02-05-2017, 04:16 PM
A gingivitis-ridden grin spread beneath the hellforged helmet obfuscating Okor’s overripe features. Daemon. His adversary had altered themselves from the unknown into the intimate, the ebon enormity of the beast comforting in the catastrophe it promised.
”Maintain distance!” He barked, bile tinging his words as he growled the guttural order, hands dropping to his sides. They rose in short order, cancerous claws clutching both an atomic atrocity and a fire-throwing sidearm. The sinister sigils of the eightfold path and the Cult of Nurgle glowed under the gunfire, heavy footfalls crushing calciferous carcasses as he backpedalled. A boltshell ricocheted off of the sable scales of Illidan, detonating in the distance while a fusillade of flame engulfed the abomination’s abdomen, phosphex perpetually burning away at the beast.
The cloaked interloper added their own efforts to the assault, futile though they may be. Arrows barely pierced the Fel creature before them, smoke and flame flowing from flared nostrils as it charged forward, hooves steadily building momentum as it bore down on the Chosen. Long strides quickly closed the distance between the Daemon and the Defenders’ leprous leader, a clawed fist descending like the fist of an absent god.
Ceramite splintered under the blow, shards of bone and armour flying from the impact. Okor was flung from the scene like a rotting ragdoll, talismans and his trademark implements of infection fleeing the fallen angel. After what seemed like an eternity of careening across the corpse-strewn surface of the battlefield, the Plague Marine came to a rest against the remnants of a desperate last stand; broken bodies and banners left atop a mound of mouldering monsters.
He could feel the dull sensation of broken bones floating through liquefied flesh, rent ribs impaling previously vital organs.Pestilential palms pressed themselves to the churned earth, the tread of men and monsters alike tilling the dirt in preparation for the harvest of souls. Daggers of bone protruded from the flesh of his unarmoured arm, his skeletal structure splintered from the force of the blow.
Rise.
The monosyllabic mandate consumed his consciousness. Muscles shredded by his own shattered skeleton moved into action, heedless of the damage inflicted during the action. Hooves stamped against the soil, a discarded blade embedded within his crimson eye denying him the luxury of seeing his impending destruction.
Thud. Thud. Thud Thud Thud.
As death barrelled towards him, infection and intangible information spirits kickstarted his blighted biology.
It was here that Okor drew the line, as his hearts beat in double-time. Acid flowed through his veins, the reinvigoration sublime, energizing the pestilent prime. He was without his weaponized war crimes, his ancient armour little more than a rotten rime.
He could practically feel the breath of the beast on his skin, its strength denying him his undying linchpin.
The rapid rhythm of hoof and heart beats repeats, Illidan roaring as he brought a fist towards the entropic elite.
Words are wind, steeped in the power of sin.
Okor did not question the origin of this truth, spitting out a shattered tooth.
His crimson eye tore itself open, glaring at the charging Illidan.
The winds of Chaos coruscated around his carcass, iridescence pulsing to the rhythm of biological bass, channeling its infinite energies with a rasp.
”I drop this beat like a Virus Bomb, leave you broken without a Qualm.”
The words warped reality, detritus defying gravity as it formed a maelstrom of debris. Decrepit digits dug into his palm, surrendering his mind to the eerie calm. He cared not from where this power came, interested only in its potential to maim.
”I will shatter your back, always on the attack, another corpse on the stack. Pain. For you, it wracks, for me it lacks, so I inflict the slack.”
As the words left his leprous lips, they brought about a lyrical apocalypse. Stone-like scales were sundered, the sound of organic armour splitting akin to thunder. Illidan’s advance was halted as he roared in rage and pain to the backdrop of innumerable souls long since slain.
Grinning gangrenous, Okor upped the pace, imposing his will on realspace, each syllable slipping from his sable fangs striking like a mace.
”Daemon, please. I’ve got this battle on lock, thrown away the keys. Ten millennia of dementia, compared to which you’re rodentia, afflicted with pyrexia, septicemia stalled only by anemia.”
The Betrayer's black hide bubbled, the touch of Nurgle far from subtle. Nonetheless, Illidan still came, slowly decomposing digits descending, the intention of the Daemon’s attentions plain.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The beat that had invigorated him faded, his surroundings and situations emerging in frightening clarity. While the grace of Gods had momentarily stalled the Lord of the Outland’s advance, his foe’s physiology had preserved them through the worst of the assault, their epidermis slipping into entropy. Calciferous claws dug into the drained defiler, impaling him. Maglocked boots dug into the dirt as he struggled to stay standing, clutching at the terrible talons thrust through his torso, his stomach splitting as sinuous strands of skin and spines wrapped themselves around his attacker.
Wrapping his hands around the mouldering mass of malformed entrails, Okor began to pull, his weight and strength, coupled with the Daemon’s instinct to follow its prey, dragged the beast with him. Its other fist glanced off of his helmet, the rage and hunger inherent to Illidan’s new form encouraging his recklessness and savagery.
That suited the Plague Marine’s needs perfectly. Each step backwards took the pair closer to the gates, the fear of those cowering within the walls a sweet aroma to the darkness-touched brawlers.
”You can taste their terror, can’t… you?” Burbled Okor, lungs lanced through by Illidan’s claws. He pressed himself closer, talons protruding further from his pestilent plate as he slid along the sinister spears.
”Listen to their cries. Glut yourself on the screams of every suffering soul.”
He broke the mismatched stare, glancing over the Fel Warrior’s shoulder, watching his shadow-cloaked ally advancing, sword drawn.
”Choke on it.”
”Maintain distance!” He barked, bile tinging his words as he growled the guttural order, hands dropping to his sides. They rose in short order, cancerous claws clutching both an atomic atrocity and a fire-throwing sidearm. The sinister sigils of the eightfold path and the Cult of Nurgle glowed under the gunfire, heavy footfalls crushing calciferous carcasses as he backpedalled. A boltshell ricocheted off of the sable scales of Illidan, detonating in the distance while a fusillade of flame engulfed the abomination’s abdomen, phosphex perpetually burning away at the beast.
The cloaked interloper added their own efforts to the assault, futile though they may be. Arrows barely pierced the Fel creature before them, smoke and flame flowing from flared nostrils as it charged forward, hooves steadily building momentum as it bore down on the Chosen. Long strides quickly closed the distance between the Daemon and the Defenders’ leprous leader, a clawed fist descending like the fist of an absent god.
Ceramite splintered under the blow, shards of bone and armour flying from the impact. Okor was flung from the scene like a rotting ragdoll, talismans and his trademark implements of infection fleeing the fallen angel. After what seemed like an eternity of careening across the corpse-strewn surface of the battlefield, the Plague Marine came to a rest against the remnants of a desperate last stand; broken bodies and banners left atop a mound of mouldering monsters.
He could feel the dull sensation of broken bones floating through liquefied flesh, rent ribs impaling previously vital organs.Pestilential palms pressed themselves to the churned earth, the tread of men and monsters alike tilling the dirt in preparation for the harvest of souls. Daggers of bone protruded from the flesh of his unarmoured arm, his skeletal structure splintered from the force of the blow.
Rise.
The monosyllabic mandate consumed his consciousness. Muscles shredded by his own shattered skeleton moved into action, heedless of the damage inflicted during the action. Hooves stamped against the soil, a discarded blade embedded within his crimson eye denying him the luxury of seeing his impending destruction.
Thud. Thud. Thud Thud Thud.
As death barrelled towards him, infection and intangible information spirits kickstarted his blighted biology.
It was here that Okor drew the line, as his hearts beat in double-time. Acid flowed through his veins, the reinvigoration sublime, energizing the pestilent prime. He was without his weaponized war crimes, his ancient armour little more than a rotten rime.
He could practically feel the breath of the beast on his skin, its strength denying him his undying linchpin.
The rapid rhythm of hoof and heart beats repeats, Illidan roaring as he brought a fist towards the entropic elite.
Words are wind, steeped in the power of sin.
Okor did not question the origin of this truth, spitting out a shattered tooth.
His crimson eye tore itself open, glaring at the charging Illidan.
The winds of Chaos coruscated around his carcass, iridescence pulsing to the rhythm of biological bass, channeling its infinite energies with a rasp.
”I drop this beat like a Virus Bomb, leave you broken without a Qualm.”
The words warped reality, detritus defying gravity as it formed a maelstrom of debris. Decrepit digits dug into his palm, surrendering his mind to the eerie calm. He cared not from where this power came, interested only in its potential to maim.
”I will shatter your back, always on the attack, another corpse on the stack. Pain. For you, it wracks, for me it lacks, so I inflict the slack.”
As the words left his leprous lips, they brought about a lyrical apocalypse. Stone-like scales were sundered, the sound of organic armour splitting akin to thunder. Illidan’s advance was halted as he roared in rage and pain to the backdrop of innumerable souls long since slain.
Grinning gangrenous, Okor upped the pace, imposing his will on realspace, each syllable slipping from his sable fangs striking like a mace.
”Daemon, please. I’ve got this battle on lock, thrown away the keys. Ten millennia of dementia, compared to which you’re rodentia, afflicted with pyrexia, septicemia stalled only by anemia.”
The Betrayer's black hide bubbled, the touch of Nurgle far from subtle. Nonetheless, Illidan still came, slowly decomposing digits descending, the intention of the Daemon’s attentions plain.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The beat that had invigorated him faded, his surroundings and situations emerging in frightening clarity. While the grace of Gods had momentarily stalled the Lord of the Outland’s advance, his foe’s physiology had preserved them through the worst of the assault, their epidermis slipping into entropy. Calciferous claws dug into the drained defiler, impaling him. Maglocked boots dug into the dirt as he struggled to stay standing, clutching at the terrible talons thrust through his torso, his stomach splitting as sinuous strands of skin and spines wrapped themselves around his attacker.
Wrapping his hands around the mouldering mass of malformed entrails, Okor began to pull, his weight and strength, coupled with the Daemon’s instinct to follow its prey, dragged the beast with him. Its other fist glanced off of his helmet, the rage and hunger inherent to Illidan’s new form encouraging his recklessness and savagery.
That suited the Plague Marine’s needs perfectly. Each step backwards took the pair closer to the gates, the fear of those cowering within the walls a sweet aroma to the darkness-touched brawlers.
”You can taste their terror, can’t… you?” Burbled Okor, lungs lanced through by Illidan’s claws. He pressed himself closer, talons protruding further from his pestilent plate as he slid along the sinister spears.
”Listen to their cries. Glut yourself on the screams of every suffering soul.”
He broke the mismatched stare, glancing over the Fel Warrior’s shoulder, watching his shadow-cloaked ally advancing, sword drawn.
”Choke on it.”
Quote:985 Words according to Wordcounter.net. Rad-bolter, phosphex pistol, Hunger, Winds of Chaos used. 2/6 SP remaining.
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