01-30-2017, 07:44 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-03-2017, 10:20 AM by Okor.
Edit Reason: Paring down word count to fit word limit.
)
Okor’s malformed maw gnashed together, warped ribs scraping festering flakes of flesh from between each other as he advanced forward, a sneer spreading beneath his horned helmet, sable fangs slick with acidic saliva. ”On your side?” The gangrenous giant gurgled out a laugh, a vicious backhand from his gauntlet shattering the bare skull of a longdead warrior, his barbaric blade resting in the rotting leather loop at his side. ”It is not your side, whelp. You are the… slave of a slave, shackled to the one servant of Diablo too weak to warrant a place in hell.”
Illidan’s response was calm, measured, and collected. Twin blades descended upon Okor, Azzinoth’s atrocities biting deep into the Plague Marine’s pauldrons, the enchanted copper ablaze with emerald energies. “Draw your blade, damn you,” hissed the Demon Hunter, the green glow of his tattoos intensifying as he sought to sever the Sepulchral Soldier’s arms at the shoulder.
His arms temporarily disabled by the weapons lodged within them, the Son of Barbarus acted on instinct: he moved to headbutt his foe, the hunk of ceramite and steel surrounding his head careening past The Betrayer as they leaped backwards, blades vanishing as they did so. Their armaments burst back into existence soon after, iridescent green flame shaping itself into the magical instruments of murder. ”My blade ends the lives of Monsters and Men. And you… are neither.” This statement was punctuated by a lupine creature charging towards the Hellspawned Hero, black fur matted with dirt and blood impacting against bone and unyielding armour. It’s snarls and howls did not last long, knifelike claws scrabbling against impervious armour as Okor’s own natural weapons came into play, his stomach splitting apart as it began to consume the dire wolf, bestial howls of pain rising above the melee as his abominable anatomy dragged it in deeper. In a matter of moments, the gory display was over, ragged scraps of fur falling to the ground, bone and gristle being ground between teeth as he stepped over the newly formed charnel grounds.
”You are Vermin. Too weak of will to forge your own destiny, and too… frail to break the shackles fate forces upon you. You deserve nothing more than to be crushed underfoot.” Okor laced his claws together as his long strides carried him forward, bringing his fists down towards the Elf's skull.
Illidan screamed defiance, surging forth in a blur of motion and green flame, curved blades carving deep into the desiccated flesh clinging to cancerous bone. The Plagued Marine plodded as they attempted to turn, the pulses and pauses perpetuated through their pulmonary tissues accelerating their flesh as it attuned to the dying heartbeat of reality.
It was not enough. The Demon Hunter elegantly pirouetted over his head, leaping far into the air as they gathered their hatred, expelling it as a burning bolt of energy that surrounded Okor’s skull, fell energies burning away at flesh and bone as he stumbled forward, attempting to arrest his movement. Illidan refused to give him the opportunity, blades delving deep between twisted ribs, seeking out his hearts he was impaled upon the enchanted blades.
“I am Illidan Stormrage,” He hissed, pushing his weapons ever-deeper into Okor’s torso, prying apart putrescent flesh. “And I will not be denied.”
Gurgling laughter greeted him as the festering plague-father heaved forward, turning his smoldering skull to look towards his attacker, black tendrils of corruption knitting cloven flesh together. A gauntlet moved to his side, slowly sliding the sewage-slick sword from its simple scabbard, its rusted length resplendent with rot and ruin, a portion of Okor’s ossiferous grin visible beneath his damaged helmet. Blackened fangs bared themselves, coated with corruption.
”That’s it, whelp. Let yourself hate. Once you allow yourself to live, death is… inevitable.” He chuckled as he lunged forward, his bile-ridden blade scything over Illidan’s tattooed torso, the rusted cleaver gliding over the emerald markings, Illidan contorting himself to dodge the blow.
The Plague Marine pushed the assault, arrhythmic hearts beating out a binary ballad of blood, driving him onwards, his blade always a scant sliver away from cleaving through the bared flesh of the Night Elf. Corrosive saliva dripped from his ruined helm, Asherah’s apocalyptic anthem only serving to fuel his gene-forged bloodlust.
A fusillade of arrows fell from the heavens, Darkshire’s Defenders and Dracula’s beasts alike reaping a bloody toll upon the battlefield: A ghoul fell, an arrow lodged in its rotting heart, a guardsmen dropped by a vengeful spirit's ethereal pistols. Halberds clashed against grave-given blades, the practiced formations of Darkshire’s troops standing stalwart against the monstrous menagerie that marched against them.
The antique atrocity wielded by the ancient warrior clashed against the flame-wreathed blades of Illidan again and again, Illidan’s arms starting to grow numb, each impact driving him back, inch by inch, watching the movements of the mouldering marauder, awaiting his opening.
He saw it, a scree slope of skulls, unearthed by the rain, the gangrenous giant’s foot descending upon it. Okor hissed as he fell, struggling to express the full depths of his frustration. Illidan took full advantage of the Rotting Revenant’s momentary disadvantage, murmuring a curse in the black tongue of the burning legion, sending a sphere of eldritch power flying, binding the staggered soldier’s limbs in emerald flame.
Illidan glared at his captive, watching them strain against their chains of coruscating energy. The witchsight granted to him by his former masters looked over the looming leper, watching their putrescent physiology stitch itself back together before him.
“By the Gods, how are you alive?”
Okor’s very physiology changed, once-concrete ceramite melding into flowing filth, seeping over the magical manacles that held him in place. A semi-solid arm raised his blade, grasping it by the tip as he brought the pestilential pommel down towards his would-be captor, the inexorable advance of entropy refusing to be denied.
”Feth you, that’s how.”
Illidan’s response was calm, measured, and collected. Twin blades descended upon Okor, Azzinoth’s atrocities biting deep into the Plague Marine’s pauldrons, the enchanted copper ablaze with emerald energies. “Draw your blade, damn you,” hissed the Demon Hunter, the green glow of his tattoos intensifying as he sought to sever the Sepulchral Soldier’s arms at the shoulder.
His arms temporarily disabled by the weapons lodged within them, the Son of Barbarus acted on instinct: he moved to headbutt his foe, the hunk of ceramite and steel surrounding his head careening past The Betrayer as they leaped backwards, blades vanishing as they did so. Their armaments burst back into existence soon after, iridescent green flame shaping itself into the magical instruments of murder. ”My blade ends the lives of Monsters and Men. And you… are neither.” This statement was punctuated by a lupine creature charging towards the Hellspawned Hero, black fur matted with dirt and blood impacting against bone and unyielding armour. It’s snarls and howls did not last long, knifelike claws scrabbling against impervious armour as Okor’s own natural weapons came into play, his stomach splitting apart as it began to consume the dire wolf, bestial howls of pain rising above the melee as his abominable anatomy dragged it in deeper. In a matter of moments, the gory display was over, ragged scraps of fur falling to the ground, bone and gristle being ground between teeth as he stepped over the newly formed charnel grounds.
”You are Vermin. Too weak of will to forge your own destiny, and too… frail to break the shackles fate forces upon you. You deserve nothing more than to be crushed underfoot.” Okor laced his claws together as his long strides carried him forward, bringing his fists down towards the Elf's skull.
Illidan screamed defiance, surging forth in a blur of motion and green flame, curved blades carving deep into the desiccated flesh clinging to cancerous bone. The Plagued Marine plodded as they attempted to turn, the pulses and pauses perpetuated through their pulmonary tissues accelerating their flesh as it attuned to the dying heartbeat of reality.
It was not enough. The Demon Hunter elegantly pirouetted over his head, leaping far into the air as they gathered their hatred, expelling it as a burning bolt of energy that surrounded Okor’s skull, fell energies burning away at flesh and bone as he stumbled forward, attempting to arrest his movement. Illidan refused to give him the opportunity, blades delving deep between twisted ribs, seeking out his hearts he was impaled upon the enchanted blades.
“I am Illidan Stormrage,” He hissed, pushing his weapons ever-deeper into Okor’s torso, prying apart putrescent flesh. “And I will not be denied.”
Gurgling laughter greeted him as the festering plague-father heaved forward, turning his smoldering skull to look towards his attacker, black tendrils of corruption knitting cloven flesh together. A gauntlet moved to his side, slowly sliding the sewage-slick sword from its simple scabbard, its rusted length resplendent with rot and ruin, a portion of Okor’s ossiferous grin visible beneath his damaged helmet. Blackened fangs bared themselves, coated with corruption.
”That’s it, whelp. Let yourself hate. Once you allow yourself to live, death is… inevitable.” He chuckled as he lunged forward, his bile-ridden blade scything over Illidan’s tattooed torso, the rusted cleaver gliding over the emerald markings, Illidan contorting himself to dodge the blow.
The Plague Marine pushed the assault, arrhythmic hearts beating out a binary ballad of blood, driving him onwards, his blade always a scant sliver away from cleaving through the bared flesh of the Night Elf. Corrosive saliva dripped from his ruined helm, Asherah’s apocalyptic anthem only serving to fuel his gene-forged bloodlust.
A fusillade of arrows fell from the heavens, Darkshire’s Defenders and Dracula’s beasts alike reaping a bloody toll upon the battlefield: A ghoul fell, an arrow lodged in its rotting heart, a guardsmen dropped by a vengeful spirit's ethereal pistols. Halberds clashed against grave-given blades, the practiced formations of Darkshire’s troops standing stalwart against the monstrous menagerie that marched against them.
The antique atrocity wielded by the ancient warrior clashed against the flame-wreathed blades of Illidan again and again, Illidan’s arms starting to grow numb, each impact driving him back, inch by inch, watching the movements of the mouldering marauder, awaiting his opening.
He saw it, a scree slope of skulls, unearthed by the rain, the gangrenous giant’s foot descending upon it. Okor hissed as he fell, struggling to express the full depths of his frustration. Illidan took full advantage of the Rotting Revenant’s momentary disadvantage, murmuring a curse in the black tongue of the burning legion, sending a sphere of eldritch power flying, binding the staggered soldier’s limbs in emerald flame.
Illidan glared at his captive, watching them strain against their chains of coruscating energy. The witchsight granted to him by his former masters looked over the looming leper, watching their putrescent physiology stitch itself back together before him.
“By the Gods, how are you alive?”
Okor’s very physiology changed, once-concrete ceramite melding into flowing filth, seeping over the magical manacles that held him in place. A semi-solid arm raised his blade, grasping it by the tip as he brought the pestilential pommel down towards his would-be captor, the inexorable advance of entropy refusing to be denied.
”Feth you, that’s how.”
Quote:982 Words, 2 SP used to upkeep battle trance for the round. Hunger, Plague Blade used.
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