Captivity was not a wholesome regard for one of bedlam’s creatures. It vexed and incensed, immersed his soul in the cataclysmic frustrations of an infidel pariah. Patience, though often a deep well, had been scarred, skinned and scorched in the depths of his tumultuous prison. He’d waited, forbearing and restrained, only to find nothing moving along, an irritating, smothering silence amongst political whims and fancies. He was not a diplomat or emissary, could not smother his thoughts into foreign affairs, and refused to comply with stagnant terms – the Qian always wanted, always yearned, always craved, first a herd for their hypocritical sentiments, his hide, the list grew on and on, spilling over the contents of their kingdom. Too slow, too sedate, consuming and prolonged, and all the while he merely burned and yearned more, devouring the expanse in his malice, in his menace. Now, he presented a chase to the possibility, the potential, of gaining his own freedom, his own liberation; his own purchase of deliverance. It could ruin, devastate, a potential exchange of potent souls, and he would relish being the one to bestow this calamity.
Deimos was not new to the art of war, the brushstrokes of battle, the drums of assaults and sieges. He’d fought time and time before, had earned his right to herald the General status amongst the rancorous Basin members. He lived for wreckage, for carnage, for that meticulous desolation of other realms, other castles, other barricades. First Ricochet, with his exploding powder, then the invasion, with its perilous, volatile, hostile tombs, committing Pyrrhic victory in slaughter, in murder, even amongst their defeat. Presently, he was to face Lace, the spider webbed Glazier of the Edge. They were similar in build and height, slender, warrior figures content with their many trials; it would be interesting to see what advantages either could enact upon the other: Deimos, with his terrible, demonic tracings of death, against the soldier with a fire-breathing lizard and wooden enchantments.
They stood upon the borders, a fringe of the world he’d traipsed upon, protected and defended, so many times before. He knew the runes of the trees and the dying cry of their limbs, recognized the weary, lacquered earth at his heinous, unholy touch, and while he had once hesitated before to unleash the immorality of his design, he wouldn’t now. He no longer had ties to the once guarded lair of his vicious creed, renounced and abandoned by his callous grasp. He wouldn’t bother protecting something that was no longer his. Would they feel the same way towards him, bending against his brutality, trying to halt his escape?
Deimos remained the same. He displayed no outward emotion, eternally impassive, resolute, and guarded, face impassive, showing naught but the treachery and chill of his gaze. He uttered no syllable, no strain of vocals, allowing only the hymns of the battlefield to claim the indignant sounds of their dominating hostility. He was intimidation woven into reticence, composure wrapped within infernal exposition, destruction within statuesque depravity. He moved in taut, controlled barbarity, unlocked from his forsaken scabbard, with the sinuous poise of foul, ravenous predators, long, elegant limbs folding to drive his heresy into the frame of the Glazier. His speed was a daunting force even amongst the folds of greenery and glade, a sinuous, charging maelstrom flung towards his newfound guard. Tucking his dial inward, the beast tilted his cranium towards Lace’s left shoulder, allowing the sharpened end of his horn to become sword, cutlass, and rapier. His motions continued onward, longing to puncture against the side of the foe, intending to drag the blade across shoulder, barrel and hip; a long, remorseless slash. Thereafter the first assault, he plucked his front end to the right, swinging his hind towards Lace’s same side, letting his heels fly towards his adversary in a sinister bout of power and force.
[646 words. 1/4 + 0/1 defense post. 0/1 magic.
Challenge for Lace, for freedom from World’s Edge.
Challenge takes place at World’s Edge borders (forest, morning).
- Deimos begins his assault by tucking his head towards his neck and subsequently bending said cranium towards Lace’s left side. As he charges, he intends to puncture Lace’s shoulder, barrel and hip by dragging his horn along the Glazier’s flesh. After this, he swings his front end towards the right, allowing for his hind feet to aim a kick towards Lace’s left shoulder once more.]
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[JUDGE] instruments to plague us [challenge for freedom - lace]
