He was strung, roped, and tethered on the conviction, on the promise, of violence. Like an old, favored friend, it hung in the distance, relished and polished, eager, ready, waiting for its savored release – and were it not one of his own, he may have chomped and bit down upon the threads holding him back from unholy, unrelenting liberation.
But his spar was to be with Ophelia, an interesting, intriguing way to unravel the chords of seasons past (where he had nearly removed her from the earth altogether, choked and strangling and engulfed her in so much malice, so much hate, for passing through the gates of their home – and in a twisted turn of events, presently occupied the same icy throne). Had she not woven herself so dominantly into their frigid folds, he may have done just that once more, starved and searing, ferociously unwinding the breadth of his domination again, pressing the dark necromancy into her body until she was naught more than a fallen corpse; but now, he was at another fragile crossroads, unknowing of what to do, how to act, where to reap or how hard to assault. The Reaper’s spar with Illynx had proven to be ill-fitting, neither side had relented, caved, or collapsed; it’d only brought them closer to slitting the others’ throats. Would this do the same, where he and the new Lady already wandered over a withering thread, taut, rigid, and unyielding? Would he have to tread lightly, or could he press, devour, and condemn as he would any other cretin not belonging to his empire? Or had his rage already been stifled from years ago, no longer as turbulent, as seething, as vehement?
The conundrum was a constant sentiment ghosting over his mind as he maneuvered amongst their chosen arena, a rocky outcrop, an open copse, the cool, chilling lake nearby with the sun basking above its sanction. His surveying, his scrutinizing, his cold calculations were completely upon the femme, now armored and accompanied by her companion (the draconic beast only chiseled a firm memory of fire and the Edge, where he had tried so desperately to claw his way out of prison). They were of nearly the same stature. He’d have no advantages pressing size or bulk into the fray, and tactics would have to be adjusted and composed for the flying lizard and protective shielding she held in place. Deimos went in without scruples, without furtive boughs, without platelets and carapaces, a war machine brewed from the gallows, from the devil, from the opuses of Lucifer himself. Here, he could sing his one, immoral song. Here, he could brandish the all-mighty crescendo, the outlet of power, the crown of devastation, seize and possess, tear and slash, and show the world where his true talents lay. Not with politics, not with conversation. His dialogue was swift movements and alighted arms, heartless harpoons and seditious fervor.
Deimos arrived from her left front, staring at the armor, tracing over the foundations of where a weakness could be pinpointed. The chest? The lower points of her legs, her hind? His movements would need to be precise, exact, in order to extort any damage – magic could wait. The behemoth wanted to see how she moved first, how she maneuvered, how she exploited, and utilized the dragon, a test of craft, a honing of skill.
He charged towards her left, lowering his skull as he attempted to get closer access, aiming to slide his blade towards the left side of her barrel, yearning for just a nick, just a scratch, just a hint of capability, just to register her ability. Within the same range of movement, he attempted to elongate his neck, stretching towards her left hind in passing, and nipping at the lower portion of her hip.
[Birdsong Seasonal Spar with @[Ophelia]! 1/3. 633 words.
Setting: Noon; within basin, by the unfreezing lake. Rocky soil.
Deimos arrives towards Ophelia’s left front. He charges towards her left barrel, aiming to slide his horn lightly across it. In the same range of movement, he tries to nip at the lower portion of her hip (hopefully below the armor!).]
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[JUDGED] Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle]
