Second Chance.

[Okor]

Okor laughed, a deep bass rumbling worming its way through Victor's bones. He leaned forward again, looking down upon Victor. "Given your long history of... murder, assassination, and betrayal, I doubt your word is gold. Soft, and... as malleable as it, but hardly of value." Okor said, reflecting on the life story the youth had thrust upon him. "Nonetheless, it is.... optimal, to keep in practice." Okor flexed his shoulders, shifting the ceramite pauldrons with ease. He stepped back several paces, and placed an armoured hand on his corroded, rusted blade. "Come now, whelp. Let us see if your slivers can... match Legion Steel." Okor would be surprised if the child did not try a trick. Out here, in this void, with no authorities to rebuke him. A dagger to the throat, a knife in the eye, and who could ever know, aside from those present? The boy was like a viper, constantly tensed to strike, eternally ready to sink his fangs into soft flesh. He chuckled again at the thought. He would find none. For the youth to even think that gold and silver, of all things, could even dream of scratching a Mark III. The blades would blunt themselves after their first blow. Perhaps a sound beating would give him some facade of sanity. Okor drew the plague blade from his hip, the verdigris starting to seep pus and venom as his tongue mutilated itself, twisting and tearing in unnatural ways as he pronounced the Daemonic syllables that awakened its power.