Second Chance.

[Okor]

Victor's hand, coated with clear blood, a reminder of the carnage he had been able to inflict on Okor's dead flesh, still clutched the dagger. Its blade was golden, obscured by the vitae it had shed in the savage battle preceding this final moment of judgement. The battered assassin rammed it upwards, the shimmering sliver scraping against the steel of the rotten power armour, no longer possessing the stamina necessary to aim his blows, let alone penetrate his foe's resilient hide. He lay there, broken, exhausted, panting and wheezing. Okor chuckled, rising from his crouching position, feeling a strange grinding in his knee, as bones scraped against each other, cracked by his foe's onslaught. He gazed balefully down upon the youth, judging the assassin. "Farewell, whelp. I enjoyed our.... Friendly duel." Okor hissed with no small amount of venom in his tone. Okor took a moment to swallow, the acidic bile from his Belcher's gland sizzling as it fell down his throat. He moved to grasp his ancient blade, only for his armoured hand to idly slap against it, unable to close around the hilt. Did he do that much damage? After a second of deliberation, Okor's bare hand shoved it through the rotten leather loop that passed for a scabbard. He turned, his cyclopean eye transfixing the Daemon spectating the scene. He threw out his one working arm, framing his hulking body, bleeding from a dozen unnoticed wounds. "Has your master sent you to toy with me as well, Daemon!? Have you come for my... Soul!?" Okor howled, defiance intrinsically a part of his very essence. He thumped his diseased claw against his breastplate, in one of humanity's curious, timeless customs. "Come for it then!" He began to laugh, the deep bass of the noise shaking those present to the core. Okor began to walk towards the Daemon, a strange mixture of shuffling and stomping.

"Bego-" As he began to curse the beast, he stumbled and fell, his knees finally giving in to the damage sustained in the fight. Dammit. He struggled to rise with only one functioning arm, like an overturned turtle. All the power his suit could provide him was irrelevant, given that his bare arm was his only perfectly functioning arm at the moment. He muttered curses under his breath, still struggling to rise to his feet, clear blood seeping from a variety of wounds, his nerves too deadened to notice the vitae leaking from his battered body.