You have to walk through time. A clock isn't time; it's just numbers and springs.

[PRIVATE] You have to walk through time. A clock isn't time; it's just numbers and springs.

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527

Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Heather

12-29-2014, 01:07 PM

Devastation and ruin, contorted and coiled, manifested and maligned, reached a vicious, voracious peak; flames hastening demise, death, destruction, infernos breaking and searing through his veins, a bull crossing dunes promising his downfall, and the deadly Lord bestowing the same. In a ferocious conflagration, they were two sides of the same coin: gladiators swarming, scythes pressing, swords thrashing. He was too slow to twist away from the edges of the ox’s horns, the seething ripple of menace, of might, of malice, was too encased, locked him within his hollowed shell, and the severe cutlass slashed at his left shoulder. All he could feel was fire all over again, burning against his mind, swallowing his soul, ripping and tearing at his lungs until all he could do was savor the loss of his senses, break against the rippling tempest, the kindled inferno, and fall to his knees at its indignant power. Yet, even as he kneeled (not towards the Gods, not for immolation or sacrifice, but because it was all he could to hang on to the feeling of earth, of ground, beneath his ablaze limbs and curling agony), Deimos’ rigid stare (even that was aflame; fringed with red, with crimson, with stories and tales of his sire and the slaughter of his bold heart), trapped and ensnared the bovine. He watched, he observed, as his own onslaught punctured and pierced, as the droves of demonic lacings wove around the beasts’ shackles and layered depravity, damnation, corruption and chaos. An anarchic antipathy, a hostile acrimony, a virile essence of his potent concoctions and capabilities – the thinnest smirk sketched itself across his mouth before he laid his head against the warm shoal, felt the cool currents bubble and froth beneath his body, discerned the tide reach his body. Maybe it was a Pyrrhic victory, blistering his satisfaction with ultimate defeat, perhaps he’d be carried away to sea, a creature sunk into Poseidon’s clutches, driven to terror and terror driven into him. A sigh shuddered and crackled through his ashen breath, and for one more emboldened moment, he reached toward the small flame still left upon the beach, listless and lilting.