The grass started to die first.
The audacious, reaper poison festered from his monstrous body like a heathen’s macabre dance, grasping, clawing, ensnaring with intangible threads of decadent tyranny. Insurgency lacquered amongst cruelty, holding fast to the whimpering, withering strings of greenery, choking, suffocating, and smothering life from the tips of waving pinnacles to the hidden, furtive roots. With indignant shudders, they shriveled, once verdant, gallant figures, one of the few remaining survivors of machinated mayhem, then fell to the earth, black, lifeless, dead. One by one, they plummeted in a pattern, warped and deluded, seething along his Laodicean body. Hooves did not move, but their firm touch, the feral caress of a demon’s smoldering brush, scathing recoil and malignant rancor, slithered and coiled from his apathetic oeuvre; death humming its iniquitous requiem. Pervading his presence were only remnants of creation, naught could defend against his uncontrolled potency, the puissant edge to his licentious sword. By existing, he twisted mayhem, forged bedlam, and distorted chaos. Each mere breath tore another life asunder, savagely, brutally, a nefarious contract wild, ruthless, and unruly. A recalcitrant order from Tartarean guile, damned from birth to end, Mephisopheles’s favored toy. The calamitous whisper, the silent, searing siege. From the loss of life came the demise, decay, of amiability – left in place from the scarred remains of heartfelt wishes and dreams were remorseless strands, the poise of daggers and composure of insouciance. Humanity and morality were spent in the final hours of innocence, blemished, mottled, to the edges of turmoil, when his wrath entangled into flesh, venomous rapture in the wicked, Stygian reverie. This land seemed much the same: limbs robbed of existence, bent to the flames, driven to ash. He could be broken, isolated, and forlorn here, amongst the ember cobwebs and the inky shadows, dangerously stirring, lost, amongst the mist of destruction.
From these cinders came alight another creature, colder than the embers, seemingly displeased by Deimos’s venture – not the first, nor the last. His own chilling eyes watched, expression flat and unaffected, as the opposing stag advanced, a level of irritation mottled along his features. The leader, the dominion and authority, carved with worn sentiments, a bearing of ragged days – perhaps when the sun plotted devastation upon his castle. Statuesque, a grave image of perilous treachery, insurgent brutality wrapped in the sculpture of hostile ferocity, the slate brute listened to the demands, and bore his answer after stifling, startling brevity of his silence lapsed for several moments, calculating. In its place was the same molten fortitude of intimidation, scorching malice in the temptation of aloof brutality, an inscrutable clash of clandestine danger and fierce mutiny. His stiff composition awakened again in the severe grate of his voice, so frequently untouched in the hushed scythe of his dominance. Simplistic, blunt, concise in the harsh, minatory air. ”Deimos, son of Ignatius. A home.” The appearance of another caused him to turn his head, slowly, a series of machinated motions so rigidly controlled – spying upon the nimble, lithe contortion of feminine wiles and restlessness. Even her body betrayed her sentiments, already lowering her head, posturing her horn towards him as if eager to annihilate his diabolical, depraved entity. If he were a lesser being, he would have chuckled. Instead, he ignored her altogether, a brazen, pulsing indifference to her entrance.
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master of nothing place, of recoil and grace
