I don't want you [Deimos, open]

I don't want you [Deimos, open]

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

12-22-2012, 07:09 PM

He stood, waited, patiently recoiling in the arms of silence, scathing, seething, smoldering, lingering. The hushed blades of wrath, of contempt, of loathing, slithered against the parlor of his abhorrent prison, eternally decadent, licentious, iniquitous, corporeal corruption to the eaves, to the walls, to the simpering waves of delusion and grandeur. Iron and intimidation into hedonistic fibers, fostered by demonic art, entangled with Tartarean guile, immersed in the statuesque threads of a depraved, nefarious heathen, he stood upon the threshold of his oubliette and further chilled its core. His primordial treachery, his simmering, argent domination, his distorted, contorted puissance could not wither, could not decay even in the absence of Satan’s snares, composed over the dominion of his Stygian heart, poised in annihilation, prosed in supremacy. He was strength and fortitude, dominion and control; her methods of absconding could not banish, vanquish or disregard his oeuvre of chaos and irreverence. He destroyed, he ravaged, he ruined. What if she was his next massacre, bleeding and seeping along the tarnished, stained Edge, fallen from the cliff tops, reeling in the contorted layers of despair and melancholy, a success wrought to tragedy? His gaze remained fixated only upon the painted mare, stare a rigid, chilling, rapier design, the sumptuous, reeling opulence of remorseless, callous disregard. Voraciously detached, inhumane and merciless, he watched the tension in her companion’s muscles, the juncture of taut limbs, followed the course of their attention as Psyche came into view. Deimos continued in his nonchalant, inexpressive features even as she courted the air in her serpentine measure, in the calculating, manipulative expanse, stared at her from beyond the ridge of companion and equine. His cold eyes offered her heinous assurance, the debauched convictions, the savage oath of bestial motives, and remained hushed, immoral, unholy, waiting for that scrupulous moment when he could grind the earth into fragments, shatter it whole, soak in the arduous pull of devastation.

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