Second Chance.

[Okor]

The dull sensation of the soft metal needling his dead flesh was, indeed, rather irritating. At the youth's current rate, another few minutes of frenzied assault would yield some kind of results. The child was obviously more used to assassins and raw recruits, rather than the solid bulwark of adamantium and blessed flesh. With a grunt of exertion, Okor grabbed the distracted youth, his taunts being cut-off mid sentence by a filth-caked gauntlet wrapping itself around his arm. With a grunt of exertion, Okor flung the boy from his back, his twinned daggers clattering to the void at his side. Okor lunged forward, powering a fist towards the child's skull. The youth rolled to the side, a spray of slime erupting from where Okor's fist made contact with the surface where his face was but a moment before. Okor's sword plunged down, skittering off oblivion as Victor sprung up, dashing to his daggers. Okor strode forward, raising his sword for a diagonal cut through the boy's torso. So predictable. Victor sprinted forwards, Okor's eye struggling to follow his movement. Even before he sensed the daggers in his back, Okor was spinning around, his bare hand meeting Victor's face with a crack, driving the child to the ground, leaving a thin film of flesh-eating bacteria on his cheek. While it would undoubtedly be uncomfortable, it lacked sufficient quantities to damage him. Best to fix that.

Okor fell upon Victor, his hands dripping viral pools of death. His gauntlet fell upon Victor's face, eliciting a cracking of bone as his zygomatic bone shattered under the onslaught. He dropped his sword, allowing it to fall to the ground, bringing his bare hand to Victor's face, pressing it against his mandible. The youth struggled under his touch, the skin on his jaw already starting to shred, the bacteria doing their work. With but a few more seconds, the flesh would putrefy. Okor grinned beneath his helmet, taking pleasure in this opportunity to share Nurgle's gifts. "The... Arrogance. You call yourself a warrior, when all you have done is kill those you chose. Every battle you fought, you picked. Every leader... bleeding their last, every recruit breathing their death rattle." Okor's grip tightened, his bare fingers starting to sink into the putrefying flesh. "You became foolish. Every battle you chose, ended in victory. You are not worth the gems embedded into your... utensils. You've never bled. You've never taken a step back. You've never been hardened by defeat. You are burning... iron, bending and breaking with every slash, without the chill of defeat to harden you." As a strip of flesh began to fall from Victor's face, unable to tether itself to his bone from the rot, a silver blade jammed itself into Okor's gorget. He removed his hand, chuckling, slapping the child's arm away from the dagger. Okor stood, his tabard shifting in the air, the 3 circles of Nurgle filling Victor's vision as he tore the blood-stained dagger from his throat, tossing it to the ground. Clear fluid slowly leaked from his wound, seemingly unable to muster a pace beyond a slow drip. Okor raised his fists, still soaked with blood and filth, watching the youth rise. "Come now... Wolfe. Will you embrace your loss, or will you... still try to defy it?" Okor chuckled, his eye afire with the predator's love of the hunt. This was what he was born for, what he was designed for, what he shaped himself into. He'd sooner carve an Aquilla into his heart than admit his loss to this whelp.