Vexation warped at his nettled, irritated spirit, casting a discordant, dissonant grasp upon his machinations and calculations, first the hood, with its damning limitations already clashing with its superior, shocking appearance, and then the burly mare’s jousting efforts. He had a few brief moments of riotous satisfaction, a smoldering gratification of minute triumphs, when his sword met flesh, split sinew, but it tumbled thereafter as she, dressed as some odd Neanderthal, followed suit in a series of mirrored moves. Without the full advantage of his vision, the Reaper could only presume her methods were to be the same as his own, striking towards the hind, and he attempted to swivel his haunches towards the left to avoid full devastation and injury. The point of her horn struck against his right hindquarters, scraping at pelt, hide and skin, and he nearly shouted, screamed, exploited the barbarity of his wrath, of his outrage, of being slashed, of the white hot pain searing against his sights. It was an arduous condemnation of his movements, and he already knew his motions would be labored, burdened by the onslaught of aching torment.
Something, or someone, had to pay.
The first thing to go would be the hood. He was given some fleeting seconds as the opponent shifted her position, allotting him precious time to disengage the cowl from his cranium. A massive, wild shake contorted through his nape, along his crown, until the fabric no longer remained caught around his ears or along the serrated edges of his rapier. It revealed his appearance, offered the nameless femme his features, his title, his Reaper status, but he no longer reveled in the deceptive phases, the seditious display of decadence. Instead, he sought to persecute, unravel, maim, slash and lacerate as she had done to him. How difficult would it be to ruin her, to watch her fall into the fields, forgotten and desecrated? Rise and fall in the grandeur, in the heat, in the decomposition and withering, festering frailty and fatality of battle – calloused, seething, rapacious and relentless, he shifted his puncturing sights to fully gaze at the dilemma laid out before him, as the brawny figure came barreling at him again.
She was going for the same portion of his hind, and perhaps, in a similar situation, he would have concocted an identical plan. What greater way to unravel prey’s lofty ambitions, than to obliterate the portion of motion already hindered? Unfortunately for the creature, she was also dabbling with a cretin, with a fiend, with nefarious armaments exploiting the regions of his cold-blooded mind, with wicked malevolence meandering over his satanic frame. As she neared, he moved forward, allowing the scrape of her horn to tangle with the end of the right side of his rump, lancing off more hide, more fur, but also bestowing him opportunity for the munitions of his own brutality and barbarity, aiming for a well-placed kick towards her face.
Though the right side of his hind couldn’t be lifted or raised as well as he would have liked (already stiffened and unyielding from the earlier bombardments), the Reaper sought to infuse it with the grasping, clutching fingertips of his vicious necromancy, his savage enchantments, gliding from his blackened veins, into the fortitude of his forceful actions, the malicious entanglement of his merciless mayhem. If it touched her, would she burn? If it caressed her features, would she decay? If it stroked her with the subtle persuasion of death, would it sink into her bones, press against her lungs, and beat an infernal tune against her restless heart?
[598 words. 2/3 + 0/1 defense.
Deimos is struck on the right hindquarters, her horn sliced into his hide, hindering the speed of his movements. Irritated, he shakes his head to remove the hood and allowing him to have full vision once more.
As Artemis comes for his right flank again, Deimos moves forward, thereby only getting hit on the edge of the right side of his rump. Hoping to use this position to his advantage, he attempts to kick towards her face (though he cannot raise his legs as high, due to obvious pain), lacing his deadly magic into his hooves for a more potent effect – should the hit connect.]
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Cater to the Hollow [Graveyard Champ]
