Dance of the Dreamers

[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.”