The Dark Ages [Dark Data]

[Okor]

As Okor dashed through the assembled horde of darklings, corrupted creatures cloaked in an sickly ebon sheen scattering beneath his heavy tread, an empty-eyed goblin being sent flying with a contemptuous backhand. ”Slay the sorcerer,” he growled, taking a brief break from his rampage to look over his staunch allies.

They said you could tell a lot about a person by their fighting style. The Plagued Paladin had fought and bled alongside countless companions over the millennia of his existence, and such blood-soaked insights were rarely wrong.

Hiro, the Hacker, battled to his right, seamlessly flowing between practiced stances as their razor-sharp blade sliced through the maddened hordes of mutants, the transitions almost too fast for the mortal eye to distinguish. He ducked beneath frenzied blows, a subtle motion of his blade eviscerating his attacker before moving on to the next: A dangerous dance of death, each motion beautiful and undoubtedly deadly.

Madotsuki drifted through the horde, an ethereal wraith that Okor seemed to defy the attempts of the observer to pin her down, the only concrete evidence of her presence being the corpses she left in her wake. A simple blade became a worthy weapon in her hands, its point being driven deep into arteries and joints, long-lost humans and beasts alike falling to her efforts: There, an Orc bleeding from a slit throat, a red smile seeping crimson. Here, a knight whose armour and weapons had melded with his flesh; meat and metal proving no obstruction to the knife that had entered his eye socket.

An artist and an assassin, paired with an abomination.

Okor knew full well that his blessed body was as much a weapon as the blade clutched in his claw. Millennia of the Gods’ gifts and humanity’s finest minds had created a warrior that was by no definition easy to arrest. A festering fist dragged an ebon-drenched elf into the path of his blade, elongated claws scrabbling uselessly against his ancient aegis, the struggle quickly ended by the corroded blade cleaving deep into their torso. His foot impacted against their stomach, a sickening squelch being issued as their organs were pulverized, the fresh corpse being sent sprawling backwards into the throng. These were unworthy; a threat undeserving of an astarte’s attention. He needed something more substantial.

As if to answer his prayers, a roar shook the earth, sending the lesser beings surrounding him stumbling. A giant beast stood in the space between two blood-stained cottages, a horrible thing of tusks, spikes, and warped wings, black eyes weeping inky blood that disappeared on its ebon hide, violet runes pulsing with violent energy hovering a scant inch above its sable skin. Blood like tar seeped from scratches and cuts upon its enchanted skin, Madotsuki’s attentions plain.

Bile rose in his throat, the acidic substance burning its way through the soft flesh of his esophagus. Illidan.

No. It couldn’t be. The would-be scourge of Darkshire was possessed of a malevolent intellect; this beast was reduced to a ravening beast, its howls of rage and hunger resonating with Okor’s primal instincts. His bubonic blade fell to his side as he cracked his knuckles, what little self-preservation remaining in the Darklings driving them away from the titans as they prepared to clash.

”I’ll take down the... brute.”

Try to keep it alive. Madotsuki’s voice slipped into the back of his mind, impressing upon him the need for mercy. This foreign concept spoke to the long-oppressed shards of his psyche sheltered within his skull, each fragmented possibility screaming for salvation before they were snuffed out.

A low growl escaped his throat as he moved forward, denied the opportunity to baptize himself in the blood of his foe and emerge, renewed. ”Fine,” he spat, the earth shaking as the two monsters charged forth to meet in battle.

The Felguard’s clawed fist swung, scything through the air towards Okor’s skull, connecting with a sickening crack of bone. Shards of ceramite dug deep into mummified flesh as Nurgle’s chosen raised his arms, claws latching onto the beast’s arm even as it concaved his head. With a scream of rage, he pulled, flensing the corrupted flesh from the Demon’s forearm as he threw them to the ground.

Dust and dirt flew from the point of impact as the two dark beings struggled for dominance, the Plague Marine falling upon them, their claws interlocking as they began to roll through the rabble, crushing lesser beings beneath their combined mass. Bones cracked and snapped as they pitted strength against strength; the might of a dead Legion against a burning one.

Okor pushed the beast’s fists back, his physical limits ignored in favour of victory; cracked bones shifting within his sullied skin. It roared in dulled agony as its body began to fail, ligaments tearing as the Death Guard pushed its body past its limits, one final surge of strength snapping its wrists as its claws fell limp. Roaring in Triumph, Okor drove his head forward, heedless of the demon’s horns as the impact drove it into unconsciousness, a thick green tongue lolling out from between ebon fangs.

He reached out and grabbed the soft meat of a warped peasant’s throat, ripping out their esophagus in a rapid tearing motion that allowed their sanguine sacrament to pour over him as they fell in a silent scream, slowly rising to his feet as he settled his eye upon the sorcerer. Regardless of the throng of tainted creatures between them, he began to charge forward, drawing his blade while the darklings either fled before him or were ground into the dirt beneath his greaves.

A series of detonations drew his attention as he absent-mindedly crushed the spine of a spider-legged goblin, the unnatural abomination wheezing its last as digitized destruction reigned supreme. Razor-sharp pixelated shrapnel spread, a concentrated beam of data scything through the darkling ranks, sending whatever survived the Ronin’s ministrations flying, limbs and mere chunks of meat all that remained of those that suffered his wrath.

Amidst the carnage, he laughed, backhanding an emaciated elf coated in serrated spines back into Hiro’s line of fire, grinning as its weapons were sent flying into the soft bodies of its erstwhile allies.

”Take his skull!” Okor screamed, his voice thick with phlegm and spittle, hearts pumping tainted blood as he charged, blood-drunk on the battle, rusted blade swinging in wide arcs to clear the mutated and malformed minions from his path.