02-26-2018, 08:49 PM
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."
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."
Quote: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
![[Image: kUpgBYg.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/kUpgBYg.gif)