The Elfbone Extraction [M]

[Okor]

Okor's decayed twin hearts beat turgidly, the rotten flesh moving stubbornly, despite its advanced deterioration. Four lungs, caked in filth, expanded as another breath forced its way past the infections consuming his respiratory tract. Fused ribs were shattered, cracked from the force applied to them. A host of worms, arachnids, and other parasites crawled deeper into his diseased flesh, hiding from the cold light of day. He began to circle his foe, his physiology seeming mainly redundant when compared to his iron will and unshakeable faith. His corroded blade cleaved through the air, clashing against the infuriatingly stainless blade of the Draconian warrior, the ringing of steel filling the air for a moment. Through broken, bloodied, and blackened teeth, Okor spoke, a low growl piercing the temporary silence as their blades scraped against each other, struggling for dominance.

"Are you so..." He breathed in, diseased lungs struggling to sustain his unlife. "Blind?" His single eye gazed into Axorn's own, his pestilent pupil maddeningly darting through the infested, reddened virtuous humors of his eye. "Power fades. It can be taken, crushed, lost. But legacy..." He growled as he made his move, sliding his corrupted blade over Axorn's, slicing across his scaled stomach once more. The beast staggered back, raising his shining blade to parry Okor's assault. Again and again his blade came down, rusted metal crashing against pure steel, forcing Axorn back, as Okor's hearts began to beat faster and faster, coming alive in the heart of combat. "Legacy is forever, beast. It is... the one thing our prison cannot fabricate." He hissed as he leaned in closer, Axorn's blade beginning to waver under Okor's weight and persistent endurance beginning to Triumph over the youth's rapidly declining energy. He roared, a noxious stench emanating from his carcass. "It is the one thing we have, monster! The one thing our Jailor cannot devalue! This false reality will quake under our tread! The weak will cower before our coming! It. Will. All. Burn." With a relative burst of speed, his unholy physiology refusing to tire, to slow, to ever stop, his bare fist collided with Axorn's face as their blades clashed together. The beast staggered back, caught by surprise.

The monster was all but immune to flame, even seemingly impervious to the burning of Phosphex. But, of course, there was an inevitable byproduct of Phosphex. Light. Mustering his strength, he managed to push himself apart from the Draconian. With as much speed as his rotten form could produce, he closed his emaciated hand around the stock of his Bolt Pistol, whipping it up towards the Xenos's disgusting, scaled visage. It was charging towards him, lunging towards his exposed internal organs, moving to finish the fight. Irrelevant. He mashed the trigger of the pistol, expelling a bolt shell towards the abomination's face. It had just enough time to being to frown before the round detonated, spraying its face with a burning mist, a veritable sheet of fiery demise, the deadly substance emanating a sickly green light as it adhered to his face, blinding the creature with its illumination. The beast stopped its fatal charge, dropping its sword to scrabble with its claws, trying to tear away the alchemical compound that restricted it so.

Turning, Okor raised a hand to his helmet, activating the inbuilt microbead. His voice sounded more ragged than before, even his blessed endurance struggling to keep up with the damage sustained. "Marines. We are leaving." His ceramite boots stomped against the metallic floor as his foe offered up a cry of triumph as the Phosphex departed. No matter. The light would have still rendered him blind. He maglocked the pistol to his thigh again, and ran his hand over the crown. Oh, the wonders I shall work with you. From behind him, he could hear the Draconian's claws clattering against the floor, bringing his foe closer. Impressive. Always so impressive. He hated it. Every mere mortal, every abomination was given the strength to face the Chosen of the Gods. He twisted around, drawing his ancient blade, light reflecting off of its rusted, bloodied surface. He moved to parry the creature's overhead blow, the rusted sword moving sluggishly compared to his opponent's adrenaline-fueled swing. He gritted his infested teeth, struggling to match the pace of his opponent, the long blade seemingly unavoidable in its descent towards his posthuman frame.