Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Okor]

The infection moved quickly, carried along the backstreets and darkened alleys of Darkshire, tainted travellers speaking in hushed whispers of war, and the strength to survive it. Fingernails chewed to a fine point split open veins, the blighted benediction spreading to those desperate enough to accept its agonies. Sidelined soldiers rose to rag-wrapped feet, the crippling injuries that had held them back no longer hindering them, thin tendrils of corruption slowly knitting failing flesh back together.

The beggars and broken men marched, slinking along shattered stones, towards the darkened heart of the dilapidation, a siren call bringing the newly infected to the birthplace of their disease, each step paved with good intentions. They looked to each other in fear, feeling the sickness seeping through their veins, unsure if the price they paid for their promised salvation was too much.

The weeping-sored warlord stood atop a heap of debris and detritus, defiled digits conducting a shimmering symphony of Omnillium. Its iridescence coalesced into brutally simple weapons that fell from the riotous ribbons of power, into the awaiting hands of his followers. Ragged robes swaddled them, stained with filth, the stability of the steel pressed into their palms providing comfort in this time of turmoil.

Fear. Its rank stench rose above the aromatic assault of the scum surrounding him, a toxic taint in what should have been a blood-sworn brotherhood of warriors. The original trio of converts stood at his side, their flesh already jaundiced, eyes bloodshot as they grasped weapons with fevered certainty. Keith wielded a rusted blacksmith’s maul in one hand, his newfound constant companions wriggling beneath his scarred skin, his prior life of isolation already forgotten. The daring Damien watched with unblinking eyes, a well-worn crossbow clasped between bloodied fingers, the tip of the loaded bolt dripping with disease and death. Jess beamed, the all-consuming corruption having overtaken the demands of her addiction, allowing her to stand among the others as an equal, rather than a weakling waif to be protected, the knives festooning her roughspun rags a testament to her newfound confidence.

The pestilential pilgrims kneeled before him, speaking in hushed whispers of their divine saviour. They said his single eye saw into your soul, that his gaze annihilated the lies of fear and pain, that the blood of gods flowed through is venomous veins. Looking at the gangrenous giant, atop his throne of filth, Omni’s power suffusing him, it was difficult to disbelieve these rumours.

The eye opened, red with infection and a madness shackled by an unholy will. There might come a day when that will failed, when Okor’s psyche was left to tear itself apart in a self-destructive attempt to cleanse himself of corruption. But that day was most certainly not today. He rose from his seat, a tattered tabard bearing the same mark that now laid upon his flock’s souls.

”My… Children. The reckoning draws near.” He looked over the huddled mob, each one of them clutching improvised weapons in dying fingers. Knives, stones, and the jagged edges of shattered bottles were to be set against the living dead.

”The Dead march to take your lives. Darkshire has never even considered you as living.”

He hefted the sword from his side, driving the much-abused blade into the cobblestone, its length vibrating slightly as flakes of rust and dried blood fell from it.

”That changes. You are the Lost and Damned, fated to die.”

He pulled his plagueblade free, wresting it from the embrace of stone, slicing it across the throat of the towering half-Orc at his side.

The crowd collectively gasped, watching the translucent blood slowly seep down Keith’s torso, waiting for the bruiser to fall.

They were left wanting. The sanguine stream was stemmed, his rotting teeth baring themselves in a grin as he slammed the head of his hammer against the stone, a beat quickly taken up by the sickness wrapped around the heart of every contagion-ridden cultist.

Okor shouted, screaming to be heard over the bubonic beat. ”But not today! You are prey, and the predator! You are beggars and broken men, united in suffering!”

”You are heroes!” He howled, raising his blood-slick blade to the darkened sky, the cheers and maddened chants of his Cult rebounding off of the stones of the slum. He raised a claw to his gorget, plunging the digit into the chink in his armour, slicing through his own flesh, demonstrating the near-immortality of Nurgle’s Chosen warriors.

”Now… Let’s all get our damned throats cut.”