A creature of death, collapse and quietus should have felt at home in the world of catacombs, tombs and sepulchers, should have been brandished and raised like a paragon over the monoliths, monuments and patchwork collection of fallen snow – chilled, wintry, marbled, a statue of Hades amongst the murky doldrums. He and the loam should have been allies, wasting the rest of the earth together, indignant, mordant, trenchant beings craving obliteration and bedlam. Instead, the land, the empire, betrayed his mortal flesh.
As the Pegasus reeled from the monster’s assault, and likely prepared to enact a returning blitz, the ground opened beneath the Reaper. What was once dead, decrepit, withered, faded and decayed, became reanimated, pulsing, vibrating with the sensation of violence from the soil, from the earth. Perhaps if he hadn’t been minding the throngs of war, the mighty cataclysm of machinations and animosity, he would have noted the gnarled, bony fingers flailing for his flesh, entangling first with the lingering threads of his tail, the ends of the crimson blanket, and finally, his right hind. A chiseled, strong hand ensnared his limb, and as he turned his head to stare, to defile, struggled in his burning vexations, flailed, kicked, mauled, maimed, and attempted to destroy the pieces of corruption denouncing him, Gaucho struck.
Like a simultaneous plunge of the trapped, antlers scraped against his left flank, cut, sliced, and a smoldering flicker of pain resonated deep into the hymns, the croons, the murmurs of anarchy pulsing in his Stygian mind. Shocking, blinding, and foolish, he only swung the front end of his body towards the right momentarily, and nearly screamed for the agony reaching through the boughs of his left haunch, to avoid the thrashing, swinging hooves close to his frame. The layers of indignation swarmed, combined with an aching, trickling, bloody side and malevolently tied the resonance of his brutality, of his savagery, into an eternal unrest. A vicious, virulent promise settled across his reticent, archaic, barbarous bones. Something would pay.
The current measure of pain, the blasphemous hand, didn’t bestow much hope for speed, for movement, for any elegant contortion of nefarious muscles. Instead, it harked for the cool predilection of his enchantments, sang and rang for the art of his satanic gifts, called and courted the layers of vehemence to spring amongst the fluid, misty darkness. The distance, for it appeared as though the Pegasus had sauntered onward, pummeling more creatures of the night, would impact the bombardment, but the aching calamity, and the grasp of his captor, supplied him with enough fuel, enough rancor, enough wrath to extend the candor of his might.
He listened for the jingling bells on the winged behemoth, pinned his senses upon the diabolical ruminations of the tinkling tune, and pulled, pushed, pulsed into the pervading monstrosity of his veins, stepped as far forward as he could, a few stretching paces, and allowed the infernal, unholy siege to unwind from his form. Like a fiendish, haunting whisper, it slithered into the darkness, into the abyss, incorporeal, intangible, blending into the ghostly hums of the graveyard, channeling and streaming towards the only other living creature, to render them another one of the decaying.
Only thereafter did the hand release him from his plight.
[543 words. 2/3 + 0/1 defense.
Immediately after Deimos attacks Gaucho, and as Gaucho prepares to strike back, a zombie hand grabs his right hind, leaving him no opportunity to escape. Gaucho strikes his left flank, leaving him bleeding and blinded with pain. Aching, he manages to swing the front end of his body away, towards the right, from Gaucho’s kick.
As Gaucho moves away from him, Deimos concentrates on the jingling bells to provide him with a sense of where the Pegasus’ presence. Still trapped by the zombie’s hand, Deimos sends his death magic to find and maim the fellow combatant.]
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The blast of war blows in our ears [Graveyard Champ]
