The only terror he could display was his own monstrous, behemoth potency. He rung silent chords, the terrible, unsung hymns of a demon enshrouded in smoldering, simmering heat, still cold, still glacial, still chilling as a bane of existence tore towards him. He had enough hate and malice in his heart, entombed with the puissant horror laced within his prowess, to condemn the vibrant, though foolish, individual who scrambled along the flattened, scorching terrain. Not unicorn, but equine; the supremacist creed his father had murmured molded and meshed into the argent scion’s cranium, bleeding into his deplorable, horrible psyche like a twisted, callused sword, baited, goaded him to barb, stab, pierce. How should it end for this unfortunate soul? How should he make him bleed? How should he damn him – like so many others that he’d punctured, that he’d destroyed? The methodical pulsing within his mind carved and combed, narrowed eyes watching as the dun opponent streaked along the rubble and ruin, the bubbling croon of a Helovia’s seething heart. There was patience in his acrimonious fixture, watching, waiting, calculating as the fellow heathen drove onward – then, all at once, dust, thrown and cascading along the air, began to explode. Quick, swift madness, hot coils of ember and fire, horrific smells stoked against his nostrils, shocking burns snaking along his shoulders and chest, dark patches of powder falling to his feet.
He maneuvered rapidly to the right, away from the exploding cretin, away from the bubbling, murky crater, hooves grazing the earth with an indignant plunge, irked and annoyed that he hadn’t registered the other stag’s mage capabilities. He’d waited too long, had lingered too much. Teeth ground down in his jaw, and the sizzling, blistering brands fanning over his skin further ignited a maddening, aching need to shatter, wreck and ruin. But his scheming mind, the Machiavellian design, incensed into the heated duel, ran with a rampant toiling – this Ricochet, smaller, and likely lighter than himself, had been heavy on his front, driving onward in a flattened state, then leaping away from the gurgling lava rim. Would he be fast enough to avoid the sinister wake of Deimos’s assault? The dark cadence of his magic boiled, enriched by the infusion of loathing intertwined in his bitter formation, until he felt the raw tenor of its atrocious, ghastly motif – and for once, he cherished it, this savage, lethal spell that rendered enemies incomplete, breathless, and perished. He swept across the grounds, felt the dry earth beneath his feet, circling the court of opposition, powder, dust and withered terrain, and allowed the grip of his bestial enchantments to wreak havoc on its parched tomb. It swarmed from his body like a restless, ferocious villain, invisible strings touching the shriveled land with an indignant, vicious caress, rigid stare watching as the landscape began to crumble, crack, and break beneath the devil’s stroke. His wizardry devoured what little life the territory had to offer, driving a silent siege of malicious divination, as it licked the edge of the burning heart and further toiled into the dank dirt, splitting the earth with each pervading fondle of death – aiming straight for the ground his enemy stood upon, while he witnessed from a formidable distance. Would this foe fall into the earth as the land collapsed under his form? Would he taste the fire of the magma brewing beneath their feet?
[1/2 – Deimos was burned on his chest and shoulders from the gunpowder thrown at him. Swinging his body to the right, he encircled Ricochet, choosing a place away from the edge. He then used his deadly magic to crumble the earth from the rim of the Heart to Ricochet, aiming for the land to collapse beneath his enemy’s feet. Please let me know if anything is unclear. :3]
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