| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Catacombs and tombs of the fallen stretched before his sights, dense, looming fog surrounding and pervading the layers of restless anarchy, of silent demise, of the haunting, lush grounds of calamity and acrimony. Hilltops languished and anguished the feverish pull of his heresy, and Deimos marched into its midst, beguiled and allured by the fortitude, by the strength, by the enigmatic twists and turns of portended apathy, augured enmity. No other options seemed to exist, like another sequestered plunge into nefarious, diabolical dungeons, iron fences jutting into the scenery, high, looming intimidation ensuring no matter how high the leap, how fruitful the jump, his body would be pinioned upon its locked corridors. Would defeat of the unknown allow his escape, his deliverance, his liberation again? What would finally settle the pinnacle of his freedom – would he have to fight another ally, friend, comrade again, like a plagued nuisance of the heart and mind, or would he merely have to unravel the semblance of his destruction over and over and over again, against an enemy in the murk and haze?
Motions somehow unrestricted from the hold of new garb Huyana had concocted for him (a bright, vibrant red, with silly, plastic horns strewn against his skull - the red bull, pushing us into the ocean she’d said, laughed and mocked), he moved and wandered through the abyss, the labyrinth, scrutinizing, piercing gaze attempting to puncture the layers of desecration he’d have to mar. A sound, soft, scrambling, stumbling, echoed off the arches of stone and monuments towards his left, and instead of turning to persecute the noise, he continued onward, much more thorough in his efforts than before. He craved the knowledge of the layout, the land, to ensure annihilation, to provide obliteration, from the Stygian sectors of haunted corners and hollowed corridors. He wanted to analyze, to unravel, to strangle and suffocate, inveigle Machiavellian designs and callous calculations until the world crashed down upon his daggers and he’d be permitted the feverish reverie of escape, to journey back into the barbaric threads of his glacial empire.
His movements were choked, halted, ceased, however, as another noise was captured by his ears, off to the right, unsettled and fractious like his own building, brewing, brimming maelstrom. Incapable of ignoring this chord, for the engraved, puncturing rapture of battle stirred in the culmination, the finale, of all these anguishing, crusading armaments steeled his fury, he attempted to move amongst the decadence of hushed graves, noiseless dead, hoped to render the stranger into their own tomb. Weaving between the stones, he finally came upon a Pegasus, massive, towering over his own frame (which was a vexation on its own, for the beast must have been capable of great power), and perhaps, as he clenched his jaw, the only advantage he had would be speed. Trying to muster stealth in the vicious, unwinding mist and midst, he pursued, slithered, advanced, Reaper draped in red, hot, ignited and incensed ichor, attempting to come upon the Pegasus’s left. His sword, his rapier, his cutlass, pointed and severe, intended to drag its edge towards the winged one’s shoulder, eager to slice, lacerate and rip, like a tearing, merciless blade, relentless and undone.
[@[Gaucho] @[Arlo]
535 words. Graveyard Champ spar. 1/3 + 0/1 defense.
Deimos is dressed as The Red Bull. Bright, red blanket. Plastic horns strung along head.
Locked in the gates of the graveyard, Deimos intends to find an escape. Believing he must defeat those within in order to acquire his freedom, he marches further into the land. Hearing a noise, he follows it and comes across Gaucho. Relishing the opportunity, he attempts to come upon Gaucho’s left and use his horn to pierce his left shoulder.]
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The blast of war blows in our ears [Graveyard Champ]
