10-07-2015, 07:09 PM
The marine jumped down from the obsidian flank of the flying beast, necrotic feet impacting heavily on the soft earth, a small cloud of dust billowing up from his landing. He outstretched his lengthy arms, catching the giggling child that accompanied him, settling Rebbecca on to the ground. The majesty of their mount dissipated behind him, its inanimate mass collapsing back into the stone that had brought it forth. That was, without a doubt, the singular worst experience he had ever had the displeasure of existing through. Kilometers above the surface of the earth, skimming through air and clouds, twisting and turning around the intricacies of the convection cycle. The height was dizzying, the feeling of watching such a great distance traversed in such little time nauseating. He could see why the Thunderhawks and Drop-pods he had used had lacked windows. Not only were they a structural weakness, but the sheer disorientation of such velocity... He shook the thoughts off as Rebbecca pranced around the bustle of the city. She gripped his pestilential claw and dragged him forward, the heavy stomp of his ceramite boots following behind the little sister. The marble walls of the Colliseum loomed into view, its arches already packed with the masses. The weak, thoughtless masses, flocking to a source of simple, blood-filled entertainment. They were bored dullards, seeking escape from the utter meaningless of their daily lives. Pathetic.
His rotten eye, still pinkish where it had recovered from its earlier maiming, spotted a gaudily decorated stand by the entrance, the destination of Rebbecca's inexorable progress. It bore some writing on a banner strung between poles mounted on either side, but it was nothing more that scrawls to Okor. It was several seconds before her short stride brought the undead warrior to the booth, as the young woman within its wooden construction looked up at the towering giant, his baleful eye bearing down onto her demure pale face. "Hi there, here to register?" She spoke in a chipper tone, free of fear, terror, or anxiety. "You are not... worried?" spoke the Plague Marine, questioning the lady's seeming fearlessness. She responded with a bright smile. "I apprentice at the local mage's guild. After the fourth organ inversion, you begin to become a little bit... jaded, let's say." She dragged out a piece of paper and a Quill, setting it down in front of the Chosen of Nurgle, tapping an empty field with her slight finger. "Just sign here. The rest is largely administrative data. All I need to know is that you're of age in your home 'verse, a Prime, and understand that these can very well be fights to the death." The hulk of dead flesh chuckled as his passengers writhed within him. "I've outlived several civilizations, young one. I do not... fear death, for Nurgle embraces me." He flicked his bare fingers, an iridescence manifesting between jaundiced claws. Omnillium. "I believe this... suffices for evidence of my state of being." The attendant laughed, confirming his assumption. He pointed his gauntlet at his ward, the child beaming up over the lip of the desk. He slipped a disk of shifting colours across the rough wood of the surface, swirling variations running over its veneer of stability. "I presume this will suffice for her... Entrance fee?" The woman took the token of power, slipping it into a steel strongbox beneath her workplace. "It sure will. Just sign, and you can head on in."
Okor took the Quill in his claw, and began to mark the paper, forming the symbols he was told served as his identifier, declaring himself to be one of the Legions of Old, ancient and powerful. One amongst many, broken and rebuilt by the ages, transformed into something less than Human, while being substantially more.
14-4-8-7.
Passing the slip back to the attendant, he began to walk through the arches, the distinct feeling of repressed bloodlust suffusing the atmosphere.
Blood for the crowds, so that his name would be carved into legend.
Blood for the gods, so that his name would be carved into the stars.
Blood for himself, so that his name would be carved into his foe's chests.
His rotten eye, still pinkish where it had recovered from its earlier maiming, spotted a gaudily decorated stand by the entrance, the destination of Rebbecca's inexorable progress. It bore some writing on a banner strung between poles mounted on either side, but it was nothing more that scrawls to Okor. It was several seconds before her short stride brought the undead warrior to the booth, as the young woman within its wooden construction looked up at the towering giant, his baleful eye bearing down onto her demure pale face. "Hi there, here to register?" She spoke in a chipper tone, free of fear, terror, or anxiety. "You are not... worried?" spoke the Plague Marine, questioning the lady's seeming fearlessness. She responded with a bright smile. "I apprentice at the local mage's guild. After the fourth organ inversion, you begin to become a little bit... jaded, let's say." She dragged out a piece of paper and a Quill, setting it down in front of the Chosen of Nurgle, tapping an empty field with her slight finger. "Just sign here. The rest is largely administrative data. All I need to know is that you're of age in your home 'verse, a Prime, and understand that these can very well be fights to the death." The hulk of dead flesh chuckled as his passengers writhed within him. "I've outlived several civilizations, young one. I do not... fear death, for Nurgle embraces me." He flicked his bare fingers, an iridescence manifesting between jaundiced claws. Omnillium. "I believe this... suffices for evidence of my state of being." The attendant laughed, confirming his assumption. He pointed his gauntlet at his ward, the child beaming up over the lip of the desk. He slipped a disk of shifting colours across the rough wood of the surface, swirling variations running over its veneer of stability. "I presume this will suffice for her... Entrance fee?" The woman took the token of power, slipping it into a steel strongbox beneath her workplace. "It sure will. Just sign, and you can head on in."
Okor took the Quill in his claw, and began to mark the paper, forming the symbols he was told served as his identifier, declaring himself to be one of the Legions of Old, ancient and powerful. One amongst many, broken and rebuilt by the ages, transformed into something less than Human, while being substantially more.
14-4-8-7.
Passing the slip back to the attendant, he began to walk through the arches, the distinct feeling of repressed bloodlust suffusing the atmosphere.
Blood for the crowds, so that his name would be carved into legend.
Blood for the gods, so that his name would be carved into the stars.
Blood for himself, so that his name would be carved into his foe's chests.
![[Image: DarkshireDefenseBadge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/DarkshireDefenseBadge.png)
![[Image: HerosGraveyardBadge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/HerosGraveyardBadge.png)
![[Image: DA15Badge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/DA15Badge.png)