Dance of the Dreamers

[Okor]

The sanguine-slick steel spear shot out from the swordsman’s palm, its length sinking deep into Okor’s shoulder as he charged forward, its point tearing through his flesh and bone as momentum carried him onwards, an equal participant in this brutal skewering. Bone cracked beneath its tainted tip, a roar of rage echoing over the ephemeral plains as the rampaging revenant’s right arm was torn apart, flaps of festering flesh fluttering in the astral breeze as the Plague Marine continued his inexorable advance. Shattered fragments of his skeleton were left to sizzle and hiss against the ‘earth’ beneath the dreamers, his internal chemistry dangerously volatile. A fetid fist raised high to deliver a fitting response found nothing as a swarm of silvered blades flew into their battle, finding a new home in both his own and Kuzuru’s flesh as a new challenger appeared.

A word came from the cossack-clad Priest’s lips, curled in hatred and rage. Demon.

A gurgling laugh blossomed forth from the depths of his ruined respiratory system, blade and boot lashing out to drive the latest challenger back. Had this realm truly accustomed him so deeply to such strange powers that he could no longer recognize a Demon? For a brief moment, he stood side by side with his hunter, acidic blood dripping from his wounds, a crimson eye filled with an equal mixture of mirth, cataracts, and parasites staring down at Kuzuru. ”You want to know why I fight, you who would name themself, Daemon? You, who is wise enough to seal the fortress of your mind?”

Okor’s form bubbled and warped, shifting and changing in unnatural means, a roiling mass of muscle and flesh as he reformed himself before their eyes, mouldering muscle turning crimson and filled with life as he sought another shell with which to continue his eternal war.

He stood before them, renewed and remade, his right arm severed at the shoulder, the flow of blood having long since ceased thanks to a post-human physiology. His bolter was raised high in the other fist, its blocky form cleansed of verdigris, an eagle clutching a bow and arrows adorning its flank. ”To Conquer. To save every soul in this cursed realm from Omni’s scourge.”

A thrown bayonet lodged itself in his armoured gut, the pearlescent white armour only allowing it the slightest penetration before it detonated, subsuming the now-noble warrior in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel.

He emerged, his warplate blackened and his bolter spitting death, hot brass casings falling to the earth beneath as cobblestones erected themselves under his tread. A shell burrowed through the Demon’s thigh, the slim figure of the sword-spirit permitting it no place to rest as it detonated behind him, the impact sending him stumbling forward into a haymaker punch wrapped around the hilt of a bayonet. Another blade was destined for the warrior’s throat, only for the piercing blow to be knocked aside with the unmistakable ring of steel against silver.

A ruinous blade, red runes adorning its ebon length, was clutched in a Demon’s claw. One arm was a wispy construct of shadow, but everything else was all too real: A black carapace, a fire-forged eye hungering for their souls, the smell of brimstone permeating the atmosphere. It spoke, growling as reality reverberated around its unhallowed form, blackened bones bursting forth from the ravaged earth, macabre constructs of charred remains raising themselves further to the heavens. ”To kill. To feel the blood run over my claws, and to hear bones break beneath my touch.”

The newly minted monstrosity lunged forwards, crimson cleaver sliding beneath Anderson’s guard, slicing into the flesh of his forearm, a greave striking out and hooking around Kuzuru’s ankle, dragging him to the earth as the true Demon continued his duel. The holy man was on the back foot now, slowly retreating before the bloodlust and fury he was faced with, each bone-shattering impact of blade against bayonet cracking bones and sending pain lancing up the priest’s arms. A blade was clutched in his off-hand, prepared for its journey into the beast’s breast, only for a strike from the shadowy limb to obscure Anderson’s vision, a flick of his fingers sending it sailing into a pauldron in its place.

A guillotine-like blade cleaved through the Demon from behind, Kuzuru’s face strained with pain and exertion staring down the priest as halves of their mutual foe turned to shadow, coalescing into a singular, small form.

A child, prepubescent, stood before the priest, black locks hanging over a sweat-soaked brow, Hazel eyes filled with fear and determination, a simple, well-worn sickle clutched in his hand, while his right arm, shredded by the gentle caress of claws, hung limp at his side. He spoke, stumbling forward as he raised the farming implement, defiance on his lips as he moved. ”To survive, for this is my life, and none shall take it from me.”

A contemptuous snarl came from Kuzuru, answering this show of defiance with a spray of sable shards. The youngling fell, desperation and hate still etched on his face.

The freshly-forged carrion collapsed into a primordial soup, burning the aether beneath for a brief moment before a hulking form arose from the nothingness.

Okor stood, resplendent in rot. He rose his rusted cleaver in challenge, the parted flesh of his arm oh-so-slowly knitting itself back together as he readied himself for further violence.

”To end this twisted excuse for an existence.”

935 Words. 2 SP used to activate Battle Trance for the Round. 4/7 SP remaining.

Current stats are 6/6/2/5.
Kuzuru got a gunshot, withsome shrapnel to the thigh, as well as the moral implications of killing lil' Okor.
Andersen got some fractures and cuts to his arms.
Okor's got a currently useless right arm, and some stabbing.
Weiss is presumably about to stab us all horribly.