Born for calamity, for desecration, he lined the world with his violence, with his chaos, with his cold, disarming insurrection, and watched as two more victims became aligned to his avaricious anarchy. It was gratifying to witness their turmoil, their aches, their anguish forced into bodies once poised with so much petulance, with so much sinuous ineptitude, compelled and obliged to falter. He’d wanted them to understand, to comprehend, the weight of their disastrous wandering, the notion of heeding warnings, the trace, the puissance, the pernicious capability of the Aurora Basin. He’d wanted them to feel the vibrations, the crescendo, the dominance and the superiority of their nation, of their creed, of their vicious, virulent ardor. He’d wanted them to burn in the wake of their errors, in the fever of their mistakes, in the lush tides of ignorance and foolishness, destitute, debauched, condemned by malevolence. He’d wanted them to perish beneath the diabolical shades of his warriors, and he’d wanted them to be buried in the rubble of ice and rime, where the cool earth wouldn’t remember their bones, their names or their idiocy, where the corpses would rot, wither and decay, and no one would collect their final ashes. Now, here they were, scarred, broken, brittle things, trespassers rendered to nothingness, and he, monster, demon and devil, stood silent in the rapture of their quietus. The heinous tribulation, the haunting outcries of the battlefield, the savage candor of war drums lulled him into composure, collected, insouciant swords gathered, sheathed and predacious all over again, eternally eager for another touch of animosity.
His barbaric stare observed the calculating machinations of his magic sinking into the marrow of the Pegasus, scrutinized and examined as she floundered in the air, then crashed back down upon a kingdom, an empire, that only wished for her to expire, ready for her tomb. The monster breathed in the chilling air, felt the encompassing tides of the mare’s strength flee her body, to be reveled and revered in his, pulsing at the left flank still murmuring its diligent throbs. Deimos had nothing to defend against, for the creature did not fight back the maddening, pervading enchantments cast upon her winged shell. He had naught to complain about either, his frame had felt the armaments of conflict, little pieces of pelt that would grow back, and the clash of horn against horn did not cement his skull to a throbbing tilt. His eyes left Africa’s collapsed form briefly, to survey and regard Alan’s end of the battle, the cold, rigid, haunting gaze of his persecuting malice reaching across the grounds to offer, bestow, the resolute salute of a fellow soldier. They had defended their home, granted their gifts of protection, and laid in wait for the results of their precious, hedonistic acrimony.
[466 words.
4/4 posts + 1/1 defense. 1/1 magic.
With nothing to defend against, Deimos watches Africa fall.
Thank you for allowing us to hold this challenge, Riven and Roo. <3]
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Come not within the measure of my wrath. [Sinuhe & Africa Challenge]
