Like a cornered beast in a cage, Deimos had unleashed an attack upon a fellow companion, a patriot, a comrade, and nearly felt the sting of humiliation sear into his skin. Had this been a normal spar, wallowing in their icy valley, christened by education, instruction, methods and enhancements, he wouldn’t allow the streak of guilt to wash over him, the uncertainty, or the incited rage that had emboldened him to assail the Weaver. Locked in this strange, unearthly oubliette, he’d unraveled into ferocity, into feral barbarity, and even now, in the midst of dungeons and liberation, where another door could open wide to the stars, to the sky, to the threshold of freedom, he wondered how to enact further damage upon the other behemoth. What if this was an illusion, a hallucination, brought on by the bizarre atmosphere, drugging and dragging him into delusions? What if Crowley was another cretin blocking his path to release and salvation? What if this was a test, an opportunity, he could potentially waste, holding back because he knew his newfound opponent? Would he forgive himself for any of these pending ages, stuck and mired to the root of conviction, of creed, of loyalty or paranoia, suspicion, specious interludes and disappearing openings?
Conflicted, the Reaper attempted to wind his frame away from the Weaver as he swung his head towards the reticent’s frame, swerving towards the left in some wavering haze. He’d forgotten Crowley’s companion, the hellhound, and as it strove towards his right side, a blinding anomaly of silver and further peculiar accouterments, he aimed to hasten over the floor once more, to the left, at a distance, apart from the visions, mirages, and chimeras. The creature still ensnared its teeth over his right shoulder, biting and digging into flesh, and the searing pain caused him to clench his jaw, shake away the canine with several agitated convulsions of his undulating frame, and shirk into the confines of shadow to conspire.
Then, the scientist reappeared.
Slowed down by the raw, bleedng injury, he had no opportunity to dance away from the strange beast with two legs, layered in ivory cloth. A sharp prick laced into his left hind, and almost instantly he felt the weary effects of the poison injected into his skin – the world became a blur, winding around him, slow, laborious, arduous, his head heavy, and he stumbled towards a silver table, fixed and covered with pointed utensils, razor, serrated edges. Amidst the abnormal realm, he grew frustrated, vexed, incensed, enraged, wishing for annihilation, yearning for a twist in the maelstrom, in the schism, in persecution and entropy. The circumstances were overwhelming: to be lost in the tirade of delirium, assaults and wounds, and the wicked machinations of his infernal mind only hastened the glory of a fatal blow, of a hedonistic demise delivered to his enemies.
The table sparked his Machiavellian schemes, and once he’d regained his stance, he swiftly allowed the plot to develop. Using his left side, he sculpted as much power as he could muster, favoring his right front, plowing into the light surface, watching as it reeled on squeaky, fragile wheels towards Crowley’s frame, to the right, where he’d last seen him flee. Would he ghost and dance away, would he never see it coming in the reeling shadows and fettering light?. Would it strike the abomination of his friend? Would the sharpened instruments fly towards the heathen and his dog? What if it wasn’t enough?
The culminating answer flowed through his veins, hastened by the dark arts, by the loathing, by the contempt of these molten, infuriating circumstances, and his necromancy pulsed amongst the runes of his frame, tirelessly, relentlessly fueled by the weight of animosity. It followed the table in a feverish coil, surrounded and pervaded, brewed and built as he stood in the corner of the room, longing to brutalize, torture, maim and maul just as he’d been torn asunder. He didn’t forget the scientist either, aiming one more hasty assault of magic towards the creeping specter, so that, maybe, if this were the true Crowley, he wouldn’t be poisoned as the Reaper had been.
[689 words. Graveyard Champ spar. 2/3 + 0/1 defense.
Talbot manages to bite Deimos’s right shoulder, causing searing pain and bleeding flesh. He shakes the dog off and goes towards the left, where the scientist manages to plunge his needle into his left hind. Groggy, Deimos stumbles towards a silver table, and using his left side to plow into it, sends it towards the right side of Crowley’s frame. At the same time, he allows a heavy dose of his deadly magic to follow after the table, aimed towards Crowley, and some amount towards the scientist lurking nearby.]
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Either victory, or else a grave [Graveyard Champ]
