Incendiary gas ignited within the great drake’s maw once more, blackened blood spreading through crimson gums as flame flowed forth from within its fury-fuelled heart. Burning lances of all-devouring fire streaked towards the unfortunate victims of the Wyrm. A cloak, the finery of the very gods, was burnt to mere embers, the divine fabric doing nothing more than delaying the unrelenting onslaught of the inferno by the merest fraction of a second. The discarded cloak of the Thunder God was quickly consumed by the conflagration, the great boulder behind which the Nordic deity bled shielding them from Volvagia’s wrath. The limbs of the Crash Magician barely avoided the same fate as the god-touched garment, the fluctuating wave of force summoned forth from within them denying the fire the chance to unleash its ravenous, devouring appetites.
The heat, however, was a different matter. Delicate machinery within their appendage overheated and flowed freely, the intense energies of Volvagia’s breath causing springs to wither and burn, gears to lose their shape and fall to pieces, molten metal seeping into their arm.
Not many others fared better. Okor’s fellow dean crouched under a barrier of their own creation, their psychic focus bending and snapping as their mental shield withheld them from the flame, every near-silent forming of a crack in its wooden construction piercing the atmosphere above the roar of their funerary pyre.
The mercenary Fair, who took a far more pragmatic approach to combat than his peers, had avoided the worst of the inferno, minor burns across the right side of his body doing little more than discomforting him as he opened fire, eliciting a screech of fury from the dragon. They were little more than roaches in its ruby-tinted eyes, insects to be speared upon its onyx claws, to be cast aside and forgotten like so many others before them.
The thing about roaches, however, is that they were damned hard to kill.
Purifying flame washed over Okor, virulent corruption flowing from every pore to replace what was scoured away, the rush of power running through his veins bringing a crazed grin to the ruined face beneath the helmet, the call of combat superior to any mortal sensation. Every fibre of his ancient being was gene-forged for this moment, every cell screaming exultation as they writhed within his dessicated flesh, demanding blood.
And he was more than happy to offer it.
As blackened flesh fell from him, charred chunks of arguably living meat leaving his corporeal form, he screamed back at the undisputed ruler of the Steppes, millennia of violence and hatred focusing itself upon a new target, the broken vox of his armour distorting it into a daemonic howl. The filth that suffused his being warped and twisted under the flame, liquid corruption resolving itself into thick steel and synthmuscle, rusted and jagged spears of bronze sinking into his brain as he was hidden from the too-cruel world within his cage of steel. Taloned feet the size of a man brought the chassis of the mechanical monstrosity forward, the bulwark of brutality a nigh-invincible break in the flame, the snarling of gears accompanying the raising of a truly titanic hammer. Corroded fists that could tear apart tanks gripped the haft of a dreadnought-sized hammer, the rusted haft nearly as tall as the mammoth machine, the savage head of the weapon surrounded by coruscating wreaths of palpable wrath.
There are such things as memetic impulses. Wraiths of legends that have outlived generations, phrases and actions encoded deep into the genome over decades of constant exposure. When the situation arises, there is no chance to fight them: the momentary possession overtaking conscious thought and making itself manifest.
With a roar of fury that rivalled the Wyrm’s own, Nurgle’s Chosen proclaimed the end of the beast.
”It’s Hammer Time!”
The great gouts of soul-searing flame ceased, a look somewhat analogous to shock and surprise spreading across their draconic visage as The Gigaton Hammer descended upon them, the meteoritic descent of the Fist of The Gods unimpeded by the inferno blazing across their assailant. As hungry flames ran rampant across the diseased bulk, burning at the rot that infused the juggernaut, the Gigaton Hammer impacted.
The effects were immediate.
Entropic energies were released from the warhammer, the ever-present fires dying, robbed of their heat, denied their life. Shimmering scales turned sullen, obsidian cracking beneath his inhuman might as Volvagia screamed in pain and agony, the previously deified being suffering under the wrath of a mere mortal. Teeth, blackened by the infection seeping into the beast’s veins, came forth, closing around the trunk-sized mechanical wrist of the warmachine, glazed eyes blinded by pain and agony, shards of broken bone shifting within their skull as they struck. Fangs as long as a man’s arm dug into his adamantium carapace, tearing into pus-filled hydraulic pistons, shredding bone-wrought cogs, sprays of tainted arterial fluids adorning its maw as a fist collided into its side, the ear-piercing grinding of gears accompanying the motion.
Volvagia broke off of its assault, along with his arm, the cybernetic limb coming free in a wash of corrupted oil and warp-tainted octarine sparks, the Gigaton hammer falling to the volcanic ashes as his draconic foe spat out the diseased limb, plumes of cinders accompanying its impact.
Its attacker disarmed, the drake whipped around, its sinuous tail cracking against his corroded carapace, knocking the titan to the ground with the crack of splintering steel, redundant life-support systems straining to keep the occupant of the armour ‘alive’.
Dark laughter came forth from the prone titan, his mammoth machinery slowly melting away as his prey turned to savage the other hunters, the dim sensation of static feedback locking down his gauntlet, the sensation of his arm’s removal impossible for any mortal to merely ignore.
He found it irrelevant. Victory was at hand, the great god of fire and flame bled and wept, the savagery of the violence they had inflicted upon it insurmountable. His sole remaining functioning arm reached out and clasped around the haft of the drained hammer, sheets of metal sloughing off of his body as he rose, the legendary weapon in hand.
It was time to finish this.
The heat, however, was a different matter. Delicate machinery within their appendage overheated and flowed freely, the intense energies of Volvagia’s breath causing springs to wither and burn, gears to lose their shape and fall to pieces, molten metal seeping into their arm.
Not many others fared better. Okor’s fellow dean crouched under a barrier of their own creation, their psychic focus bending and snapping as their mental shield withheld them from the flame, every near-silent forming of a crack in its wooden construction piercing the atmosphere above the roar of their funerary pyre.
The mercenary Fair, who took a far more pragmatic approach to combat than his peers, had avoided the worst of the inferno, minor burns across the right side of his body doing little more than discomforting him as he opened fire, eliciting a screech of fury from the dragon. They were little more than roaches in its ruby-tinted eyes, insects to be speared upon its onyx claws, to be cast aside and forgotten like so many others before them.
The thing about roaches, however, is that they were damned hard to kill.
Purifying flame washed over Okor, virulent corruption flowing from every pore to replace what was scoured away, the rush of power running through his veins bringing a crazed grin to the ruined face beneath the helmet, the call of combat superior to any mortal sensation. Every fibre of his ancient being was gene-forged for this moment, every cell screaming exultation as they writhed within his dessicated flesh, demanding blood.
And he was more than happy to offer it.
As blackened flesh fell from him, charred chunks of arguably living meat leaving his corporeal form, he screamed back at the undisputed ruler of the Steppes, millennia of violence and hatred focusing itself upon a new target, the broken vox of his armour distorting it into a daemonic howl. The filth that suffused his being warped and twisted under the flame, liquid corruption resolving itself into thick steel and synthmuscle, rusted and jagged spears of bronze sinking into his brain as he was hidden from the too-cruel world within his cage of steel. Taloned feet the size of a man brought the chassis of the mechanical monstrosity forward, the bulwark of brutality a nigh-invincible break in the flame, the snarling of gears accompanying the raising of a truly titanic hammer. Corroded fists that could tear apart tanks gripped the haft of a dreadnought-sized hammer, the rusted haft nearly as tall as the mammoth machine, the savage head of the weapon surrounded by coruscating wreaths of palpable wrath.
There are such things as memetic impulses. Wraiths of legends that have outlived generations, phrases and actions encoded deep into the genome over decades of constant exposure. When the situation arises, there is no chance to fight them: the momentary possession overtaking conscious thought and making itself manifest.
With a roar of fury that rivalled the Wyrm’s own, Nurgle’s Chosen proclaimed the end of the beast.
”It’s Hammer Time!”
The great gouts of soul-searing flame ceased, a look somewhat analogous to shock and surprise spreading across their draconic visage as The Gigaton Hammer descended upon them, the meteoritic descent of the Fist of The Gods unimpeded by the inferno blazing across their assailant. As hungry flames ran rampant across the diseased bulk, burning at the rot that infused the juggernaut, the Gigaton Hammer impacted.
The effects were immediate.
Entropic energies were released from the warhammer, the ever-present fires dying, robbed of their heat, denied their life. Shimmering scales turned sullen, obsidian cracking beneath his inhuman might as Volvagia screamed in pain and agony, the previously deified being suffering under the wrath of a mere mortal. Teeth, blackened by the infection seeping into the beast’s veins, came forth, closing around the trunk-sized mechanical wrist of the warmachine, glazed eyes blinded by pain and agony, shards of broken bone shifting within their skull as they struck. Fangs as long as a man’s arm dug into his adamantium carapace, tearing into pus-filled hydraulic pistons, shredding bone-wrought cogs, sprays of tainted arterial fluids adorning its maw as a fist collided into its side, the ear-piercing grinding of gears accompanying the motion.
Volvagia broke off of its assault, along with his arm, the cybernetic limb coming free in a wash of corrupted oil and warp-tainted octarine sparks, the Gigaton hammer falling to the volcanic ashes as his draconic foe spat out the diseased limb, plumes of cinders accompanying its impact.
Its attacker disarmed, the drake whipped around, its sinuous tail cracking against his corroded carapace, knocking the titan to the ground with the crack of splintering steel, redundant life-support systems straining to keep the occupant of the armour ‘alive’.
Dark laughter came forth from the prone titan, his mammoth machinery slowly melting away as his prey turned to savage the other hunters, the dim sensation of static feedback locking down his gauntlet, the sensation of his arm’s removal impossible for any mortal to merely ignore.
He found it irrelevant. Victory was at hand, the great god of fire and flame bled and wept, the savagery of the violence they had inflicted upon it insurmountable. His sole remaining functioning arm reached out and clasped around the haft of the drained hammer, sheets of metal sloughing off of his body as he rose, the legendary weapon in hand.
It was time to finish this.
Quote:Tier Two Transformation: Dreadnought used. -2 SP.
Tier Two Super Move: Gigaton Hammer used. -2 SP.
0/5 SP remaining.
![[Image: DarkshireDefenseBadge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/DarkshireDefenseBadge.png)
![[Image: HerosGraveyardBadge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/HerosGraveyardBadge.png)
![[Image: DA15Badge.png]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/13/DA15Badge.png)