He was accustomed to loss. It poured through his veins, rampant, devouring, consumable, lavished bolero of death and devastation, turmoil and tumult; a part of him, thriving, writhing, content to ravage and revile. A portion of his everyday life, the siege, the assault, of beguiling, alluring, wanton demise, breathless, abandoned, fatal, mortal. This casualty, while irritating, and vexing, was nothing in the collection of his life, in the indignant presage of his corrupted, heinous being, for he had smoldered, torn, and lacerated the intruders, touched, scorned, laid rubble at their feet. And still yearned for more. Oh, he’d done his part, this ethereal fatality, this barbed monster, this intimidating, formidable heathen, scorched and seared, murdered and slaughtered, caressed the decadence of massacre, felt the treacherous slide of damnation hush against his skin, sin sliding in the chilling, sinister gallows. The haunting, scintillating scrape of annihilation, cracked, plundered, pillaged the life of another, again and again, the anarchical swing of rampant, feral, fierce violence, the cold, glacial menace of his meticulous, cryptic forbidding. With a vicious finesse, he’d plunged, inveigling iniquity, searing fervor, fiend and Tartarean guile, immobile reserve; the impervious statue of predacious splendor. What better taste than the sweet, ambrosial opulence of revenge? The longing, sweeping ache of vengeance? The bestial, savage, upheaval of retaliation, retribution, slicing chords of righteous din, of dedicated, honeyed, sugared hags, watching them wither, witnessing them shrivel, hope erased and ruined. The wild gallows were left open once more, wicked, poised, ravenous, to steal more precious, beating hearts. In the hollowed, diabolical insurrection of his recherché, he knew it only allowed more opportunity to see the enemies burn., silent screams echoing from empty lungs, terrorized countenances, observing their last moments in the sun, broken by a immoral raptor.

Deimos took his time, carnivore motions in the chill of the Steppe, biding, toiling in his deplorable march. There was no rush to the crying din, to the derisive scorn, to the fervent ardor of disappointed creatures, of listless spirits. He’d triumphed and he’d vanquished, would commit the ruthless actions for an eternal glow in the fiendish, animal acrimony of their malignant aspirations. When’d he finally arrived, silent, hushed, they’d spoken snippets of glory, of yesteryear, of scythes and rapiers, of mauling and recovering. He ignored all of them, crown high, imperial, righteous and disturbing in the quiet, haunting stoic quality of his movements, eerie, cold, indiscernible. He drew himself towards the back of the crowd, amongst the torn individuals, along the intertwined banshees and warlocks that demanded future reprisal. Yet, he alone, could offer the insouciant clamor of conquest, the ferocious unwinding of the battlefield, the ravenous augur of remorseless being. Licentious stare fixated on their fallen leader, wondered how far he would proclaim his monarch prowess, and proffered the baleful purr of his success. His voice scraped against the ancient, aspiring winds, hardened, raw, cool, sinuous hiss, sibilant ardor, displaying only the nefarious, enigmatic depravity of his existence, announcing the blunt, maelstrom of a slight feat. “One is dead.” Then, taciturn once more, the hollow, desolate, primordial predator remained contorted for another bestial throng.