Through the pain, through the fog, through the haze and the anguish, chaos filtered and flickered throughout his mind, pummeled, channeled, hummed and hymned as a pulsing, vibrant tenacity – and he relished, reveled in it. Anger, devastation, liberation and deliverance, conveyed and condemned through the zealous, fervent animosities toiled and languished in the opulence, in the decadence, of the heathen brutality. He swallowed the maelstrom, suffered in its overreaching pinnacles, damned and deluded the crushing filaments, the rash, unsung villainy, the violence longing to explode, the coveting, the yearning, to do more and more damage, without time, without instants and junctures to overtake, to maul, to annihilate. Had he enough hours, the Reaper would have shown all of them to their graves.
Deimos advanced up the hill, drove himself on and on, felt the lament of his scorned left flank rise again, surrounding his senses with the predilection of biting, gnawing ill-will, and heard the rumbling of stone, shattering pebbles and monuments. The piercing machinations of his gaze had only a few moments to widen, staring as a piece of marker came tumbling towards his frame. With the pain, the torture, rendered upon his body, he had scarce precious seconds to swivel to the right, and still, as he channeled his energy into motion, into movement, the rock struck against his left front cannon, ricocheting and bounding off bone – bruising, toiling, blinding his sight into tremors and spots of agony. Were he not of resolute, determined blood, he may have fallen and crumbled there, instead, he dug into the ground. Pushing more upon his right, he twisted and distorted, clenched and snorted, gasped and gave one momentous drive forward, to rid himself of this plague, to render himself away from this nuisance, to murder, to slaughter, to massacre.
Satisfaction was rendered with a burst of feathers as his horn struck true, as his sword swiped skin, sinew, and flesh, ducking right once more and brushing against the fringes of the outstretched wing, nicked by the edges of the spiky collar, pelt crumbling away, almost unnoticed and hidden by the other traces of aches and agonies. Even as his senses flashed, danced, spun wildly out of control, induced by pain, torment, throbbing contortions, he allowed the briefest amount of content to embolden his nefarious heart as his opponent roared with thunderous affliction, before another long, ivory streak stunned the nocturnal atmosphere.
Nearly expecting the strange, bizarre element of light again, he attempted another motion towards the right, eager to get far, far away from the prior, numbing force. Instead, a bite seared into his left flank once more, and the torture bloomed, corroded, mauled in tumultuous, feverish ferocity. A gasp echoed from his lungs, barreled into the mist and fog, and he was no longer the dragooning red bull, but the crumbling, crimson fortress. Adrift, lost, in the murk, without clarity, without sense of being, of knowing, he seemingly floated, wandered and meandered a few steps away, embodying confusion, anguish and suffering, silently rendered into a numbing, hushed fortitude. He hardly noticed the flailing hooves of the Pegasus, saved by stumbling away into the darkness, and only surmised the briefest thoughts cluttering and clouding his head. Was it just his left haunch and cannon that ached, breathed fire into his skin and sentiments, coiled brimstone into his heart, or were there other pieces of him broken off, splintered and severed? Had he done enough? Had he earned his escape, his liberation? Or was he doomed, damned all over again to remain here, poised in the makings of his own persecution?
[[599 words. 3/3+ 1/1 defense.
As Deimos advances up the hill, he notices Gaucho’s portion of stone flying towards him, but due to the pain in his left flank, is not capable of moving very far. He swerves to the right, but feels the stone hit his left front cannon, bruising it.
Satisfied thereafter that his attack has left its mark, he barely notices the brush of the spiked-collar, and some pelt falls away from his skin. Mara, on the other hand, stuns him with her bite upon his already injured left flank, leaving him stunned, disoriented and confused, stumbling off to the right. Due to prior motions, Gaucho’s hooves hit nothing, and Deimos is left to muse in his confusion.
Thank you for the fight, Aud!]
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The blast of war blows in our ears [Graveyard Champ]
