The beast was disappointed when the mare refused to whimper, fall, flail upon the ground until she became a withered, atrophied carcass, perished in the transient, fleeting moments of peril and terror, of horror and abominations. The Reaper’s fulfillment only arrived with condemnation, with eradication, when violence sprung from satanic stanzas and silent strife, with animosity and acrimony pulsing from maddening deliberations and pulverizing machinations. His hedonistic satisfaction would have come with raw panic paralyzing her eyes, her features, her movements and motions, if she’d been chaotically thrust into a disabled, crippled, immobilized figure he could crush, suppress and triumph over. Instead, the mare arrived at his side once more, like an unbroken, brawny machine, and the cumbersome hood became a loathsome thorn in his costumed cavalcade as her dentals grabbed hold of the fabric.
His bulk sought to alleviate the entity of her grinding fixture pinning him to her side; despite his laboring right hind, he ground his weight towards the right, pulling against her arduous convictions, pushing the might, the power, the prowess of his own strength into each dragging stride across the wet, hostile field. The sound of cloth ripping, tearing, maiming, filled the void of noises and battle cries, and he continued in his pursuit of liberation, from cowl, from mantle, from seething, simmering opposition. Loosened by the entangled, dueling masses, the material gave way and burdened him with the momentary contentment of escape, from garment and beast, and as he swiveled his head back towards her position, he found the gratification fade away into nothingness. Her hooves flailed in a rear, and though she hadn’t blinded him, hadn’t scorched or impaired his vision, lowered him into a cowering mass, she’d snagged him while he was distracted.
Deimos cursed himself, clenched his jaw as the edge of her hooves clattered against the top of his skull, scraped against the surface of his nape, scratched and brutalized the left outer rim of his neck, sliding downwards in their wild escapade. The searing intensity of the contusion to his cranium rattled him for a few moments, enough to deliver some barbaric glimmer of dismay, of acting like a demonic, ignorant youngster, lost and forlorn in the archways of battle, instead of the warrior, the infidel, the cretin and fiend he’d grown to become. He’d sown his treachery into the lands, he’d embarked upon licentious creeds, he’d delved into crusades and come away with victories and blood upon his cutlass. He was better than this.
The humiliating sensation was overwrought and overwhelmed by his Machiavellian predilections searing, severing, the calamity of his bewitched wake. The mare had delivered him ample opportunity to entrench her glory into wretched, wicked ruin, and he hoped to bestow her the grandeur, the decadence, of his pernicious sieges, timely assaults. He shook his head, attempted to clear the cobwebs of the ringing, shooting barbs locked in his skull, and then pointed the long, sharp rim of his rapier towards her exposed chest. Motions, not as swift, not as quick, not as glorious before assaults upon his body, sought to pierce, to puncture, to lacerate the wide expanse of her torso, longed to gleam the prosperity of her faltering, to stumble and fall upon his savage sword.
[542 words. 3/3 + 0/1 defense.
As Artemis seeks to push the beast lower with the use of his hood, Deimos pulls against her, ripping the fabric of his cowl. Due to the distraction, Artemis hits the top of his head, forming a massive bruise, and scrapes her hooves down the left side of his nape.
He uses this opportunity to take advantage of her exposed chest, aiming to drive his horn into her torso.]
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Cater to the Hollow [Graveyard Champ]
