He came down again, blades at the ready, and crashed upon the massive bulk of Okor Paleblood. His blades carved and raked across the scorched, blackened hide and armor of the pestilential abomination, shattering into countless pieces amid a shower of sparks. "Stand, therefore, having girt your loins about with truth..." His words were interrupted, as a massive blade swept around. Corroded, pitted metal crashed against the frame of God's Executioner, lifting him from the ground and hurling him through the air, skipping over the ground like a stone upon the water.

Weakness and frailty poured over his body, hands slowly curling into fists, grasping handfuls of dirt and ash. "...and having on...the breastplate of righteousness!" His words were muffled, through a thick mass of blood which he spat out, rising to force his broken, battered body to stand. "And your feet shod...with the preparation of the gospel of peace..." In one hand, another blade appeared, glinting with purpose. "Above all, taking the shield of faith..." His other hand flourished, and another blade fell from his sleeve, into his grasp, even as several bolter shells tore past, and into, his body. "...wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked!"

"And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of spirit, which is the word of God..." He crouched low, out of his idle stance, blades rising to the ready. His face bore a twisted grin, blood leaking from numerous wounds and from either corner of his mouth. But there was only mirth and determination plastered on his face. "A sword! A sword is sharpened, and also polished!" He sprang forward, blades whipping into a flashing arc of gleaming silver light, crossing each other as they changed hands, falling into a reverse grip. He struck, as he passed; one blade swiping at the demon of blades, earning a derisive curse as the insane preacher distracted him; one blade struck at the huntress, forcing her back for a moment, halting her momentum and her own frenzied onslaught.

"Sharpened, to make a dreadful slaughter!" He spun about, twisting into a vicious corkscrew to send the blades in his hands flying, one each toward his two previous targets. "Polished, to flash like lightning!" He lowered himself down, one hand brushing the earth as he readied to spring into the air. "Should we then make mirth?" His legs flexed, and he left the earth in a blur of bloodied gray, cassock billowing around him. "It despises the scepter of My son, as it does all wood!" His hands flashed into his coat, taking hold of weapons strapped to the inner lining. "And He has given it to be polished, that it may be handled!" His hands withdrew, pulling forth scores of blades. Shining, nearly glowing, reflecting his fanatical and overpowering faith and drive. Linked by chain, weighted down with the mass and bulk of the holy fire within, just waiting to be unleashed.

"This sword is sharpened!" His arms lurched back, the masses of chained blades whipping and coiling about him.

"And it is polished!" He spun about once, to build up momentum, the chains of countless blades curling and flailing about into a twister of glaring, harshly shining silver, before all at once they flew free.

Dozens of impacts sounded as they struck like shots from a rifle, tearing through ghostly fire and vegetation to blanket the land under him. Each of them clattered and smoked, spewing forth angry, red glares and the billowing smoke of a demon's own fury.

"To be given...into the hand of the slayer."

word count 967, according to wordcounter.net

Anderson tried to go 1v1 against Okor, used Flying Guillotine to minimal effect; got bitchslapped by a sword
Got ANGERY, started preaching, and dove back into the fight
Took some quick swipes and threw a sword at Kuzuru and Weiss
Anderson used T1 Super Attack: Blasting Sword Chain on Okor

1/4SP remaining

[Kuzuru]

In what was little more than a few moments their dreamscape had devolved into little more than a blast furnace. Heat, unbearable and implacable, washed over the battered demon. Screams of the damned resonated together to form a hellish choir. Kuzuru watched in awe as his army was wiped away in the horrid winds of conflagration. Okor had become inferno manifest and his will was that of unquenchable hunger. All would be consumed for once the blaze was lit there would be no stanching its ravenous rampage. And it was in these flames, in this hell, that Kuzuru came to a startling realization. For once, for perhaps the first time in his wretched existence, he was insignificant. For all of his bloodshed and for all of his battlelust when set before the galvanized might of Okor Paleblood, he was diminutive.

“Whoa…” Kuzuru muttered, allowing his arms to fall limp.

As the smoke from Anderson’s assault cleared and Okor’s smoldering form still trundled forth Kuzuru smiled. His heart fluttered. His pupils dilated. Blood thrummed in his veins and adrenaline flooded his system. This was it. This was what he had been waiting for. A truly worthy adversary. To be measured and potentially found wanting? Well that was a proposition that Kuzuru had no choice but to accept. So it was with a maniacal fervor that he began to sprint towards his potential executioner with open arms. However, much to his chagrin, the priest stood before him and his calling. Anderson stepped forward to greet the demon’s charge with a pair of silver bayonets.

“No!” Kuzuru shouted as he rushed forth,”get the fuck out of my way!”

Alexander readied his weapons, and responded “ye shall learn your place, devil.”

The two locked eyes for a moment and in that brief moment of intimacy Father Anderson suffered the full brunt of every last malingering thought kept prison within the demon’s skull. Mid-prayer his words were snuffed in his throat, and he only managed to choke out a startled grunt. This sudden and inexplicable loss of resolve lasted only mere moments, but in battle moments were the difference between life and death. Kuzuru had slipped past him in the confusion and in the demon’s stead was Weiss, ready and willing to skewer the pernicious preacher.

Into the heart of the blaze Kuzuru charged, slamming against Okor with a cacophonous screech that only metal against metal could provide. The demon was swatted away as Okor swung a flame-wreathed backhand across his chest. As Kuzuru skidded backwards he plunged his blades into the earth to steady himself. Using these blades as a springboard he once again rushed the burning monstrosity. With a well-timed swing Okor’s sword whistled through the air and buried itself into Kuzuru’s shoulder, forcing the demon to take a knee. Kuzuru gasped and screamed as the sizzling weapon carved through his flesh and sunk into bone. He slashed at Okor’s ribcage and found no purchase against the hardened ceramite.

”You...” Okor said and launched a fist into the demon’s gut.

”Will…”

Another heavy blow to the demon’s ribs.

”Burn…

Okor tugged at the blade firmly buried in Kuzuru’s shoulder, freeing it with a fountain of gore. The burning paladin raised his blood-soaked sword high and aimed for the back of the demon’s neck. This was the end. Kuzuru’s mind scrambled to piece together any sensible rendition of what had just occurred. He had been bested and death was the prize for second place. Okor swung. Kuzuru’s eyes clenched shut. It can’t be over just yet, not when he was just starting to have real fun. His flesh shuddered as hundreds of blades erupted out from his core. Okor’s killing blow was cut short by the blooming of blades. Where flesh had knelt before him there was now only a sea of sharp edges. They chewed into his smoldering carapace as they expanded outwards. Paleblood stumbled back, snapping off several of the black iron petals as he did. In response Okor raised his bolt pistol and let loose several rounds into the writhing mass of edges.

Laughter reverberated throughout the lotus of blades. One by one the swords shattered scattering slivers of metal across the floor. As this metallic flower crumbled it filled the air with a sound not unlike that of ceramic plates being smashed. Underpinning this was that maniacal chuckling. As the final petals snapped and broke apart like glass the blood-soaked form of Kuzuru stepped forth. His one arm hung useless at his side, having been ravaged by Okor’s wicked hacking. His other arm ended in an accusatory finger, aimed at the burning man’s throat. The demon’s soul clung to life with a stubborn tenacity reserved only for starving dogs. And like a starving dog Kuzuru refused to let go of the meat he had been given.

“You really should lighten up,” Kuzuru choked out through a mouthful of blood, “I won’t give you  a second date if you keep rushing me like that.”

The demon howled with laughter and charged yet again.

Used “Menace” on Anderson and cannot use it again this fight.
Kuzuru popped his last SP to activate “Demon Lotus” so as to not have his head separated from his body.
0/5 SP remaining.

[Weiss Schnee]

Myrtenaster clashed with Anderson’s blades with enough force to send a shower of sparks out in every direction. The ringing was almost loud enough to drown out the roaring wail of the inferno circling around them. This world had transformed from blood to flame, the blaze consuming the landscape.

Weiss assaulted her enemy with wild abandon, discarding any strategy but overwhelming attacks. Her eyes kept low as her ears burned. They were both running on fumes, their stamina all but spent in the long battles, and yet where Weiss’s hands trembled from exhaustion, Anderson’s eyes blazed with unshakeable tenacity.

Weiss couldn’t bring herself to meet those smoldering eyes with her own. Each of these fighters had so much resolve, so much strength from their ideals. In comparison, what was she fighting for? She had lost friends, family, reputation, even her humanity! Everything had been taken from her.

Weiss threw herself into her strikes with ferocity, determined to take the pastor down. She couldn’t take that stare any longer. Her blade moved so quickly it could have been three, but the paladin’s defences were as implacable as his faith. Ultimately, she spotted an opening and took it, hoping for at least a glancing blow to the Father’s side.

Shockingly, the preacher didn’t dodge, taking Weiss’s rapier directly to the chest; the preacher countered with a vicious slash that almost left the reckless warrior in two pieces. Weiss couldn’t see the damage, but the spray of blood and rush of blinding, searing pain gave her enough to know it was deep.

“That would’ve been a clean cut, if you just stayed still, lass.”

Weiss’s own response was a scream of agony as her world started spinning. Myrtenaster left her grasp as she drunkenly stumbled backwards. Her foot caught on something behind her, and Weiss felt gravity slam her down into the abyss. The world melting in response to Okor’s cataclysmic power, and Weiss could feel the heat of lava under her.

“So it will be at the end of the age. The heavenly agents will come forth, and separate the bad from among the righteous, and will cast them into the furnace of fire. There will be the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.”
Weeping certainly did follow Anderson’s verse, but instead of gnashing, all the huntress could manage was a sigh.

“...Why bother?”

To her surprise, someone else answered back, in a familiar voice.

“Because it’s our duty to uphold and redeem our family name, and we resolved to do that as a huntress.”

Weiss looked to her left, and saw a younger version of herself speaking, fresh into beacon. It wasn’t just her, though. A smaller girl in a white dress also floated in front of her eyes.


“Because we wanted to save people, just like Grandpa and Winter!”

Finally, a third doppelganger appeared in front of her, this one wearing a familiar mask. Her amber gaze demanded Weiss’s attention.

“So we can find the one that did this, and make sure no one else suffers our fate.!”

Weiss blinked in surprise, as she saw these. They weren’t real, she knew that, but… maybe they didn’t have to be. The three locked eyes with her, and spoke with one, unified voice.

“Why do we fight?”

Weiss’s eyes closed for a moment. It felt like she’d found a rock in the middle of the storm.

“Because I want to protect people.”

Weiss caught herself just in time to land on the sheet of ice that had formed below her. She took a moment to catch herself, wincing from the savage pain of Anderson’s attack, before scaling the pit she’d fallen into with a few quick leaps. The renewed fighter landed right in front of the preacher, picking up her rapier

Weiss glowered at the preacher with steel in her eyes, flipping over the preacher’s head with grace.
“Ya still have some fire in ya?” the preacher asked with a grin, turning to meet his opponent from the other side.

Weiss’s response was a quickly charged cero, blasting him with scorching energy before her feet touched the ground. It knocked the priest to his knees, and Weiss followed up with a hard punch into the preacher’s gut and a sweep of the man’s legs before withdrawing.


Pursuing the source of the blaze, the revitalized warrior quickly found herself dodging a hail of needles with a high leap, grunting in pain as a few flechettes dug into her legs.

“Get your own prey, girly.” Kuzuru warned, but Weiss spared no time on speech, lunging with Myrtenaster. Kuzuru caught her predictable attack easily, blocking the blade with his own.

Weiss cut off the demon’s cocky grin by letting Myrtenaster drop from her hands, using the opportunity to fire a pair of bala in the Ashen Blade’s face. A few of Kuzuru’s teeth went flying as the incarnation of violence fell off his feet.

Only one opponent remained.

A conflagration of terror. A nightmare of nightmares. Okor had terrified her, did terrify her, but she remained resolute. The dreamscape around them followed suit, as she stared her opponent down. Ice formed to her back, as flames formed behind Okor’s, and a firm border between the two manifested between them.

“So, you are still… worthy.” Okor’s voice rumbled like the roaring fire he was consumed in.

“I haven’t given up on this world yet.” Weiss replied in a perfectly calm voice. The right half of her mask shattered into pieces as it approached its limit, and she could feel her strength slipping as blood drained from her wounds.

These next few seconds would decide her fate in this duel, but regardless of the ending, the huntress had cast off her regrets. She would give everything she had, standing for everything she cared about. A slight smile danced across her face as her fist tightened, ready for one last push.

983 words according to wordcounter.net.
Summary:
Weiss got into a furious melee with Anderson, culminating with Anderson getting stabbed in the stomach and Weiss getting a serious gash starting at the shoulder and ending in the middle of her chest.
After jumping out of a giant pit, She smacked Anderson off his feet with a punch, kick, and a quick, not too damaging blast of cero.
She got in a quick fight with Kuzuru, and now has a few quills in her legs. Kuzuru got hit in the face with some bala, which got rid of a few teeth and probably only knocked him silly for a couple seconds.
Weiss used up the rest of her SP continuing to use her tier 1 power-up: An Ivory Visor for the round. 0/4 SP left.
This has been fun. Can't wait to see the judging on it. Hope to write with you all again some other time ^^

[Weiss Schnee]

Weiss and Okor stood on either side of a steaming battlefield, the fire and ice mixing together. A moment that lasted both a heartbeat and an eternity.

The burning-man, a twisted mass of bones and fire and an all-encompassing appetite for destruction.A force of nature Weiss had never faced the like of before.

She had no time to plan, not against as cautious an adversary as Okor Paleblood. The mask upon her face cracked, and the right half of her face was revealed to the world as the mask’s power started to reach its limits.Weiss’s revealed face showed no wince, no pangs of anxiety, no attempt to avert her eyes.

This would end in the next moment, and Weiss refused to lose. She needed to win this battle, and not for survival’s sake.
She needed to show him.
Weiss pointed her blade forward, towards the corrupt wildfire. Her movement was slow, pronounced, as she inched forward, blade drawn, waiting to see any errant twitch from her opponent. The ice around the dreamworld followed, steam rising as the flame fought the chill, and soon the color and brightness of the two warriors faded to black silhouettes within a thick veil of dense mist.

The huntress charged for the bright, black wildfire in the mist, the burning man, and charged, twisting her body for the expected bullet.

To her surprise, it didn’t come. She found herself stabbing into, not Okor, but simply a blazing fire, and the surprise nearly caused her to trip into a fiery bonfire - The Death Guard was evidently no stranger to traps. A large, armored shape beside her blazed with flame, and Weiss brought Myrtenaster up blind to block a strike she could barely see.

The mist was briefly parted, as a bright conflagration blew the fog away from the scene. Weiss struggled with both hands to hold back Okor’s blade, the Sword glowing bright orange with the blaze of it’s master.

“This world cannot be saved. Not for the few who are worthy of living within it. Surely, after fighting these… irritants, you see the truth of my words, Weiss-”

Okor’s words were cut off by a harsh shove from Weiss’s own corner, not enough to knock the Plague marine over, but enough to send him backwards and break the deadlock.

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” Weiss snapped, before rolling back into the mist, Cloaking herself. Relaxing, she relied, not on her eyes, but on her more recent, and ethereal senses, before grinning.

Her thoughts went back to her team, before she’d become part of the omniverse, and all this madness had started. Their absence had stabbed deeply into her psyche, leaving her feeling depressed and alone in this twisted world.

But as the mist concealed her movements once more, and she struck for Okor’s back, she could feel them with her. Blake, her elusive friend, an ex-terrorist who had forged herself into a force for justice.
She was the one who had taught Weiss how to utilize obscurity. To strike from the shadows, and to target vital points. It was this that let her strike Okor from every angle, without revealing herself for more than a heartbeat, a black blur Attacking from every angle.

The Schnee Heiress could only manage to get away with that for so long before an armoured fist connected squarely with her jaw, and her world went spinning for a second. It wasn’t her first time feeling this either, though - Yang had taught Weiss how to take a punch - even one from an iron, flaming gauntlet - and get back up. Ruby’s sister had taught Weiss almost everything she knew about hand-to-hand combat, a fighting style Atlesian Aristocracy had taught her was crude and unnecessary. She’d never been so glad the blonde brawler had set her straight.

Weiss managed to pull herself up to her feet just in time to see Okor’s flames sputter and die, as his form’s strength started to die off. Weiss’s enhanced power didn’t last much longer, the mask finally breaking and exposing a face wincing in pain. It was difficult to look at Okor, as the world kept spinning, and her arm was going numb from the shock of Okor’s last attack.

To Weiss’s disbelieving eyes, though, even Okor seemed slower than usual. He brought up his pistol slowly, as his hand started to shiver. Even the Plague Marine had a breaking point, and the battle had taxed him. The last time Weiss had seen the Space marine move so slowly was…

Weiss’s eyes widened. Back in the olosseum… that was it! The injured Huntress had been incapable of taking advantage of the opening then, but now…

Weiss rushed forward, putting every bit of speed she could into her next strikes.
Ruby had taught her how to overwhelm a target with sheet speed, and while Weiss could never match the destructive capacity her scythe had given, the pinpoint accuracy she could manage with a rapier would serve just as well here. Okor went for a rough slash with his plague-borne blade, but it left only a shallow cut on the Huntress’s skin, not enough to stop Weiss as she rushed past in one swift motion.

And behind her opponent, she could see clearly now, where she had pierced the warrior’s armor earlier. She didn’t know if it was a cable connection, or simply an important part of the power armour’s construction, but as Myrtenaster struck with all the speed and mirth she could muster, the result was immediate. Okor’s knees bent, as though he was suddenly struggling under an unexpected weight.

“Again with this…”

“Yes.” Was Weiss’s curt response, before going for another attack. Myrtenaster burned red as she knocked Okor’s blade arm harshly, hearing bone splinter as the limb fell limply at the man’s side.

She knew she was burning through her aura, but as Victory was finally in sight, Weiss pressed the attack, sriking hard enough to dent and break the armor, rendering joints useless and bending it into Okor’s cursed body. In moments, the Schnee had used repeated strikes to completely transform the Armor from a protective suit of plating to a sealed coffin.

An exhausted, sweating huntress stood in front of her handi-work, waiting for Okor to try to move, or use some unseen ability she hadn’t accounted for…

Instead, the Plague marine finally, fell to his knees.

“You have… grown since our last… confrontation, Weiss.” The marine sullenly stated.

Weiss held her rapier at Okor’s throat. “Yield.”. She stated simply.

To her surprise, the response was immediate. “You wish to end this… without killing me?”

Weiss nodded slowly, in response. “It wouldn’t matter if I did kill you. We all come back. I fought for something more important.”

“Then what was… worth dying for in this… Conflict, Weiss.?”

“Because the omniverse is a terrible place. It’s filled with terrible people. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing worth protecting here. Burning this place to the ground wouldn’t make any of this better.” Weiss’s stare was unrelenting. “All you’ll end up doing is adding to the misery that everyone ends up going through on a daily basis here. You’re not saving these people by killing them - you’re giving up on taking the hard road.”

Weiss sighed and took a deep breath, her face softening. “And honestly? You aren’t the monster everyone takes you for. There’s something human, there… even if it’s been warped. You could be part of the solution. And if I have to stop you from hurting someone in the future, and it comes to the point I kill you, I can at least say I tried to reach out.”

Weiss was about to add more, but a soft whistling through the air warned her too late of gripping chains. Steel clasped around the limbs of the Schnee heiress, and Myrtenaster fell from her grip. Stupid… she forgot about Kuzuru and Anderson entirely!

She heard Kuzuru’s chuckling from behind as she felt herself yanked back. “Awww, what a cute speech! Completely forgot about me, though, didn’t ya?” The Demon stated with a cheshire grin. “You ended up being more of a blast than I expected of some no-name, but boy are you good at letting your guard down for the sake of a heroic speech! Let me poke a few holes in that theory, though…” Kuzuru added, an organic blade sprouting from his arm as the chains slowly reeled Weiss in.
Weiss didn’t bother responding, opting to try and pull herself out of the chains, but the bindings were firm, and Weiss had lost too much strength. She was about to resign to the fate her own foolishness had brought on herself, but she was interrupted by the sound of a sudden weight lifting and the pained screaming of a demon assaulting her ears.

Wresting herself free of her chains, she turned to see a blood-soaked Anderson, having crept up behind Kuzuru. A silver bayonet was sticking through Kuzuru’s stomach, and Weiss had to guess he was responsible for saving her this time..

“Ye did nae’... think I was.. Done with ye… Devil!” Anderson’s voice rang across the battlefield.

Then, the old preacher fell forward, collapsing on the battlefield.

Weiss didn’t waste time taking advantage of the situation, and charged the Demon with a fist drawn. She was almost completely out of energy. She had no strength for blasts of energy, and Myrtenaster had fallen to the ground in some unknown location when Kuzuru’s chains had latched on, but she still had enough strength left to sucker punch Kuzuru hard enough to audibly crack his jaw. Weiss put every bit of energy she had left into a volley of hooks, and the Incarnation of Violence’s face puffed with blood and bruises before the shocked demon fell on his back.

“One… hell of a right you got.” The demon mumbled through broken teeth. “So, you gonna finish me off? Or do you see something human in me.”

Weiss crossed her arms, before walking away. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction. Go fuck yourself.” Weiss added, noticing her own limp. Breathing was hard. Her entire body felt on fire. And yet…

A tired hand found Myrtenaster’s hilt, and sheathed the silver blade.

She was alive. She had finally found her purpose in the Omniverse. And she was ready to face the waking world again. She had found victory, and a purpose moving forward.

A small smile graced her features. It was time to stop crying, and start rebuilding.

Grass, trees, and flowers sprouted around Weiss, as the dreamscape returned to its original state of a tranquil forest, regaining its former warmth. Just as Kuzuru had first found it, but for the minor addition of snowflakes that began to fall from the sky.

And that's the outro post! sorry for taking so long to do this up.

For the mechnically relevant information... Okor and Kuzuru were both left alive, but neither are walking under their own power for a while. Anderson is passed out from blood loss, but he's fine too. Weiss killed no one.

Apologies for the rushed-looking post, Writing has been made very difficult for me lately as I dodge that good ol' poverty line. If an edit's asked for I will have no problem making some... Good fight, guys!