Frustration was forever an imminent portion of battle. He was rarely given the chance to completely maim his opponents, shatter and destroy their thrashing limbs, their undulating corpses, or their vacuous, inept sentiments. He was seldom bestowed moments to truly ravage their aspirations, their hopes and dreams, watching as the thickened course of his enchantments couldn’t fully deter their sanguine, noble, valorous hearts, that even the harshest, satanic whisper didn’t exploit them to their untimely demises. Another day, another hour, perhaps, but for this moment, this feud and clash, he was to be disappointed and vexed all the more. The femme didn’t stumble to her knees, beg for a mercy he’d never grant, and he seethed, smoldered, emboldened and enraged that his sword didn’t pierce a heart, didn’t cause a tragedy, a travesty, found incapable of building a new tomb. The Reaper, undaunted and relentless, simply found a new outlet to unwind his rapacious hunger upon.
She came at him, first with the torn piece of his hood, grim fashion shredded from scythe munitions, and he remembered the first bout of her distracting methods, held little regard to be twisted into its specious distortion again. As she flung it towards his face, he felt the Stygian cloth flicker across his brow, causing him to blink rapidly, shake his skull (inciting another infuriating ache down the length of his nape, scorching amongst his cranium), and witness the languid fall of its lithe conjectures, all shriveled, dissolute and forsaken. His eyes immediately searched for the ivory bulk, for the once pallid portions of skin and sinew now stained with ichor, wished he could devour more of its bleached hide. She’d backed up from her prior stance, and he intended to shift towards the right, with the mocking grandeur of pain shooting across his mauled haunches (not enough speed, never enough, it chortled and choked, smothered and strangled), to avoid the full damaging effect of her ire.
Deimos still felt the plunge, the tip, the sharpened edge of her malicious rapier bite into his flesh, slip across his skin in a hazardous, macabre dance, snap into sinew with an increased fervor. Torn flesh allowed the pledge of his own blood to spill forth over he length of his argent, left shoulder, cut, slashed, lacerated, but not as barbaric and brutal as it could have been, sliced and diced into ruin and devastation. The pain was savage in its own feral intoxication, and his jaw clenched in further discontent and aggravation, incapable of ensuing any more nefarious armaments upon her frame. Ensued from her bombardments was the sore, bruised skull and scratched nape, the maligned, cut left shoulder, the lanced right haunches, a reduction of speed, a forceful aching thread pushing at his senses – and what had he given her? Had it been enough, the touch of death, the silent screams of finality, the bewitching caress of iniquity and villainy? Or was this to be a dome of foolishness again, a score drawing him to humiliation?
[502 words. 3/3 posts + 1/1 defense.
Deimos is hit in the face with the cloth, but, having experienced her former schemes, doesn’t allow it to distract him. He shifts to the left to avoid the full brunt of Artemis’s attack, and is cut across the left shoulder, drawing blood.
Thanks for the fight, Sei!]
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Cater to the Hollow [Graveyard Champ]
