| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Ominous and forbidding, the room he’d managed to become sequestered within held a disturbing, sinister atmosphere to it – and had he been the one concocting and orchestrating such a manifestation, he likely wouldn’t feel so unnerved. The Reaper should have felt at home within the disturbing machinations, breathing in the nefarious arts and the dubious intentions, piercing the malevolent air with his own potent persecution. Instead, an eerie feeling crept up his spine, the notion of being watched, of shadows shifting beneath the blinking, blinding lights, the piercing blades glistening from foreign, metallic tables. He dealt and wielded death, the quiet, unholy, lethal demise, but this strange expanse didn’t offer the solitude of a timely tomb, and only invoked sentiments of torture, scourges, torment and agony. Unsettling and agitating, he attempted to consume the moments of this entrapment by observing the quivering rays of luminescence flashing and flickering, enlightening dismal shadows before tarnishing them back to the Stygian abyss. An aperture further down the length of the threshold seemed to offer no divine sentiments either; barbaric screams and shouts echoed off the hollowed chambers, and he attempted to ignore the unearthly din pervading from its halls.
Something ensnared his attention, bristling along another corner, and he attempted to follow the swift motion, to no avail. Only a shift of fabric, like the tails of an ivory coat, before it lapsed into the murky ducts of corners and walls, and the Lord yearned to exploit the mystery, the enigma, to distort meaning from this ridiculous place. Another presence lurked within the darkness, and the lights failed to provide the necessary ambience to fully decipher the creature. Was it the one he’d seen moments ago, entrenched in nefarious, cackling design? Should he create his own, unfurl and uncurl his dangerous armaments, his fiendish munitions, his callous disregard, to remove one more demon from the arches of this bizarre, uncanny realm?
Without considering the true identity of the figure, the monster advanced. He’d changed from his previous garments, no longer an embodiment of his title, currently woven into a strange creature painted in crimson and sable, plastic horned, maw elongated into a plastic muzzle resembling some doglike cretin (another Huyana creation, but at least this one could be taken off with a simple string detachment). Chains rattled as he moved beneath the layers of fabric, swift and strong, not as hampered or hindered from his prior shroud, content to find his hooves striking upon the floor with enough traction to enable his necessary speed. The opposing creature, Deimos noted as he neared, appeared to be of the same height as he, a similar build and construction – so he needed to embody opportunity where he saw fit.
He twisted towards the shadowy figure’s right, and quickly proceeding, lowered his horn towards the other’s shoulder. Would a laceration, a puncture, a deep, loathsome gash cause the beast to sway, to quiver, to be chased off into the abyss? Would success and triumph mean there’d be a moment to escape this uncanny maelstrom, where even the darkest depths of his soul wondered, pondered, rustled and discomposed? But, despite these thoughts, as he was drawn into the depths of desecration, as he fumbled for assault and sieges, the Reaper’s eyes widened, shock and surprise registering along his features for the briefest of moments. He was attacking his Weaver, Crowley, and failed to notice (distracted and perturbed), the ambling scientist roaming closer.
[@[Crowley]
574 words. Graveyard Champ spar. 1/3 + 0/1 defense.
Deimos is dressed as Houndoom. Fake dog muzzle. Black and red fabric. Plastic horns on head. Chains along lower legs.
Believing the appearance of the Crowley to be the shirking, scuttling scientist, Deimos advances to ward off his new enemy. He proceeds towards Crowley’s right shoulder, lowering his horn to pierce flesh. Only thereafter does he register shock and surprise when it turns out to be Crowley. He doesn’t see the scientist getting closer.]
|
|
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
Either victory, or else a grave [Graveyard Champ]
