[spoiler]I'm pretty sure that this competition is already over (thanks Shad), and I know that this makes no sense canonically, but I merely wish to test out my own narrative skills. Let's see how I fare, shall we?[/spoiler] Matthew Hallwinter had long bore the burden of his own impossibility, the utter defiance of law, and the sheer butchery of reality that he worked. He was no god, no immaterial being, no fallen angel or bloodthirsty demon. He was a soulless copy of another failed copy, spanning a hundred thousand generations back, yet he had been elevated by the sheer force of his own will to this echelon of existence. What he was, when he was, where he was--it didn't matter anymore; it was rendered as null and irrelevant as he himself. Did it matter? Particulate dust orbited around him as he strolled into the room, his metal greaves banging against the floor, as tidings of death. The strange armor he wore neither reflected light nor absorbed it, but shimmered with its own power nonetheless. His presence surely got the attention of the Necrons, who suddenly turned their collective gaze to this anomalous figure, this inexplicable being, and found that they hated it. The clamor of screeching and scratching soon filled the room as the horde rushed him, clambering over each other to fight this intruder, who began to calmly stride forward into this tide of metal and hate unfazed. A careful watcher would have noticed the balling of his fists, the slight dilation of his purple irises, and the imperious snarl that crept across his face, but a trained watcher would have recognized the gears turning behind his face. He didn't want to beat the Necrons: he wanted them to be rendered null, as he himself had been. The first Necron leapt at him, clawing and scratching in midair as it prepared to pounce on its prey, and was met with an armored gauntlet to the base of its neck, pulverizing its spine and decapitating it in a single blow. Telekinetic barriers vibrated rapidly across the surface of those knuckles, and the force behind the fists was so powerful that any scrap of metal would be atomized upon connecting. Hallwinter twirled, backlashing with his arm, the force tearing a wave of incoming Necrons to smithereens, and then he bent down to crush the head of one of the unlucky survivors. He did not let himself take blows from the uncountable horde, and their claws never so much as scratched his armor, less they were dead on the floor. They came at him in crowds, then reeled away as his lashing fists connected. One managed to flank him, but he ducked under the blow, grabbed the arm above him, and tore it off from the shoulder. His punches and kicks, every movement of his body was an impeccable economy of muscle and bone, augmented so many times beyond what any human could dream of. Never once did he draw a weapon, nor did he boast or taunt or laugh: he killed mechanically, without emotion or feeling, until the unrelenting crowd suddenly faltered. Hallwinter stood but feet apart from the broken horde, which stood cautiously away from him, as if a physical barrier stood between them. His eyes gazed the crowd, and saw that even these cruel machines had tasted fear and defeat, but they had not yet been broken. A challenger yet stood amongst them. He felt it in the vibrations in the cold metal floor, in the eyes of the defeated, in his very being. With a surge, an entire line of Necrons were knocked aside, like a ripple moving through a pool, until a Necron Destroyer stood in front of him, looking down upon him like an ant who bitten him. Hallwinter looked up with the same expression. These Destroyers had been augmented with anti-gravity flyers that allowed them to levitate, and unlike his predecessors, he lacked the anti-gravity boots that could protect him from any gravitational field. Now, he would test them, and himself equally. He raised his hand, with the palm facing the floor, and suddenly all of the dust swirling around him fell to the floor. The Necrons felt it first, and the injured ones fell to the floor as the gravity in the room increased, slowly but surely. At ten times the standard gravity, no Necrons were left standing. At twenty times amplified, Hallwinter began to feel strain, and the Destroyer found itself immobilized as well. At fifty times amplified, Hallwinter stood unbent, with his teeth gritted, as he saw the Destroyer's flyer falter for a second. He balled his fists in strain, raised them above his head, and with a surprisingly human scream of rage, increased the gravity a hundredfold. The metal ceiling caved then, and shards of unknown metals fell from the ceiling like stalagmites. The gravity returned to normal then, and dust particles rose like a cloud from the floor, and obscured the battlefield for several seconds. When it cleared, all of the Necrons had been flattened like steel disks to the floor, and the Destroyer found itself on the floor, it's anti-gravity overcome by the sheer force exerted on it. Across from it stood Hallwinter, bent but unbroken, somehow saved from the Necron's fate by an impossible reserve of strength. He was caked in white dust, and appeared more wraith than man, of which he was neither. Now, the Destroyer realized what it faced, and almost felt a grudging respect at this mortal that overcame what he could not. Hallwinter walked then, taking massive strides until he looked the landlocked Necron in the eyes, and it gazed upon the depth of his being, until he reached towards his head and tore it off entirely, tossing it aside until it hit the side of the wall, hundreds of meters away. He was the only being in the room now. The Chaos Marines has suffered a similar fate as the Necrons, and Liberious appeared to have left during the conflict. And deep inside, he felt a spark of pride, and with that, primordial rage. Rage, with no recipient. Rage, with no outlet. Rage, with no hope of comprehension. Years of entropy and hate had fashioned him into this: a polished pinnacle of selfless rage and anger, at the Universe which had spurned him, the one which had accidentally created him. Accident, he had been an accident, a work of chaos that despised chaos. Before he left the room, he spoke one, unerring sentence. "So may you all."

[spoiler]that spoiler dayum.[/spoiler]

[spoiler]Eh, I haven't read most of them. I just thought Shad's was particularly good. How'd you like mine?[/spoiler]

[spoiler]It was great man,Better than mine. I went the cheap route and used a Chaos entity.[/spoiler]

[spoiler]Aww, thanks man. I haven't read yours yet, so I'll get back to you with that, but I've seen you write before and I'm impressed. We're you in RoB? I used to RP there, which is why I kinda appeared here without explanation, lol. [/spoiler]

[spoiler]I heard OP, so I showed up. Of course I have to send a little help to my poor little Slayer....[/spoiler] [b]Today was not a good day. After all, it was a Tuesday. Known in Sunnyhell as Apocalypse Day, it is a day when various groups or personages of questionable sanity decide to try their upmost best to cause the invasion of Earth or, in some not-quite-so-rare cases, world endage. Such situations now seem a bit more appealing to the Queen Slayer as she smashes yet another of member of the endless waves of Necrons with her hammer. Said hammer was a bit of a legend, for it had quite a special name. [i]Mjölnir[/i], hammer of Thor the small, grey alien himself. The 30lb alien-made weapon was hardly something to laugh at when it is obliterating your face. Now being utilized to its full face-obliterating capabilities, it was delivering hits strong enough to crumple battle-armor like tin foil to some [i]very[/i] unfortunate Necrons. Buffy's ever-present quipage continues its monologue in the grand orchestra of battle.[/b] "I've fought zombies, -*[u]Crunch[/u]*- homicidal robots, -*[u]Crunch, crunch crunch[/u]*-, and even -*[u]Smack[/u]*- homicidal zombie cyborgs, but this!!!-*[u]Whomp[/u]*- Is overcompensating!!!" [b]The Queen Slayer ripped and bashed her way through the pressing crowd like a scythe, utilizing her full strength and speed for the first time in years. No longer fearing the opinion or judgement of her un-powered 'friends', she was Death itself incarnate. Death was her gift, and she gave freely. A single swing removed a Necron's head from it's body in a fraction of a second, the act repeated with various body parts of over a dozen Necrons, in the same second. Her enhanced senses and reflexes allowed her to dodge or parry any attempted retaliation. The few strikes that did get through her guard were blocked by a briefly flaring shield, a welcome gift from [i]Mjölnir[/i] as it built up and stored the kinetic energy generated from her swings.[/b]

[spoiler]interesting abilities. I like the shield that builds energy from the kinetic swings. And the whole Tuesday bit was amusing lol[/spoiler]

*My sword forms in my hand* And I thought I was just a passenger

[spoiler]somebody didn't read lol[/spoiler]

[spoiler]buddy you gotta write the whole battle sequence, it's a narrative challenge.[/spoiler]

Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red. That is what was spreading through the massive room. A tidal wave of rust. The slow machines of grey metal, no matter how big or powerful, every one of them fell victim. And in the center of it? The Harbinger of Death himself. Noiratrom. The Plagued Son. A constant pale green cloud surrounded him; what had simply rusted away and died was now eroding, crumbling away into nothingness. The Primarch of death -and life, in an ironic way- walked over the dust of the former Necrons, his scythe well in hand. The teeth on the edges of the scythe were drooling, its wicked tongue whipping at the moist air. It was thirsty for blood, disappointed in a way, since Necrons shed no blood. The burning devilish grin stapled to Noiratrom's face also drooled a sickly mixture of... well, if only it could be described as saliva. The mighty primarch of death advanced on the field of carnage, barely stretching to wreak destruction upon the foes. None stood a chance. None could raise an effort. There was no fighting him. Not here, not ever. All the cold machines could do was wisp away and die pathetically, since escape wasn't an option. Where could they escape? This [i]was[/i] their home once, but now, it was home to one thing. Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red. Eventually, the Primarch was struck. Not by his current foes, no. By a far more fearsome monster. Boredom. They were not putting up a fight; they couldn't. Resistance was futile. So, Noiratrom got an idea. It was something he had been storing for a little while, now was the perfect time to use it, seeing as finally, something worthy of being dubbed a challenge presented itself. A necron floating fortress hovered forth, presenting itself as a force of destruction. It fired darts of heavy green gauss energy straight towards. Foolishly, this machine believed it would work. As soon as the dart entered the pale cloud of smoke that hovered around him, it disintegrated, as if it's very particles had succumbed to the rot. Raising his hand forward, a huge pillar of green smoke rose from the ground before Noiratrom. A shady figure was pulled from the ground, via a hellish portal. The figure kept coming out more and more... it was around fifty feet in height, taller than even the necron fortress, taller than even the mighty Omen. [url=http://i.imgur.com/72Q0qKk.jpg]this being... it was once a machine. Something mechanical.[/url] but after the warp had embraced it with it's touch of madness, of sickness, it could now only be described as... an horrific creation. It's armour plates were rusted, coloured with a white pure rust, much like the Primarch's own armour. It was covered in sickly pustules. It's mechanical head was now dotted with a toothy, fleshy mouth and a diseased tongue. It's armour was doubled with old, plagued leather, it's flesh falling off with rot, yet unfathomably resilient. It's rail cannon had now been mingled with a horror of the warp, it was a being of its own, its power was too fearsome to be known by mere mortals... Out of its back grew torn wings, much to the image of the Primarch. Its exhausts were now releasing the same toxic fumes as its master's. It's hands and feet were now clawed, covered in the same rotten leather. Simply looking at this monstrosity was enough to make any mortal topple over and drown in their own vomit. A grossly overwhelming nausea filled the massive room, making the bones of even the other warriors itch with an uncomfortable feeling of disgust. The stench was unbearable to those unused to the folly that is chaos. The smoke had cleared out, and the demonic apparition let out a roar so mighty that it made the entire room tremble. Staring down its opponent with its hollow eyes, it unsheathed a massive, twenty feet tall whip-sword of firery rust, and in a dash it cut the Necron fortress. Its speed was illogical for a being of this size. This was simply a complete and total defiance of the laws of physics. In the realm of the immaterial, there are no laws. The monument to the sins of the Necrons fell, cleaved cleanly in two, both of its halves crumbling away into a fine, rusty powder. Other necron creatures of amazing power attempted to defy this champion of darkness. But none stood a chance. Soon enough, Vile plumes of green smoke appeared around the room. Through these pestilent portals poured forth the Death Guard, Noiratrom's personal legion of chaos. The husks of Necron deposits were now a new addition to the Legion of the Undying, since their rusty necrodermis floated ominously into the air and attached itself to the Chaos Marines' armours, now embedded with the remembrance of the Necron. More power. Always more power. These soldier's sorrowful black armours were now covered in rust. For the first time in their non-empathic lives, the soulless machines felt something. Fear. An unsurpassable fear. This threat was greater than they imagined. It was greater than what they had fathomed within the realm of the possible. This threat needed to be annihilated. The Necron army, what was left of it, focused all of their might upon this great foe. They would overwhelm them with sheer numbers and firepower. They assumed distance would be their key advantage. They assumed wrong. Taking up artillery position, the Necron tides unleashed Gauss energy upon the Guard of Death. Returning fire, the hail of unholy bolter fire had an unexpected yet devastating effect. Every bullet, wether it missed or hit it's target, unleashed a small cloud of rot. Every necron whom found itself within that cloud would see its body and mind slowly overtaken by the rust cloud. Then, the rusted husks transformed into shelters, generating more of the deadly cloud. It was a chain effect of incalculable damage. Meanwhile, the Carrion Sentinel, massive being of plague, fired it's shoulder-mounted weapon into the rear masses, where artillery cannons were pounding on the Guard. Each inhumane shell that struck the ground left a green dome of explosive fumes, like a hydrogen bomb causing the ground where it appeared to have cratered into nothingness. No trace of any necron was left. It was just an empty waste. The remaining necron footsoldiers fled for their lives... or what seemed like it. The last foe standing, challenging, was a Necron lord. It's troops had been reduced to utter nothingness. Although this challenge was for the Plagued Son to tackle. And he did so, with a demonic grin upon his mouth. The Necron lord's rushing of the champion had come to an unexpected halt. The pale green cloud struck him like a whipping strong wind, eating away at its armour, skin and very soul. It struggled to step forward. Every painful step was more challenging than the last, while the Primarch stood there, taunting him with his cold, hollow look. Eventually, the Lord needed to crawl. It had crawled to Noiratrom's feet, it's ornate armour was now a rusted memory, a mere shadow of its former self. It's legs were crooked, it's arms weak. It grasped the rusty ashes weakly as a means to propulse itself forward. It was no longer seeking to kill the Harbinger for what he had done to his comrades, to him. It was seeking death. And Death granted. Hoisting him off the floor with his free hand, Noiratrom stared the Necron Lord dead in the eyes, rust and pustules spreading from his hand. He then pierced the necron lord in the gut with [i]Silence[/i], his scythe. The Necron lord was struck with an awful, horrific fear. It saw its soul, its C'tan energy being ripped out of its body and fly into the scythe. Now robbed of its existence, the lord vomited out of its mechanical mouth its rusted innards. It... it was literally puking itself to death. Soon enough, there was nothing left to vomit. The literally empty husk rusted away and faded into the dunes to join its dead comrades. Even the dreaded Nightbringer would quake under his hood. Soon enough, the room was split into two. A small half of the room contained the fleeing Necrons who attempted to escape their timely demise, only to be met at the hands of the other warriors hailing from the bloodwrath. The other, larger half of the room was a literal sea of rusted dunes, through which walked the Harbinger of Death. At his side was his Legion, his Guard, and his champion, his creature of wickedness, the Carrion Sentinel. This was... beauty. A filth, a plague so immaculate, so perfectly wicked and disturbingly fearsome... this moment was true beauty in the eyes of Noiratrom. For once, the very first time since his first voyage through the warp, the Ashen Son felt something different than hatred towards his arrogant, foolish father. He felt, momentarily only, a deranged, peaceful bliss. This death... this Decay... he felt as if he had surpassed his lord Nurgle. As if [i][b][u]He[/u][/b][/i] was the true and rightful God of life. And his monument to perfection was just that. Rust. A sea of sickly orange and red.

[spoiler]damn dude Makin me look bad lol It was the definition of OP and exactly what I was looking for. I liked how you killed the Necron lord and created ash dunes out of his kin. Your Primarch is badass[/spoiler]

[spoiler]heretic.[/spoiler]

[spoiler]loyalist.[/spoiler]