The Temple of Artemis(Pre-Event/Intro Thread)

[Okor]

Massive pauldrons, their corroded surface dripping with foul effluence, pushed past the gaudily-clad crowds. Each thundering footstep shook the earth, plumes of dust accompanying the Plague Marine’s every step. Merchants and audience alike parted before him, laboured breath echoing inside his rusted helmet as a murky eye swivelled through its corrosive atmosphere of toxins, a rotten perception looking upon the huddled masses as they attempted to surreptitiously avoid the monster in their midst. A child dawdled, extending a singular pudgy finger towards the advancing hulk, only to be forcibly dragged back into the crowd by an attendant mother. The abomination they had once bet on, cheered along, and praised on the field of battle was now an object of scorn and fear. A rotten tongue ran across similarly pestilential fangs as he relished in the palpable aura of terror emanating from the mortals that made their lair in this detestable realm. Claws twitched as they went to the decrepit rope at his waist, seeking out the ivory crown that he had stolen, the bone key to the Orcish Tribes’ loyalties.

A rusted gauntlet closed around the regal regalia’s position, clenching around empty air where there should have been the precious artifact. Slowly turning his ancient visage towards that which he took for granted, a fury began to build within the holy terror. That which was his had been stolen, robbing him of the glory he so desperately sought. A list of suspects ran through the rotten remnants of his mind, his inexorable advance down the cobbled streets halted to address this crime. The Bandit? Unlikely. They wouldn’t take something non-weaponized as a trophy, from what he’d seen, not to mention their state at the end of their battle. That left those who had access to his damnable prison. The apothecaries. They were wholly creatures of Camelot, and there was no doubt in his mind that such a despicable kingdom would accept the poor excuses for Eldar amongst their midst. His crown must have been moved to The Tangled Green ahead of him, delivered right into the frail hands of the Elves. A murderous chuckle seeped from his antique armour, as he began to move. He could smell the blood on the wind, feel the call to battle pulsing through his veins. A black smile opened up, jagged fangs hollowed and filled with parasites protruding from a veritable sea of corruption, the undeniable call to Destiny puling him-

Down.

The street vanished as Okor’s next step took him into oblivion, an endless dark consuming his foot and forcing him into the abyss. There was no wind to offer resistance, no tempest to drown out his strangled scream as he plummeted, forced back only by his pride. In truth, the only evidence that he was falling would be his horizontal posture, and the migration of his organs (And accompanying parasites) towards his back, distending the papery flesh with their bulk.

He was not given much time to ponder his current situation, as a marble plane extended before him, rapidly filling his vision as armour and flesh alike turned into a virulent sludge, bones and ceramite dissolving into the slime as consciousness abandoned him in favour of survival.

With a splat, a deluge of what could charitably be called sewage landed on the pristine floor, spraying itself against the immaculate pillars due to the force of the landing. After a moment of pause, enough to allow the corruption to begin to drip from the archaic architecture, it began to flow to the central mass at the end of his terminal drop, the necrotic form of Okor slowly rising from the filth. Sparkles of Omnillium accompanied his rebirth, solidifying and locking his form as his twisted horn crested the lip of the corruption, gnarled fingers grasping at the edge, pulling the heretical horror from the primordial nothingness from which he returned to.