Hostility brewed in the etchings of twilight, a burdening, blistering, smoldering concoction of malice, contempt and loathing, slithering in a sinuous synapse of ferocity and villainy. Animosity sparked, incited, invoked the perilous scrape of his cold-hearted, cretin predilection, scorn twisted into savagery, wrath writhing into fury. Livelihoods cast into darker reaches, where the grasping, gnarled fingers of raptorial hands caught at his brethren, seized at his comrades, struggled to snatch and disappear into the dusk. How many had he protected? How many had he lost? The answers were left lying in the dismal layers of eternal gloom, surfaces unexplored and rendered unknown, children sullied by avaricious grasps of enemies and opponents. What did the Dragon’s Throat and the World’s Edge hope to achieve by their sneaky, furtive measures? To pull the Basin’s hatred into action, to spur their enmity into bedlam, mayhem, discord? Did they yearn for violence, for villainy, for desecration upon their palaces, their kingdoms and empires? For surely, it was only prize they’d obtain. Why poke at a bed of thorns? Why prick at a nest of hornets? Why dabble in the scope and scrape of the vicious, the merciless, the relentless? He’d forced himself into wide corridors of darkness, guarded and blocked, torn and dismayed, but couldn’t capture the foes’ fortitudes, the reasons for their absconding, the treacherous snares wrapped around young, foolish hooves. Instead of chasing and clambering, screaming and sneering, howling and screeching, he silently began to court the vehement tirades of his chilling ire. Laced into his blood, beating against his eardrums, consuming the doldrums of his seditious vows, he helped carry the wayward path of their brethren as they united in one remorseless assault. A ceremonious plunge into hellish, chthonic pathways fueled the intimidating figurine ghosting through the shadowed drifts of ice, curtains of frigid walls turning into steep dunes and vicious sand. Deimos followed the breadth and breath of southern wind, the channels of sea breeze wafting into his nares, allowed them to fill his seething soul with more vivid abhorrence, scorn and derision; hate lacquered upon brutality, barbarity, and belligerence.
The Reaper, molded anarchy and sculpted malignity, drew his solid, stoic skeleton across the barbs of hot, turbulent sand, where the earth gave rise to a wall, staunch and stalwart against the shadowed, cloudy sky. How they yearned to conquer these demons, these creatures spouting worthiness and peace where they merely whispered of hushed chicanery and deceit, wondered what it would be like to crush the fine bits of their fortifications to the ground. He stood outside its depths and cast his overbearing presence upon its side, wished to seize its immobile parts and witness its crumbling shards and fragments splinter into the shadowy abyss. The piercing blue juncture of his stare stared directly into the chambers of soot and dirt, and craved, coveted, the fall of its bestial torments. Perhaps – with luck, precision, prowess and supremacy, their vengeance would savor the bite, the taste, and the relish of the Throat’s ambrosial collapse.
[Dragon’s Throat borders, sandy footing, midnight, cloudy.
503 words. Deimos awaits a defender.
Deimos is using buffs SWIFT and BULK.
0/4 invasion duel system. Time frame to start an invasion or defense is until 8/22.
0/1 + 0/1 additional Basin Champ magic used. SWP applies.]
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[O] Monster of the Multitude [Invasion]
