05-18-2015, 01:19 PM
It was quite the stark contrast, between the interior and exterior of the rift Galel had walked through. On one end, a roiling vortex of energy ready to swallow you whole. On the other, a pristine hall filled with camera crews and crowds of weaklings gathering around their favourite celebrity contestants. Pitiful. Galel thought, his third eye flitting about as it often did. Galel took a few steps forward, walking down the short steps off of the platform that he had arrived on. This prison is filled with the weak and spineless masses. He thought, striding forward. After several feet, a group of reporters rushed over to him, flashing cameras in his face and shoving Microphones at him.
"Hi, Kate Winslow, Eye Witness News. Can you tell us why you entered Dante's Abyss?" Asked one.
"Mark Berriman, Action News Seven. Who do you think will win this thing?" Piped up another.
"Frank Harlowe, Channel Eight News. What do you hope to gain by participating in this bloodsport?" jeered a third.
Half a dozen more rattled off their names, asking inane questions of the Sorcerer, trying his patience.
Galel's third eye flitted from one to the next. Weak. Spineless. Ugly. Moronic. He thought as his eye settled upon each one in turn. The Sorcerer grasped one of the microphones that had been thrust towards his face, squeezing it and bending it out of shape. "Cease your inane prattling, chattel." He commanded, his voice thundering above the din of the crowd. That got everyone's attention. Hundreds of eyes turned to him, momentarily distracted from what they were doing.
The Sorcerer scowled, his third eye flitting from one visage to the next like a Daemonette hopped up on Slaught and Frenzon. Galel's head ached, his third eye working overdrive to process all of the information it was taking in. "Go back to your business!" He shouted, turning and walking away from the reporters, hoping that the eyes that were upon him would look away soon. He glanced at the platform he had arrived upon, noticing the fetid figure of Okor standing upon it. Relieved, he strode over to the Plague Marine. "These brainless dogs do not respect the Astartes as they should, Son of Mortarion." He began, shaking his head. "When this is over we should burn the lot of them to ash and putrefy the survivors!"
"Hi, Kate Winslow, Eye Witness News. Can you tell us why you entered Dante's Abyss?" Asked one.
"Mark Berriman, Action News Seven. Who do you think will win this thing?" Piped up another.
"Frank Harlowe, Channel Eight News. What do you hope to gain by participating in this bloodsport?" jeered a third.
Half a dozen more rattled off their names, asking inane questions of the Sorcerer, trying his patience.
Galel's third eye flitted from one to the next. Weak. Spineless. Ugly. Moronic. He thought as his eye settled upon each one in turn. The Sorcerer grasped one of the microphones that had been thrust towards his face, squeezing it and bending it out of shape. "Cease your inane prattling, chattel." He commanded, his voice thundering above the din of the crowd. That got everyone's attention. Hundreds of eyes turned to him, momentarily distracted from what they were doing.
The Sorcerer scowled, his third eye flitting from one visage to the next like a Daemonette hopped up on Slaught and Frenzon. Galel's head ached, his third eye working overdrive to process all of the information it was taking in. "Go back to your business!" He shouted, turning and walking away from the reporters, hoping that the eyes that were upon him would look away soon. He glanced at the platform he had arrived upon, noticing the fetid figure of Okor standing upon it. Relieved, he strode over to the Plague Marine. "These brainless dogs do not respect the Astartes as they should, Son of Mortarion." He began, shaking his head. "When this is over we should burn the lot of them to ash and putrefy the survivors!"