This enemy was fast. For one that never had to rely on speed, only stealth, control and dominance from his own coarse intimidation and murderous plumes, Deimos loathed admitting this heinous, nagging notion grinding at his core. The bleak assertion nudged at him, incredulous and persistent, knowing that the dun’s sharpness and haste was voracious, keen and ravenous. He was deprived once more of necessary time to truly avoid the turmoil of the battlefield – the exploding, burning sensations scorched his corrupted being, touched, licked at the new, callous wounds sprouting and simmering upon his silver barrel, chest and forelegs. The cracking, resentful earth, deprived of its livelihood, spirit, and breath, split more from the indulgent, combusted filaments, unwinding, unraveling from its burst depths, a ruptured heart overflowing with rage. He shifted quickly, long, dark pillars twisting to the left, shirking the severed slabs of land he’d just haunted, feeling the terrain shift under his weight, unsteady, wavering, eager to taste his immoral flesh. He nearly tripped, the scrape of the earth, and then dry, scalding air graced his hooves, and he pushed off from whatever purchase he could ensnare, swiftly, rapidly before his life was stolen by boiling, grasping, clawing heat. Escape relied on speed, and in the anarchic, bedlam recoil, his movements, powerful, undulating muscles, absconded the scape, until he’d received enough range to escape the culmination of destruction. Only when the explosions ceased and fuse became ash had he truly felt he’d slipped from the gunpowder’s puissant, predacious noose. The aching, searing blisters torn across his hide were enough of a brutal reminder that he was not the only one capable of committing terror and devastation without a single touch.
Now, of course, he had to return the favor.
He breathed, deeply, regaining the essence of a refined, controlled colossus, demonstrating the dignified finesse of a stoic, nonchalant composure, no matter how intensely his frame fumed, seethed and smoldered from new ailments, old blows and the frustration that the equine’s close presence was ultimately wasted. Raising his noble, sword-bearing head, he drew back into his necromancy, settling into the cool armaments of a lethal fortitude, feeling the whisper of death flowing through his veins. It brimmed ghostly enchantments within his soul, sang unholy, licentious requiems in his ears, pulsed in his limbs until it finally unfurled, wicked, heinous doldrums reigning from the silent, twisted insurrection of a cold-blooded demon. Sweeping over the land again, the fatal, toxic magic plunged for the golden stag, embroiled and infused with the intangible strings of fury and ardor, phantasmal, wraithlike, and ethereal in its bestial glory. A savage masterpiece, it aimed for the vicious opponent, pushing, demanding, and propelling its nefarious thrust towards the gilded body. Like a wall of demise, the noxious sorcery eagerly fostered a panel of pernicious, reaper design, attempting to press Ricochet’s frame into extermination, death in one, sly breath, or damnation into the rim of bubbling, molten lava.
[2/2 Deimos gains new burns along his barrel, lower chest and forelegs due to Ricochet’s explosions. He barely outruns the crackling, crumbling earth, and settles off to Ricochet’s left, where he builds a wall of deadly magic designed to either render his enemy dead, or push him towards Helovia’s center of lava. Please let me know if anything is unclear. Again. :3]
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