Despite always applying action as his eloquence, instead of words, instead of phrases, there were so many things he wanted to say to the silly, insipid fool. It was too bad it had to be this way pierced through his mind. You disappoint me was another, curled in his cranium on a fierce, blunt echo, because he’d said it before, and the results had been brutal. Why did you betray us? was one more flickering and contorting across his membrane, but it held too much pain, too much torment, to ever give it voice.
The boy had been too entitled, too rash, too stupid – and Deimos couldn’t fathom the purpose behind his actions. Did Rikyn believe the Reaper would turn a blind eye? That he would shrug off the insult to his kingdom? That Rikyn had earned the right to snag and steal, clench and grasp, something from his old home? That it was okay to forget everything he’d ever learned from the Basin?
Why, he wanted to ask the idiot over and over again. Why, why, why?
There were a few scarce moments where the King thought the boy might give up, yield, bow his head, and apologize for his misdeeds. He would’ve forgiven him, as cold, as calculating, as chilling as the beast was, and they might have discussed what could be done, what could be mended, what could be solved from the wasted efforts and ineffectual thoughts. He hoped for it, in a quiet way, in the back of his skull, in the darkened denizens of his heart, where his chest still permitted a minute range of sentiments. He didn’t want to crucify the boy he’d seen grow up under the mountain sky. He didn’t want to condemn the child his son cherished.
But the youth turned back towards him, and he knew, he knew, there were too many pieces of Illynx’s stubbornness and fury in his figure to ever give in, to ever admit his errors and mistakes.
So they’d battle, two infidels who should’ve never been enemies or adversaries.
He’d teach the lad a lesson, and perhaps they’d both learn something from it.
The monster felt the fury roar back over him, narrowing his stare as the youth, with all his glimmering armor, with all his righteous, ridiculous might, sped back towards him. The flames had done their job, bursting along the boy’s chest (bow down, he nearly shouted) but not forcing him to cease and desist. Their brutality, their ferocity, their savagery was still on, pulsing beneath the heady, cumbersome sun.
His swiftness would always be a factor, something Deimos intended to disrupt. The Lord was bulkier, designed for war, for battle, to take on assaults and sieges; where Rikyn’s was coated in speed, capable of making sharp, curt maneuvers, cutting away, avoiding disaster.
Yet, before his mind could make any other chilling calculations, a strange sensation rattled his crown – sharp, charged, barbaric, and he fought to shake his head, to clear his skull of the residual pain, of the foreign phenomenon, but he couldn’t move. It was like Ophelia’s invocations, an invasion of the mind, and the monster tried not to panic, not to dissolve, not to root himself in apprehension or alarm. His breath came out in staggered segments, sweat curled over his nape, and his nares widened, trying to gain more air through the rapid, electrical wiring sliding through his brain.
Then, it was over, and he had the briefest of moments to stand there, befuddled by what had just occurred (could he still move his legs?), to witness Rikyn’s horn reaching for his left hind. Startled, not an emotion he enjoyed encountering, the monster tried to maneuver to the right, but the motion was dull and stupid, slow and half-witted, and the tip of the lad’s sword still prodded against his thigh, flicking off pieces of pelt and hair.
It smarted, but he didn’t care about lost fur. He cared about destruction and punishments, retribution and consequences, unleashing them to every beast that thought it was possible to take from the Basin.
The Reaper moved to the best of his abilities, gaining back the endurance, the fortitude, of his machinations; twisting back towards the left in hopes of annihilating the boy’s tempo. His intentions, savage and nefarious, were mapped and blotted out in frigid, glacial notions – attempting to brandish his horn in a swinging, disastrous arch towards Rikyn’s left stifle – yearning to slow, to puncture, to devastate the child until all he could do was beg for mercy.
[2/4 + 0/1 defense. 758 words.
*As Rikyn nears, Deimos is overcome by his magic and cannot move his body for several seconds. Startled, slowed, and confused, he only has a moment or two to escape from Rikyn’s horn, and tries to swerve to the right to avoid it. Rikyn’s horn still managed to take some pelt off his left thigh.
* Hoping to impede Rikyn's speed, Deimos moves back towards the right, attempting to swing his horn towards Rikyn’s left stifle.]
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One More Word and You Won't Survive [Rikyn Challenge]
