Deimos the Reaper Evil's in the stink of you
Sometimes he avoided the world. Sometimes the world avoided him. The lonely arrangement was suitable, simple, and concrete. He didn’t deserve the rites, the practices, the arts of finesse or camaraderie, the semblance of assurances and oaths, for death had bled through his veins for too long, he’d mastered the bitter eloquence of barbarity ages before, and he didn’t believe in second, third, or fourth chances. But in random moments, he’d aspired to courting the opportunity, the vestige, of those virtuous snippets: when the rain had kissed his pelt and scorched his skin and he’d felt free, when the icy mountains reigned supreme, and when the sea rolled across his limbs, reminded him of first homes. Then, for surely he’d overstepped a line, it’d been taken just as quickly, just as swiftly as it’d came, and the dark Lord, with his insouciant brow, with his indifferent shades, with his twisted, nefarious, rancorous heart, would pretend as if everything and everyone was beneath him, because it was easier than nursing the wounds left behind. He lived amongst pretenses and ghouls, wraiths and phantoms, touching over the strokes of memories and the acrid plunges of bestial plains – he wove anarchy through the threads of his savage plumes and the heat of his coiled brawn, and the iniquitous trail led him to slaughter and to ruin and to everything else in between (life: burned and mauled and ripped apart, cords upon cords of dominance, of supremacy). So as the void wrapped itself around his form, as it clung and stuck and webbed over his muscles and his soul, he knew naught more than the rush of danger, than the stench of treachery, than the zeal, the fervor, the ardor, of damnation and strife. To even offer the Haruspex a bite, a taste, a flavor of the realm settled around his satanic skull had been a costly endeavor, and his eyes flickered off towards the rolling horizon, feeling infinitely juvenile and foolish, as if he were a lad again racing against the tide. The notion to disappear, to fade into the backdrop, to bleed back into the shadows, was an overbearing sentiment.
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@Ashamin