Out of the Gate and into the Renaissance Fair

[Okor]

Okor's constant, heavy tread carried him through the iridescence of the gate, the quiet whistling of the wind filling his senses. He took a deep breath, toxic gasses filling his four lungs. His guests rustled inside him, shifting through rotten flesh and a thin veneer of skin. A new realm. Soft, weak, devoid of technology. However, it was exploitable. From what little he knew of his prison, Camelot was accepting. The foolish, the naive, the outcasts all flocked beneath its banner, huddling around the dying fire while the electric lights of the Empire blazed. Gathering close, devoid of what knowledge his people would have of The Lord of All's gifts.

His own trophies and awards writhed in anticipation, infusing his flesh with god-granted strength. Viruses, parasites, bacteria, and things that could not be classified due to their partly spiritual nature. All of this and more lurked in the bowels of Okor, just waiting to be unleashed upon an unfortunate population. He enjoyed a gurgling chuckle at the thought, taking a simplistic pleasure in the opportunity to exercise the pure freedom Chaos granted.

"Whatcha laughin' at mister Oh-Keer?" Spoke his traveling companion from atop his shoulder, her innocent voice a stark contrast to the Plague Marine's own dark ruminations. "Just... the opportunities, Rebbecca." He responded, stopping mid-sentence to hack and cough, his ravaged system at times unable to maintain the facade of life. Rebbecca. That was a risk he was not sure he was willing to take. His ward was entrusted to him by Nealaphh, his new, worthy master. He would not needlessly risk her life. He would save the plague for the end, perhaps. Leave a message to show the people the way, tell them to embrace the disease, to cease resisting its inevitability. Only be accepting death could they stave it off. Thus was the great paradox of Nurgle. But of course, there are still more pressing issues to attend to.

Namely, finding the thrice-accursed place. His eye was still scorched from the attack, its delicate systems still rebuilding, despite his seemingly endless vitality. He hoped it would be functional in time for the tournament, so that he could face his foes, whoever they may be. If not, well, he could claim he was fighting them on equal footing. It did no good to admit weakness to underlings. "Child, watch for signage pointing to... Camelot, or the coliseum." He rasped, hoping that the strange child was more literate than he. "Why don't we just ask them?" She said, waving an arm in a direction Okor could not even hope to see. "Who?" With a feeling of mounting dread, he continued. "Describe them."

"Well, one of 'em is a little girl with horns and tentacles, she's all purple-y with eyes and stuff! She's really weird! Other one's just a little girl. With loads of birds." She said, free of the cynicism and pessimism that had begun to influence Okor's interactions. By all the foul Daemons in the deepest pits of the Warp, by all the deluded saints in the corpse-god's Imperium, why does this continue to happen to me? He began to shift himself into what he desperately hoped was shadow, only to quickly abandon his ruse. It was no use. The thrice-cursed, ever-present, constantly multiplying, endless stream of young, magical children would have already seen him. He froze, hoping against hope that they would be too absorbed into whatever invented drama they seemed to create to notice him. It was then that Rebbecca spoke up, her weight shifting upon his massive shoulder as she waved vigourously. "Hi! are you heading to the coliseum too?" Okor reached up his necrotic claw, covering his maimed eye, slowly shaking his head from side to side, yellowed horn piercing the sky.