Once more into the breach

[Okor]

Okor watched his companion drift into the waves, his superhuman physiology scoffing at the idea of remaining solely terrestrial. The plague marine's chitinous chest rose and fell, a milky fluid slowly seeping from a shark-inflicted gash etched into its surface. Chuckling quietly to himself, he looked to his new master, its form shrouded beneath robes, its markings squirmed and squiggled beneath his sight, as if he, nay, any mortal was never meant to see them. "Farewell to..." He took a rattling gurgle, witnessing the short appearance of bubbles that marked the disappearance of his traveling partner and battle-brother. "... Dead weight." The familiar light of flame was visible in the city they left behind, illuminating needlessly extravagant structures, and the stark contrast of boxy, utilitarian military installations. It carried screams on the wind, as civilians moved to repair the devastation left in the marine's wake. A fragment of parchment floated through the water, a hand-scribed piece of writing, obviously copied down and smuggled, hardly the work of the industrialized, uniform realm of Coruscant. Curious. His desiccated claw ran through the water, picking up the scorched, soggy advertisement. His new master hovered over his shoulder, his robes floating over the wet sand of their temporary respite, failing to touch the ground. A noble warrior was sketched on the front of the sheet, obviously a second-hand recreation of some distant original, a pale imitation. Nonetheless, it still had a hint of the majesty the original creator had managed to convey. The title had still escape the flames: Camelot Coliseum.

This realm's seeming obsession with blood sport was curious. When warriors were immortal, and unstoppable, it did make some degree of sense. But it still lacked the thrill, the closeness to The Lord of All, the great, unknowable beast of battle that lurked in the hearts of men. A pale imitation of a true war. It was reward, without risk. It will have to do, warrior. The thoughts seeped into his mind, a pure, more spiritual communication between him and his secondary lord. The rotting reaver looked up at the inscrutable, shadowed visage that he followed. "But..." There was so much he could say. That it was without honour, without joy. It was a soulless mockery of a truer battle, played out for the thoughtless masses. The Abyss was at least more prestigious. This was little more than a back-alley brawl, in comparison. There was so much he could say. There was only one thing he would say. "As you will, my lord." The necrotic knight rose from his position by the water, returning once more to his massive stature. Another foreign thought entered his consciousness, beckoning his attention. But one more thing, Okor, chosen of Nurgle. How did you enter the city of lights? How did such figures of strength and power enter Coruscant? Okor threw back his head in laughter. "It was a... simple matter. Walking through the front gate is far easier when they have no reason to-" Okor coughed, a ragged, hacking noise that betrayed the gruesome defilement of nature within him. Taking a brief moment to collect himself, he resumed his explanation. "...Stop you. We had committed no crime, betrayed no ill-intent. If you seek a route inside, I fear I may not be of much... assistance. I know that the lower levels are lawless, out of sight of authority. It would be easy to... disappear there." He looked towards the distant city, attempting to sight the Gate leading to freedom, and to glory. "Shall I leave now, my lord? Shall I.. make my way to the tournament? It would be... several day's travel."