The cruel contrasts and collisions of the sequestered skirmish left him twisted, distorted and confused: to be proud of the way Crowley fell to his knees, to be satisfied and content as he slammed towards the odd shelving, or alarmed, dismayed, and unnerved that he’d yearned for the Weaver’s destruction? Whether it was a trick, a ruse, a play of the lights, a sickening effect of the groggy, hazy, eerie atmosphere, the culmination remained the same; the Reaper had been fully capable of attacking, mauling, and maiming his comrade. Was his loathing so deeply embedded, were his satanic forces so lacquered and varnished along his heart, his mind, his soul, that he’d commit the same actions again and again, over and over, no matter what the hallucination, chimeras, and images provided? No matter who came to face him? Where was his lonely virtue of loyalty now? Had it dissipated and disappeared, to fester, to wither, in the building, brewing, infidels art of his sins?
The sentiments were nearly sickening, but with the resurgence of Talbot, who seemed completely unharmed by the maelstrom Deimos had bestowed upon the canine’s bonded, forced him away from the heinous thoughts and back into the final strands of the fray. Plagued by his prior wounds, his right, lacerated shoulder and chest, bleeding and searing, his left hind bruised and marred, and the groggy effects still immersed and pulsing through his veins, his motions were slow, loathsome, and listless. He scrambled against the tile in an attempt to escape the pending bombardment of teeth again, swerving to the right as the beast arrived to conquer his left. The dog’s siege landed along the edge of his left shoulder, tearing the cloth of his costume, casting another lengthy puncture that scorched and burned against his senses, against his sight, and he limped towards the right again in an attempt to evade another assault.
The Reaper’s stare cast a deep, melancholy glow as he hobbled towards a nearby corner, as he gazed across the dim room, with its flickering bulbs and its haunting screams, its tormenting, troubling fixations, and the Weaver flat against the tiling. Deimos had deigned to escape, to liberate himself, and deliverance could only have been found in the desecration of a companion. In the midst of silence, he uttered one hushed apology, permitted the strange notion to simmer within his mind, and rest among the vile, blinding wounds and ailments. I am sorry.
[409 words. 3/3 + 1/1 defense.
Deimos attempts to shift toward the right, but due to his prior wounds, cannot pull himself swiftly away from Talbot. The hellhound manages to tear his costume, and then inflict another laceration across his left shoulder.
Thank you for the fight, Dingo! :D]
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Either victory, or else a grave [Graveyard Champ]
