02-26-2018, 11:56 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-26-2018, 11:57 AM by Okor.
Edit Reason: Missed a quotation mark, used a made-up form of Sanguine rather than Sanguinary.
)
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.”
”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.”
Quote: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.
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