Deimos was not in the Halloween spirit. Haunting eaves, daunting, shifting corridors, and meticulous hallways, where the vacancy of battle drugged and dragged him from listless, languid meandering, coiled amongst the nonchalant brow of the newfound Lord. A soldier (for that’s what he was first and foremost, with or without crown) lacking purpose, fueled by itchy, loathsome garments and an already turbulent, hostile disposition, was a treacherous, dangerous barb waiting to be unleashed. Like a scavenger, like a snake, taut and rigid, stiff and unyielding, hunting, yearning and devouring, he gleamed across the land and fixated upon the vast wilderness, hankering for bloodshed, for recoil, for damnation, mayhem and anarchy. As he prowled amongst the meadow, caped, crusading, roaming and persecuting the earth with decadent, hostile poison, the outline of the open landscape pinpointed on one sole creature. The newfound opposition stood out amongst the vivid, elongated plains, ivory, horned, perhaps even taller than he, maybe one of the beasts he’d called from the edges of the Foothills to battle for their past, wicked affair of failed annihilation. Instant familiarity did not prick against his brow, and this was likely for the better, for as the smoldering sanction of triumph, munitions and bombardments ignited against his mind, he’d be berated for the assault upon one of his own members. He drew closer, meticulous mind no longer pleased by his choice of garb (the Stygian fabric was much too hot in the Tallsun heat, but came with the elongated hood, the hidden fixtures of his features, and the immediate recollection of his title – he couldn’t be much grimmer), but attempting to maintain a firm grasp of her image.
He pursued in a steady, predacious stride along the right side of the open meadow, a dark, ravenous creature slinking and slithering across the horizon, focusing on where he could establish faults and flaws upon the femme, striving to ignore the bob of his leonine tail and the foam, silvern anomaly tied to it (a scythe, the raingirl had insisted, to complete the abomination of a costume). The mare’s body size held intriguing possibilities, and a situation his cold-blooded mind surmised as making an impact; she was much stockier than his lithe frame, drafty, brawny, broad and thickset. His speed would be an important factor against the pallid mass.
So where to brutalize first? Where to hone in, destroy, ravage, wreck and ruin?
The monster chose her right to terrorize and maim, eager to rupture tender flesh, and abominate necessary sinew. He chose a straight path, easier to grasp with the hood blocking his sight from the sides, picking up an abrupt pace, a swift, heinous gallop, across the fixture of field and grassland. As he gained ground, he lowered his head so the protruding glint of his nefarious blade, too lengthy to be hidden by the ebony cowl, was just as ready, just as avid, fervent, and keen on hoisting scars across her figure. Trying to close in, he attempted to drag the pointed, ruffian edges of his sword into her right flank, to tear, to rip, to shred hide, pelt, and likely some foreign garments she’d also assembled.
[527 words. 1/3 + 0/1 final defense post. @[Artemis]
Deimos strides towards the right side of Artemis and attempts to drag his sword along her flank.
Costume: Grim Reaper, adorned with black cloak covering his ears, but incapable of hiding his horn. Also has a silver scythe tied to his leonine tail. He doesn’t enjoy it.
WEATHER - It's a nice clear and mildly sunny birdsong day, 10am.
SETTING - A grassy field that goes fetlock high, forgiving and not too wet. Some flowers and trees are around, a creek cuts through in one area near two trees.]
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Cater to the Hollow [Graveyard Champ]
