The Weaver’s hallucination, garbed and emboldened, ceased to fade away into the abyss, failed to be destroyed, distorted, in the flickering light, and Deimos felt the embers of his escape slowly dying, withering away, embraced in purgatory. Like the days of his capture amongst the Edge, fleeting, turbulent tirades flourishing against his malicious intentions, the reel, the feel, of liberation, before it was taken away, dampened, ruined, wrecked and ravaged. Was he to forever sequestered here, locked and encased amongst the gloomy atmosphere, scorched and scorned, twisted and maligned? Would it take the defeat of Crowley, of one of his comrades’ images, shapes and figures, to extricate his form from the scraping edges of probing instruments, of scathing, creepy entrails and upheaval? He watched from the dregs of the shadowed corner, attempted to regain his vision amongst the groggy, blurry haze, to find the strength that seemed to have left his limbs, to collect the fibers of his pain and sear it to the unholy bombardments, the pursuit and intentions of leaving this vile oubliette. The table crashed, the deadly implements found hide, and the necromancy of his nefarious, wicked heart seemingly disappeared, receding, vanishing amongst the unearthly throngs – and still, Crowley came.
Deimos had a few moments to waver away from his current space, taking the opportunity to usher minute steps away from the wall before the shadowy stag found his figure beneath the quivering luminescence and the bizarre shadows. Due to his slow, arduous movements, instead of ensnaring his entire side in a binding, ensnared collision, Crowley hit the Lord’s left hind in a potent display of ferocity. The Reaper’s haunches were forced against the enclosure, ground against plaster, sore, aching, bruised, and immediately thereafter, the beast’s dog was once again leaping for him. Were he another monster, not impacted by warfare, not resolute and determined in his intentions and sentiments, perhaps he would have panicked, screeched and snorted, crashed to the ground in an infernal display of anxiety and torment. But he was terror, horror, annihilation and unholy corruption, and couldn’t be dismayed by the tact, gall and assault of pain, of his comrade’s armaments. He shifted the front portion of his body left, felt the grind of the canine’s teeth puncture the right portion of his nape and slide downward along the front of his chest in an elongated laceration, the burn, the ache, the anguish laced and languished into his cranium, into his movements, and still, he plunged onward and towards Crowley’s left, to annihilate, to persecute, to unravel.
Close proximity warranted a barbaric opportunity, a heavier dose of his enchantments, of his fiendish arts, of his diabolical opus careening back into the strange terrain, across the eerie room. Not only did it mean he wouldn’t have to move far, and in his current, scourged state, speed was not going to be granted, but it could also yield a fruitful opulence of ravaged chimeras and images, delusions finally dimming, flailing, extinguished. He wanted to demolish everything in his path, the walls, the doors, the enclosed thresholds, the mirage of his crafter and the resolute dog. He wanted to massacre the hands binding him, he yearned to slaughter, shatter, and devastate the chains rattling against his ears. Driven by animosity, incensed and ignited by acrimony and entropy, he unleashed the nefarious invocations again, pressing their intertwining grasp, wildly, decadently, brutally, towards Crowley and his companion, lofting in a sinister vicinity, longing to absorb the energy the crafter still possessed, restore his troubled, afflicted form, blight the ruins of this desecrated parlor until it fell around him. Perhaps, with Crowley’s defeat, with the death of the strange two-legged creature slinking around, he’d be bestowed his heinous liberty.
[620 words. 3/3 + 0/1 defense post.
As Crowley charges towards him, Deimos moves forward a few steps in order to allow the brunt of Crowley’s attack to hit his left hind. During this set of circumstances, Talbot finds purchase along the right side of his nape, causing a long laceration along his neck and chest before Deimos shifts towards the left, along the left side of Crowley. Using the close proximity, he aims his deadly magic towards Weaver and companion.]
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Either victory, or else a grave [Graveyard Champ]
