Siege of Darkshire - Spearhead [PvP - Great]

[Okor]

Leprous lips twitched apart in a smile as smouldering stones descended from the heavens, violent veridian energies blazing as they collided with their targets. A malice-born meteor careened through Okor’s chestplate, burning a rotten heart to ash before settling into place, diseased blood hissing as it boiled into nothingness upon contact. Another coruscating comet impacted against the walls of the town, moss-coated rubble falling to the muddy earth below in a cascade of cracked cobbles, burning balls of rock bouncing from the Plague Marine’s Pauldrons.

Green flame consumed a nearby corpse, the rag-wrapped body offering up a brief scream of muted agony, drawing the eyeless gaze of Illidan.

”Rise.”

Scrap-swaddled scavengers rose from the churned earth, clutching improvised armaments as they advanced forward, maintaining a steady pace despite everything about their diseased bodies suggesting an inability to even stand. Weeping sores riddled their forms, seeping with blood and pus as they bared yellowed fangs, heedless of the burning barrage.

“What necromancy is this?” Demanded Illidan, turning to face Okor, his emerald sight blazing as he looked upon the sullied souls before him.

Gurgling laughter greeted him.

”Don’t you… recognize it, whelp? This is Darkshire.”

The rotting rabble shambled forward, the swarm armed with rusted knives, corroded cleavers, the most desperate amongst the leprous legion holding nothing more than chipped cobblestones.

Okor’s bile-drenched blade dragged through the blood-soaked earth as he approached, the impending triumph sweeter than anything his necrotic tongue had ever been able to taste. Hearts linked by shared contagion beat loudly within his ears, war drums hammering in praise to a plague-ridden Deity.

”These are the Lost and the Damned. The forsaken and forgotten. The broken men and shattered minds, reforged.”

The lord of the Illidari paced anxiously, twirling his glaives as he eyed the encircling horde, the rusted iron jaws of Okor’s trap snapping shut.

”They’ve waited the entirety of their miserable lives for this moment. For the moment their suffering has been justified, every… instant of agony and despair redeemed in a moment of glory.”

He flung a claw back towards the sepulchral masonry of Darkshire, howling as he spoke, his words ringing with the strength of the stones.

”That is life! It is a flawed, broken thing, doomed to end! It is suffering, and it is pain!”

He roared as he tossed his septic sword, grabbing it by the pitted blade as he strode forth.

“And Gods help you if you try to take it from us!”

The plagued pommel descended towards the night elf, only to be deflected off of the bronze buckler with a dull ring. Only slightly staggered by the crushing blow, Illidan spun around the enraged avatar of Entropy, blades slicing deep into Okor’s side as he did so, blades slick with translucent blood.

As he celebrated this petty victory, the heaving hordes around him acted, festering fingers grasping at his violet hide, seeking to drag him down into the dirt with the rest of the mortals. ”Did you forget something, beast?”

The Chosen slowly loaded his pistol, slotting soul-burning shells into the bolt-thrower, only occasionally deigning to look towards The Betrayer. He raised the instrument of atrocity, sending a barely-contained inferno flying towards the Daemon Hunter.

”We are Legion.”

Illidan ducked, glaives slicing through air and flesh alike, a twisted hook falling to the earth as he cut through the long-severed wrist of his momentary captor. The alchemical load detonated in front of the half-Orcish cultist, showering their tainted torso with flame.

The Elf’s immediate escape attempt was forestalled by the iron grip on his shoulder, the one-handed devotee to the darkness lifting him upwards, sunken eyes staring into his soul. “In his embrace, I have become that which I feared most.”

Chest still smouldering with napalm, they drove their forehead towards their captive, a resounding crack sending them sprawling to the soil. Liquid fury running through still-living veins, Illidan leapt up, a spinning kick knocking the bare-chested brawler away.

A bolt embedded itself in the earth as they landed after the acrobatic feat, a lanky leper advancing forward, already nocking another projectile into position. “Death,” spoke the archer, completing the prayer as they sighted down the shaft. A deft motion by the Elf shattered the arrow mid-flight as it was loosed, springing back into motion as they weaved between the horde, disemboweling and crippling as he went, tainted blood mingling with his own in a sanguine shower.

Illidan somersaulted over a scavenger, blades cleaving through their skull as he delivered a blow even Nurgle’s blessings could not save them from, his chest heaving as fatigue began to set in, an unsettling numbness starting in his extremities.

”You feel it, don’t you?” Okor marched forward, each vertebra twisting unnaturally as the parasites within struggled to right their host, his horde parting as he moved like a rabid wolf among livestock. ”The sickness. Every beat of your failing heart spreads it. Every pulse brings you closer to death.”

“I can fight it,” snarled the former Sentinel, adopting a pugilist’s stance as his feet danced over the fetid earth, the fire blazing in his eye sockets intensifying as they steeled their resolve.

”Perhaps. Perhaps. But you cannot hope to stop us.”

The Plague Marine turned as he built momentum, his sword shrieking through the air as the two combatants screamed their defiance, each one uttering a warcry as their weapons clashed.

“FEEL THE HATRED OF TEN THOUSAND YEARS!”

906 words. Cultists summoned for the round, 0/6 SP remaining. Used Plague Blade, Cultists, Cultists Blades, Cultists Barrage, Phosphex Bolt Pistol.