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[Okor]

Okor shambled through the gaudy colours of the tent, moving into the designated area for aspiring competitors. Several strange devices pointed towards him, hovering around, using some strange technology not unlike Loyalist Landspeeders. Was this realm so opulent they could use skimmer technology for entertainment? A man stood at the other end of the tent, swaddled in luxurious garments, embezzled with gaudy jewels, feathers, and swatches of bright cloth. He turned to face Okor, his hair impeccably sculpted, his skin hidden beneath a thick layer of cosmetics. "One moment sir, I'll be right wi- OH GOD!" The man fell back, slamming a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. The hovering cameras skimmed through through the air, achieving a full view of the scene. Okor advanced forward, squatting in front of the cowering man, who was having to fight off an offense to his nostrils, his eyes, and his sanity. "Mortal. I wish to..." He paused for a second, a rattling cacophony emerging from his chest as air was sucked into his four lungs, becoming eternally tainted as toxins and plagues infused its very essence. "Enter your contest." The interviewer, significantly relieved that he was not about to be eaten alive, relaxed slightly. "Y-yeah, sure. Just... Just gimme a minute to get it all set up." He passed a small stack of papers to Okor, accompanied by a pen. "Just fill this out, and I'll be ready to interview you when you're done." Interview? This was an arena. Why did he need to be interviewed? This realm played by different rules, he supposed. He would have to follow them.

Appearance –
[spoiler][/spoiler]
Okor's armour has long since fused to his flesh after 10 millennia of warfare and exposure to the reality-twisting ways of the warp. It is now more of a chitinous exoskeleton. His abdomen and left arm are exposed, showcasing the blessings that the plaguefather has gifted upon him, and allowing for him to transmit them more easily. Indeed, the sheer quantity of diseases and bacteria contained within his gaunt frame would be enough to rot a planet to the core, were it not for the Omnillium containing it. Unlike most of his bloated Brethern, Okor is almost skeletal, with cracked, yellowing bones, covered in calciferous masses lurking just beneath his pallid skin. A tabard hangs from his waist, stained with grime, filth, blood and pus, and still proudly emblazoned with the mark of Nurgle. A horn juts from the center of his head, a twisted, broken thing. Beneath it lies a single, blood-shot eye. Where he walks, life grows. Fungus and mold grows in his footsteps, marking the earth with his passing.

Personality – Okor is genial, generous, extremely patient, and positive. He is an ardent devotee of Nurgle, and will correct any misinterpretations of his motives. He believes that all things end, and should be savoured for as long as they last. The worship of Nurgle should be spread, in order to speed the universe towards its inevitable gentle rebirth. He's always happy to stop and chat, although he does try to bring the conversation towards his faith.

Possible Reactions – Okor is an infantryman, and a blessed warrior of the god of plague. If there is an advantage to be had in a fight, he will take it. Spreading disease, endurance hunting, fear, sheer stamina, whatever it takes to defeat the enemy, Okor will do it. However, he's not wont to make enemies recklessly. He happily invites fellow to a seat around the fire, and shares some tales, riddles, undoubtedly unhealthy stew, and life lessons. He does not intend on betraying anyone, although when the pool of competitors drops, he will have no compunctions against fighting his one-time enemies.

Relationships – Okor dueled Victor Wolfe upon his arrival to the Omniverse, a battle that ended with Okor heavily wounded, and Victor unconscious and rethinking his life choices.
He has also met Carn, who introduced him to DA, and gave him an inkling that this realm is not what it seems.
He has sworn to ally with Galel Baraz and Tartaros, two fellow veterans of the long war.

‘Combat’ Style – Okor is well aware of his durability and endurance, and uses them as his main weapons. He will gladly take hits for his smaller compatriots, and is able to endure his foe's blows until they run out of stamina, or he has the perfect chance to strike. If impaled, he is more likely to slide along the weapon to strike at his foe, than scream.

Eligible Powers – Survival.

Moves – Necrotic Touch?

Extra – Okor is absolutely incapable of feeling pain, which is a double-edged sword. While it allows him to fight on past injuries that would leave a lesser being crying in pain, it means he does not notice his injuries until he sees them. He will walk on broken legs, unaware that shattered bones are tearing at his flesh, attempt to strike the death blow with a useless arm, and will happily walk away from a fight with weaponry digging into his back, leaving an exploitable opportunity for any other foes. In short, he takes damage, but he simply does not notice it.

Quotes –
"You cannot stand, as you... stand for nothing."
"I am Okor Paleblood, son of the blessed fourteenth legion. I have left my.... Tread upon a thousand worlds, and helped raise an Empire spanning a million stars. I intend to watch it crumble, and to put my blade through the heart of its... God Emperor. But of course, where are my.... Manners?"
"In every rotting corpse, in every fly, in every leper. In every child, in every forest, in every ocean, in every beating heart. Everywhere, he exists. The universe itself will one day cease, and when it does, Nurgle will be there. When the last maggot, in the carcass of the last beast, on the last planet, orbiting the last star finally succumbs to entropy, Nurgle will be there. When reality itself falls apart, when all that is left is the primordial sludge of raw potential, he will raise it again, and we will be reborn. There will be no more war. No more pain. No more want. And until then, we will fight. We defy the doom of reality, by embracing it."
"Speak your... lies, spit your empty, meaningless defiance. Scream your... nihilistic hatred of reality. Know that all of your skill, your speed, your... sadism, was nothing. Know that you failed. You threw yourself against the faithful, and broke upon their power."

Okor settled into a reinforced seat, attempting to refrain from oozing into the red leather. He would hate to be a poor guest. He scanned his surroundings, taking in the opulence. A small table was positioned between himself and the interviewer (who's name was Scott, as conversation evidenced), which was laden with small felt pine trees. A local custom? How curious. The interviewer leaned back in his chair, as cameras orbited them. "So, Okor, was it? Why don't you give us a little introduction for the audience?" He leaned back, steepling his hands, gazing into the camera with his eye. "I am... Okor Paleblood. I have left a million dead on a thousand worlds, wrested an empire from the claws of an uncaring galaxy, and... have spent ten millennia tearing it apart, piece by piece." The interviewer clapped his hands, evidently quite pleased to have found a suitable champion. "Well then, Okor, why don't you show us what you can do?"

He stood, the seat groaning in relief that his massive weight had been lifted. A droid shambled out of a tent flap, its hands replaced with blades. It's optical array scanned over Okor, seeking weaknesses in his armour. He drew his Plague blade, keeping the corroded sword loose at his side, waiting for the droid to make the first move. Suddenly, the machine surged forward, sliding twinned blades of steel between his malformed abdominal ribs, causing a small amount of clear vitae to adorn its blades. Scott sighed, and marked off a box on his paper. "Well, looks like another jumped-up-" That was when Okor moved.

Okor slowly advanced on the droid, the blades sinking deeper into his atrophied organs. The machine stammered error codes, obviously operating beyond standard parameters. As the blades burst from Okor's back, his hands clasped the drone's head, gazing deep into its multifaceted cameras with his cyclopean eye. The protests quickly devolved into binaric shrieks, as Okor began to crush. Sparks and oil flew as he compressed its steel skull into a fraction of its size, ceramite and diseased skin making a mockery of the metal being. Its synthetic cries ceased, and it sagged to the ground, blades slowly sliding out from Okor's stomach. It twitched on the ground, sparking from its critically damaged processors. He turned, facing the pathetic, tiny being of Scott, who was currently attempting to sink back into his chair. "Was that... satisfactory, Mortal?" Scott nodded vigorously, his mouth hanging open. A hidden door slid open in the back of the tent, white light pouring from the entrance. Stabbing his blade into the machine, ensuring its demise, before sliding it back into its loop. He shambled forward, stepping through the light, and into the Abyss.