03-25-2016, 08:37 PM
A snarl wormed its way from Okor’s pitted helmet, the growl starting in the back of its diseased throat and promising to end in someone else’s. To say that this battle was not proceeding as it should was an understatement. It was a mockery of the sacred struggle that he had brought to a thousand worlds, a perversion of his purpose. A scream of agony echoed across the emptiness, heralding a lance of ivory energy that tore through his torso, vaporizing its way through ceramite and fused bone before emerging out of his back, a thin trail of smoke accompanying it.
He gazed down at this grievous wound, an arrow embedded in the chitinous carapace concealing his skull, revealing naught but the infected iris of his infernal oculus. It was quite clearly a mortal wound, a strike that would have stood a fair chance of downing a charging grox. Nurgle’s chosen merely grinned, septic spittle stretching between his fangs as he spoke. ”Missed both my… hearts.” The laughter stopped as soon as it began, the ancient warrior cursing himself for making such a tragic mistake: Taking his eye off of the foe. Violent arcs of incandescent energy coruscated around the berserker’s arms, two hands stained with his own blood grabbing the rusted iron of his helm, and driving it down onto a raised knee. Confusion tinged Okor’s final thoughts, questioning the purpose of such a futile maneuver.
A flash of incandescent energy erased his consciousness for the briefest of moments, atomizing the damaged structure of his second skin as it collided with the brutal force of the blood mage, bone cracking against iron as they strived to share the same space.
The warriors stumbled away from each other, black smoke pouring from Okor’s skull as the berserker panted, corroded fragments of shrapnel embedded in his arms and right leg, the corruption his wargear was seeped in spreading through the wounds.
A wordless howl pierced the air, a twisted spire of cracked bone emerging from the thick cloud, ravaged tatters of skin hanging from a flayed skull, tainted tusks failing to withhold the acidic spittle leaking from his maw. Strazio, his view obscured by the acrid smoke rising from the latest victim of his magecraft, was caught off-guard by the sudden movement, the tip of Okor’s horn meeting yielding flesh, the pestilential protrusion piercing his abdomen. “Motherfucker!” Came the cry, bloodied arms beating against the giant’s back, cracking his carapace, denting the armour that had long since become one with his skin, every neural interface screeching agony and indignation along his frayed nerves.
Realizing that Nurgle’s chosen paid no heed to his assault, Rockwell snarled in pain as he forced himself off, the clumsy movements of his foe unable to keep him impaled on his horn. Breaking apart, the two circled each other, a brief moment of peace serving only to exaggerate the chaos surrounding them.
His skull was filled with static. It was the only description he could think of, as scrapcode and primitive anger bled from his steadfast companion, a translucent trickle of drying blood dribbling from his obliterated nose. His lone eye, set in a mass of twisted bone and burnt skin, glared with unreasoning hatred, filthy froth staining a ragged beard as he hunched over, weapons forgotten as slurred curses spilled forth, summoning the dread powers that gave their patronage to the monster.
Strazio, however, wasted no time in prayer, a scream of agony and anger heralding his vaporization, the avatar of rage discarding his physical form in favour of raw fury. A hateful haze moved past the ancient warrior, scorching and scarring his bared skin, the devotional dirge increasing in intensity, refusing to be silenced by the berserker. He turned, his ponderous, plague-ridden corpse struggling to keep up with the speed of his foe, the hit and run tactics incredibly frustrating to one so accustomed to gruelling wars of attrition.
Much to his surprise, this was not a mere hit and run.
Bloodied fingers wrapped themselves around the pallid skin of Okor’s arm, digging deep into mummified flesh as a heavy boot crashed into his abdomen, malformed ribs cracking under the pressure as a manic grin spread across his foe’s face. His leathery hide split apart as Strazio pulled, maggots and worse writhing underneath his flesh, falling from the rents as his gauntlet raised the rusted pistol towards the youth, the mechanical scream of unimaginable pain resounding through his every deadened nerve.
It was far too late. With a tearing of dessicated flesh and a pop of diseased bones coming free from their socket, his limb ripping free as he pulled the trigger, a growing cloud of napalm settling over his shoulder, a hasty dodge saving him from a fiery death. Howling his anger at the world, Straizo swung his newly acquired appendage, the squirming parasites within falling from the great wound as it collided with its former owner’s head, a blackened tooth flying away from the scene of impact.
”Bahrstahrd!” Screamed Okor, his fangs slurring his words as he pressed the heated barrel of his weapon to Rockwell’s abdominal wound, flesh sizzling even as he pulled the trigger. An inferno blossomed within his foe’s gut, phosphex filling the gaping hole left by his prior attentions, scorching Strazio’s innards with a chemical that would have broken every component of the geneva convention, had Geneva not been a smoking crater in his home ‘verse. His skull smashed against the sorcerer’s, the resounding crack of bone a soothing melody, a sweet accompaniment to the scream of pain birthed by the pyre within the berserker's belly.
An elbow careened into his stomach, the force behind it driving him back as a ravaged hand tore the pistol from his grip, the magickally enhanced maniac taking advantage of Okor’s currently reduced might to drive him back.
A snarling smile split his savaged face, the frozen heart of hatred that had kept him alive for millennia triumphing over the animalistic intelligence that dwelled within his warplate. ”Everyone thinks they’re the… Hero, don’t they?”
Rockwell stopped, confusion and curiosity seeping into his expression as he held the severed limb over his head, stopped mid-way through a skull-crushing strike. “The hell are you talking about?”
”You all think this is about you. That your… hatreds matter more than others, that your rage burns brighter than any other. That standing up to us makes you champions, figures of... Legend.” A snort of laughter broke the solemnity, the warrior no longer able to contain his mirth. ”I know I am but a pawn, a game piece of the gods. In the end, I’m nothing more than a… corpse, yet to drop.”
Omnillium turned into rusted iron, a wickedly twisted blade scything towards the paused Strazio, a throat-tearing motion used upon battlefields and altars over the aeons.
”Pawn takes king.”
He gazed down at this grievous wound, an arrow embedded in the chitinous carapace concealing his skull, revealing naught but the infected iris of his infernal oculus. It was quite clearly a mortal wound, a strike that would have stood a fair chance of downing a charging grox. Nurgle’s chosen merely grinned, septic spittle stretching between his fangs as he spoke. ”Missed both my… hearts.” The laughter stopped as soon as it began, the ancient warrior cursing himself for making such a tragic mistake: Taking his eye off of the foe. Violent arcs of incandescent energy coruscated around the berserker’s arms, two hands stained with his own blood grabbing the rusted iron of his helm, and driving it down onto a raised knee. Confusion tinged Okor’s final thoughts, questioning the purpose of such a futile maneuver.
A flash of incandescent energy erased his consciousness for the briefest of moments, atomizing the damaged structure of his second skin as it collided with the brutal force of the blood mage, bone cracking against iron as they strived to share the same space.
The warriors stumbled away from each other, black smoke pouring from Okor’s skull as the berserker panted, corroded fragments of shrapnel embedded in his arms and right leg, the corruption his wargear was seeped in spreading through the wounds.
A wordless howl pierced the air, a twisted spire of cracked bone emerging from the thick cloud, ravaged tatters of skin hanging from a flayed skull, tainted tusks failing to withhold the acidic spittle leaking from his maw. Strazio, his view obscured by the acrid smoke rising from the latest victim of his magecraft, was caught off-guard by the sudden movement, the tip of Okor’s horn meeting yielding flesh, the pestilential protrusion piercing his abdomen. “Motherfucker!” Came the cry, bloodied arms beating against the giant’s back, cracking his carapace, denting the armour that had long since become one with his skin, every neural interface screeching agony and indignation along his frayed nerves.
Realizing that Nurgle’s chosen paid no heed to his assault, Rockwell snarled in pain as he forced himself off, the clumsy movements of his foe unable to keep him impaled on his horn. Breaking apart, the two circled each other, a brief moment of peace serving only to exaggerate the chaos surrounding them.
His skull was filled with static. It was the only description he could think of, as scrapcode and primitive anger bled from his steadfast companion, a translucent trickle of drying blood dribbling from his obliterated nose. His lone eye, set in a mass of twisted bone and burnt skin, glared with unreasoning hatred, filthy froth staining a ragged beard as he hunched over, weapons forgotten as slurred curses spilled forth, summoning the dread powers that gave their patronage to the monster.
Strazio, however, wasted no time in prayer, a scream of agony and anger heralding his vaporization, the avatar of rage discarding his physical form in favour of raw fury. A hateful haze moved past the ancient warrior, scorching and scarring his bared skin, the devotional dirge increasing in intensity, refusing to be silenced by the berserker. He turned, his ponderous, plague-ridden corpse struggling to keep up with the speed of his foe, the hit and run tactics incredibly frustrating to one so accustomed to gruelling wars of attrition.
Much to his surprise, this was not a mere hit and run.
Bloodied fingers wrapped themselves around the pallid skin of Okor’s arm, digging deep into mummified flesh as a heavy boot crashed into his abdomen, malformed ribs cracking under the pressure as a manic grin spread across his foe’s face. His leathery hide split apart as Strazio pulled, maggots and worse writhing underneath his flesh, falling from the rents as his gauntlet raised the rusted pistol towards the youth, the mechanical scream of unimaginable pain resounding through his every deadened nerve.
It was far too late. With a tearing of dessicated flesh and a pop of diseased bones coming free from their socket, his limb ripping free as he pulled the trigger, a growing cloud of napalm settling over his shoulder, a hasty dodge saving him from a fiery death. Howling his anger at the world, Straizo swung his newly acquired appendage, the squirming parasites within falling from the great wound as it collided with its former owner’s head, a blackened tooth flying away from the scene of impact.
”Bahrstahrd!” Screamed Okor, his fangs slurring his words as he pressed the heated barrel of his weapon to Rockwell’s abdominal wound, flesh sizzling even as he pulled the trigger. An inferno blossomed within his foe’s gut, phosphex filling the gaping hole left by his prior attentions, scorching Strazio’s innards with a chemical that would have broken every component of the geneva convention, had Geneva not been a smoking crater in his home ‘verse. His skull smashed against the sorcerer’s, the resounding crack of bone a soothing melody, a sweet accompaniment to the scream of pain birthed by the pyre within the berserker's belly.
An elbow careened into his stomach, the force behind it driving him back as a ravaged hand tore the pistol from his grip, the magickally enhanced maniac taking advantage of Okor’s currently reduced might to drive him back.
A snarling smile split his savaged face, the frozen heart of hatred that had kept him alive for millennia triumphing over the animalistic intelligence that dwelled within his warplate. ”Everyone thinks they’re the… Hero, don’t they?”
Rockwell stopped, confusion and curiosity seeping into his expression as he held the severed limb over his head, stopped mid-way through a skull-crushing strike. “The hell are you talking about?”
”You all think this is about you. That your… hatreds matter more than others, that your rage burns brighter than any other. That standing up to us makes you champions, figures of... Legend.” A snort of laughter broke the solemnity, the warrior no longer able to contain his mirth. ”I know I am but a pawn, a game piece of the gods. In the end, I’m nothing more than a… corpse, yet to drop.”
Omnillium turned into rusted iron, a wickedly twisted blade scything towards the paused Strazio, a throat-tearing motion used upon battlefields and altars over the aeons.
”Pawn takes king.”
Quote:1167 words
Used Tier one supermove: Septic Shiv. 1 SP used, 4 remaining.
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