The Reaper hunted.
Predacious, raptorial, carnivorous, he stalked and followed the haunting trail of avarice and warfare, plunged hellbound into the regions of his covetous, mercenary claim; stoked, incensed, ignited by the escalation of corruption, by the dangerous animosity of his satanic pursuits. Wolfish and vulturine, bloodshed, quietus, death and demise harked, pulsed, pervaded the calamitous shades of his soul, burned and simmered, seared and scorched, until the freedom of his movement was polished, captured, and ensnared by the promise of pillaging, destruction, and mayhem. It empowered, emboldened, his satanic flesh, his nefarious, sinister designs, wove calculating measures of domination and supremacy into the infidel, diabolical regions of his soul. A feverish mastery plunged into his senses, immerged seething, smoldering, ferocious and barbaric. His prey, bulky, brawny and ignorant, demanding and commanding from the yearning entrails of another time, another life, waned into the delight of hags and witches, into thickened copses and glades, and the Lord of the Basin knew it wouldn’t be an easy feat to overcome and fell the beast. Within the plaited shadows, within the murky mist, he studied the massive frame, the sturdy, strong figure, larger than his sculpted, lithe, limber warrior structure, and pondered over the state of destroying Goliath.
His frame slunk between the nestled towers, into abyss and murky containments - his inane costume remained along his frame, and as he bent along outstretched limbs and unholy boughs he attempted to remain anonymous from its snagging, wished to gesture into the silence as a hollowed, hallowed void, sneaking, sliding, and slinking into the light rain (could it mask the sounds of his movements, pitter pattering raindrops gliding upon sticks where hooves plummeted?). Distracted by the burden of chasing and pursuing, he didn’t notice the fine, silken web along the primrose pathway until it was too late – a distinct, massive, arachnid shape swept towards his right, and in his attempt to flee from its piercing mandibles, its frothing pincers, all surprising assaults and unsuspected sieges were lost.
Deimos dove into the fray, trying to liberate himself from the clicking jaws of the spider (as large as he, faster, swifter, and he wondered which rabbit hole he’d wandered into, to be deceived into stalking a quarry and becoming prey himself), ducking into the foggy aperture in a manic speed, attempting not to slip along the dewy grass. Incapable of fully escaping from the spider’s clutches, the monster struck along his right haunch, a painful wound blinding, choking, and strangling the animosity in his lungs. Outraged, anguished, and tormented, he continued towards Archibald, grasping the opportunity of freedom from another arachnid bite and channeling his fury, his wrath, into puncturing the draft. Incapable of ignoring the bleeding corrosion of his flesh, his swiftness slowed, but the deftness of his prowess did not. Coming towards the left side of the behemoth, he angled and aimed his sword towards the swell of his barrel, the length of his abdomen, intending to drag the pointed, serrated rapier in one long, vile incision.
[@[Archibald]
504 words. Graveyard Champ spar. 1/3 + 0/1 defense.
Deimos is still dressed as Houndoom. Fake dog muzzle. Black and red fabric. Plastic horns on head. Chains along lower legs.
Slinking in the shadows of the forest, Deimos follows Archibald’s scent. When he comes upon the draft, he attempts to remain hidden, but the appearance of a massive spider eliminates the possibility. Trying to flee from its clutches, he barrels into the opening, and is still bitten on the right haunch. Slowed down and bleeding, he still aims for the left side of Archibald, intending to drag his horn down the length of his barrel.]
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My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray [Graveyard Champ]
