Out of the Gate and into the Renaissance Fair

[Okor]

Okor observed the scene as best he could, a heavy lid closing over his ragged, red orb of an eye, its marred surface slowly recovering from the damage inflicted upon it. The children below him gibbered about tales of terror, unneeded molten delicacies, all utterly inconsequential. He largely tuned it out. A fire burned in the center of the grouping, flickering flames illuminating the vague, blurry shapes surrounding it. The purple mass was 'Desco', assuming that the -Chan was some form of honourific, rather than a surname. What could a child have done to earn such an honour anyways? They were not from the world of mist and mire, of death and darkness. When these whelps had been laughing, he had clutched his spear until splinters had burrowed their way into his hands so deep that it took the village healers a week to heal his wounds.

They were weak, almost painfully so. Perhaps not when the conclusion was based off of sheer power, but when applied to their wills... How long would they last against reality? With all of its pain, its ability to hurt, how would they continue without the shielding influence of Nurgle?

He gurgled a breath, as he came to his conclusion. He would make them strong. He would shield them from the cruelties of life, and show them the path to power. The path to protection. His companions squeezed his innards, writhing coils of insectile flesh slowly tunneling through his dead meat. With a minor concession to what little comfort he could feel, he lowered himself onto a fallen tree trunk, its mossy mass groaning beneath his massive weight. He snapped off a leafless branch from its dark trunk, and drew his utilitarian blade, slowly and calmly etching a fly into its surface, occasionally pausing to sweep detritus from the area of his attention, and from his devotional tabard, the sigil of Nurgle still proudly displayed.