Blood & Thunder (Son Of The Northwind Vs Warsman)

Memories are a wretched thing. They remind of past mistakes, of devious errors made in an effort to further the future. Warsman remembered few things before his god, Khorne, fused him to the genes of the Orkoid species. Grandfather Nurgle, in all his wisdom, healed him of this affliction. The price to pay was to carry Nurgle's Rot - a horrid and incurable plague that infects the very soul - throughout the cosmos. It was hefty, according to the minds of humanity, but Warsman accepted the offer. It was a beautiful sickness, one that took everything and rotted even the strongest into a mound of death and decayed mulch. He enjoyed watching the misery that unfolded, for it was the ultimate joy of Nurgle's followers to cause decay and to relish in despair.
 
But one of the memories surfaced far sooner than he thought.
 
A planet no-one's heard of, somewhere deep in the western parts of the universe the Vine inhabits, was afflicted with the Rot and brought down to a state worse than extinction. The planet was now uninhabitable, a shambling corpse of its prior glory that was fated to spin around its central sun for all eternity. But all was not lifeless on this rock, for a second being launched its assault upon the avatar of Nurgle and Khorne! 
 
In a flash, the green-armored monstrosity was struck by something resembling a bolt of lightning. He barely budged, for his feet were rooted in the Garden of Nurgle he had spread through his blessed heels, and he looked upon the face of a warrior clad in blond hair and Asgardian armor. Yes, he had seen the armor before. It would only be natural to remember something one had encountered dozens of times in the past. In Warsman's case, he had destroyed versions of Asgard not even the elder gods knew of! Yes, this creature seemed similar to the pompous attitudes of these past foes he had slaughtered. But he remained silent and watching. The Garden of Nurgle receded from his form and he emerged a horrible and seething mass of bloated muscle and weeping sores, the form Grandfather Nurgle had wisely chosen for him to wear in he mortal world as he spread the Rot. 
 
"Creature of the skies, I beseech you! What manner of greeting do you wish to give me, the son of Grandfather Nurgle?"

 "Creature of the skies, I beseech you! What manner of greeting do you wish to give me, the son of Grandfather Nurgle?"
 
The words of the seemingly ranked warrior astounded the man of thunder. 
 
"Have thou forgotten our encounter? thy has verily changed thou appearance but thy spirit stays the same. Thou have been proven to be a worhty opponent, and thee needs to test onself every now and then to not lose balance of the art of battle... Let us fight an honorable fight, and try to best one another!"
 

With those words spoken the man reclaimed his mallet, and made himself battle-ready. It was a pride for every Asgardian to fight the honorable fight. Yet the man of thunder didn't quite remember his past, or where he came from, only that he protected those who couldn't protect themselves, against those who call themselves "Evil" , and deem themselves "Good". Not even his name was left of his memory. Only the cause for battle, and a worthy opponent he has found. The avatar of Khorne and Nurgle. This figure seemed to be haunted with a hellish stench, a pest. He did not know what it was, but seemingly Warsman was using it to his advantage.

"What is this... foul stench of yours? How can thou bear it!? ... It matters not, I'll thwart thee... smelly or not!"

The raging man of thunder came flying with his hammer forward in a severce velocity, attempting to engage close range combat with his opponent, trying to avoid getting rooted by his astonishing powers.

"This stench is one of the blessings of Grandfather Nurgle! Doesn't it haunt your nostrils?"
 
The blond viking warrior raced forward, intent on breaking Warsman down into smoldering ruin. The avatar of Nurgle was ready, however, familiar with the man's speed and strength. He charged with his mace raised high, the seemingly-decaying metal actually bearing an otherworldly power within its adamant structure. Throwing it toward the man's hammer, they clashed in a streak of lightning and the sound of crackling thunder! It seemed they were evenly-matched in their struggle, but Warsman's weapon bore a strange ability that became more obvious as the two weapons were further locked in combat.
 
Warsman's mace was blessed by Nurgle himself, as was his entire suit of armor. The longer physical contact was made, the more corrosion and rot would spread throughout that which touched those articles. This was especially true with his mace, the bladed sphere containing a powerful plague that afflicted anything that touched its house and temple. The viking would have mere seconds to retreat before his godly weapon would begin to crack and fill with rust and overwhelming masses of black mulch that would only serve to aggravate the decaying process.

Warsman: "This stench is one of the blessings of Grandfather Nurgle! Doesn't it haunt your nostrils?" 
 
Son Of The Northwind: "Aye, but ye hath overseen a small fact..."
 
the man of living lightning takes a swift backward step as he sees his mallet being affected by the fiends rot, almost corroding. 
 
Son Of The Northwind: "ENOW!" 
 
 He yelled as he rised his hammer up to the skies and thunder hailed down upon him, almost if he was a human dynamo. For as long as it lasted, Warsmans rot would be instantaneously burnt away the moment it made contact with the lightning, now, nothing laid in the way of a good 'ol fashioned close combat fight with no corroding mold in the way. Now a clear blow shouldn't give the mighty Mjolnir any problems anymore... 
 
"Thou shalt know that the is not a man without pity, thee could still run to thou mudder with thy tail betwixt thou legs!"
 
Maybe after this fight he would finally remember who he was, his powers were certainly returning to him...
  

"Your words mean nothing, Asgardian,"
 
Warsman buckled under the man's lightning, but he did not fall. On his knees and hands, his helmet collapsed into a demeaning crater, he stood with minimal effort. The Rot on his skin was burned away, yes, and it would take a long time for it to grow back to its former and glorious reek. But he was not worried. The flies buzzed from within his pores, eager to lash out and tear the Asgardian apart. Their adamant wings attached to bodies of hardened decay flapped vigorously and hungrily. Warsman's very flesh tingled with the delight of physical despair and he let out a chuckle of sorts. His mace was torn asunder, made worthless by the Asgardian's strength. He tossed it aside into a smoking mound of rubble, his body still facing his foe with earnest. 
 
"Your ancestors fed Grandfather Nurgle's interest well, for their bodies were great fertilizer for his flies,"
 
His previous chuckle was overshadowed by a larger smirk and a maddened cackle.
 
"Those same flies live in my pores, waiting to taste Asgardian flesh again." 
 
Throwing out a hand, a portion of the innumerable insects surged forth toward their blond prey.