Colosseum - Round 2 - Okor vs Monkey D Luffy

[Okor]

A toxic miasma enshrouded Okor, gases swirling around his bulk as he stumbled backwards, the ferocity of his opponent throwing him off-balance. His guns fell and affixed themselves to his greaves, the possibility of flammability not entirely discounted. It was nigh-impossible to think. The youth was a constant blur of motion, striking with impossibly powerful blows. Better than you. The thought seeped into his mind like a subtle poison. There was no denying it. The Plague Marine was up against his superior, a mere whelp granted power beyond reckoning by the whims of a mad godling. He began to take a step forward, when the shrieking of sundered steel came from beneath his feet.

With a screamed curse, the pestilential paladin fell, dead claws scrabbling at the rapidly corroded floor he once stood upon, desperately seeking for any hold, no matter how tenuous. The gods graced him with a spear of shattered metal, which promptly scratched against his ceramite gauntlet, scoring gouges in the fog-afflicted material. With a grunt of effort, be began to haul himself over the lip of the newly appeared chasm. Unfortunately, this endeavour was cut short by a cry of “GOMU GOMU AXE!”, and a foot crashing down on his skull from on high. Decrepit vertebrae cracked under the force, the absurd strength of his foe causing him to spiral ever-downwards, his fragile handhold shattering under his weight. He flailed wildly, sinking into the deathly miasma. The pirate’s mocking laughter became the only sound as he plummeted, as even the bastard’s youthful face became obscured by poisonous gas.

Nurgle’s chosen son slammed onto the harsh rockcrete,cracks spinning a haphazard web across its surface. Warnings blared in his helm, cautioning him that his ‘air’ supply was breached. Accompanying it were sigils Okor no longer recognized, lost to the rotten recesses of his mind. A skull and crossed bones. A circle surrounded by three warped squares. Snarling, he rose to his feet, the dark figure of the pirate barely visible through the murderous mist. Flesh and bone knitted itself back together, but his machinery was more stubborn. His helmet was shattered beyond repair, the cracked lens unable to do anything more than blare its strange warnings.

With arms sizzling from the hostile environs, chemically-induced lesions spreading across his bare flesh, he removed his helmet, raising its damaged construction over his horn. Through black, broken teeth he breathed, magical death flowing past his lips. Just like home. Now, there was a problem. His foe danced in the sky, while he was relegated to the ground. Home. How did we solve this on Barbarus? The answer was simple. If your foe was atop a spire shrouded in lethal miasma, you climbed the tower, and watched them squirm as you crushed their throat beneath your boot. Ruined claws grasped at the surface of the pillar, acidic fog burning away at his thin veneer of life. Pistons snarled in protest as their workings suffered under the noxious touch of the gas. But he moved, hauling himself ever-upward, towards his doom.

He impaled his naked palm on a brutal spike, solidifying his grip. Hang on, even if only by a thread. Never fall, never surrender. A blur of movement was visible out of the corner of his fevered eye. An elastic fist careened towards him, impossible anatomy carrying it from atop the pirate’s perch to Okor’s face. Grim determination set on his face, the marine braced, his malformed maw opening, ravenous tendrils sinuously snaking towards the approaching arm. The awaited blow connected, splintering Okor’s nose even as horrific teeth opened in a grin. Barbed tentacles wrapped around the rubbery appendage as it retracted, his foe’s titanic strength carrying the Plague Marine along for the ride, mists blurring below as he accompanied the fist on its journey to the platform. To battle. The journey of Nurgle’s chosen was interrupted by a sudden whipping motion from his foe, and the unforgiving steel of the arena. He skidded across the surface, sparks stemming from the friction of metal on ceramite. Laughter filled the arena, both from the audience and from his opponent. He slowly rose to his feet, spitting out rotten teeth from his shattered mouth, as his opponent taunted. “Cor, ain't you an ugly one. Didn’t think I hit you bad enough to give you a mug that bad.” Okor’s cyclopean, hateful eye fixated itself on his foe, as he drew his pitted blade, necrotic slime dripping from his blackened teeth.

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