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

[Okor]

With a multi-coloured flash, the last glob of sludge settled into place, and the oversize form of Okor was remade here, his pestilential presence tainting these hallowed halls.With an annoyed grunt, he thrust himself forward from his kneeling position, despising the thought that he might be showing deference to this... grouping. Whispers of warlocks and relics rattled within his rotten skull, emanating from the ghastly wight hovering in the center of this temple to false gods. He cast his gaze over the other primes gathered to this farce, pulled to this strange 'verse to compete for the hope of an artifact.

It was that damnable abyss all over again. A melting pot of fresh primes, thrown in as chum to the vicious veterans. Back then, The Legions stood united, facing off against misfits from a profusion of worlds. But now...

He stood at the forefront of the ragtag horde. His claw fished through his tabard for a symbol of the institute as he looked upon what he had to work with.

A scarlet-haired woman, her attire decidedly primitive, laid against a mural-covered wall, a blazing ring of crimson light hanging over her head, like a sword of Damocles promising hellfire should it sense weakness. Brutal scars marred the skin not covered by the rags, the lash of the whip familiar to any who spent time around the forces of Chaos. Some kind of slave, perhaps? So long as their will was unbroken, they would be of use.

A small, blond child. Was this 'Teucuer' mad, taking a yout- Wait. He had seen that child before, on the way to the Arena. There were two of them last time. They had summoned some Daemon engine of stone to carry them through the skies. What kind of magic powered that small form? He would prefer a proper warrior, but they could make a powerful, if unpredictable asset while they lasted.

One tall figure, clad in a black storm cloak, adorned with armour, and with an arm terminating in some kind of mechanism. Something was wrong, though. Too-flat surfaces, as if he was bolted together from sheets of steel and daubed with appropriate colours. A cape hung from steel-clad shoulders, indicating some kind of status.

Some youth, seemingly playing at war, crimson armour covering the slight figure. An orange cape hung from slim shoulders, making it clear just how juvenile this arrival was. How did they get sele- No. No, this was an attempt to apply sanity to this world. If there was anything he had learned from this realm, it was that nothing could be taken for granted. What of Weiss? They were easily one of the most impressive warriors he had witnessed, and they were scarcely older than this child. They would need to be watched.

Victor, Gods-Damned, Wolfe. He swallowed the surge of corrosive bile that accompanied the appearance of the accursed brat, the sizzling saliva burning its way down his tumour-laden throat. Wherever they walked, they brought shame. He let his crimson gaze fall on them for a moment longer, moving it away as he silently wished for a brief and messy end to the bastard.

Many of the others passed in a blur. A Robe-clad woman, a damned mouse, a profusion of lightly armoured sneaks, and one machine of some kind. It was a motley band of primes, drawn together to die. Damn it all. He had nothing more than the rejects, the mutants, the outcasts to work with.

A black grin spread underneath his decrepit helmet.The Lost and the Damned. The misfits, the desperate hordes that made up the bulk of the forces of Chaos. His flock.

He pulled an Onyx shield from his tabard, holding the black symbol up, the gilded gem reflecting the fire’s light across the walls, strange shadows splaying themselves across the masonry, forming mind-twisting patterns without corresponding shapes to cast them.

“Institute. Assemble.”