The scouring, the grating, the clenching of his infernal heart sharpened and keened, grazed and punctured, an altar, a shrine, to residual embers and cinders, masters of nocturnal spoils and oils brought to a reverential nefariousness – he boiled and blistered beneath its monumental rite. It struck his lungs and burned his breath, entangled and embroiled his veins, suffocated and lanced his throat, sought coals beneath his lids and rotted every surface of his mind until all he saw was a bright, brilliant, crimson bull – a derisive ox, a scorning creature damning him, relinquishing him, condemning him into the seas, into the waves. Like a cretin of fire, like a lord of combustion, he seeped his vengeance, he stoked his violence, into the licentious beast’s frame, riddled his structure with the archaic whims of flames and ardency – launched and assaulted, sieged and triumphed over the traces of sinister bounty. Each inhale was a rasp, each movement, each step, a scorching torture, building and ricocheting across his membrane, amidst his body, as if he were clockwork misery and writhing wretchedness, and he nearly sank into temptation, towards the cool ocean, amidst the wild current; it could sweep him away, churn him into dust and bones, calm and alter the flow of terror, end everything. The Reaper would never be found beneath its raging mouth, disappeared into eldritch, monolith Neptune rituals, worshipped in the doldrums and dungeons for nothingness and demise, and for a moment the craving was too much, and he glanced towards the endless surf, remembered every sin committed, saw his brethren, his friends, his companions, his family buried in the entanglement of water and shoal. Give in, the world whispered around him, join us, crooned invisible mermaids and water nymphs, we’ll be together again, his phantom family offered, and he shut his eyes against their haunting, poignant cries, their enticing dreams – they bellowed, they screamed, they screeched, and when he opened his penetrating stare, pained, tormented, he fixated it only upon the bull.

If he were to die today, he’d take another with him.

Ruthless, bestial, ferocious even in the throngs of suffering; a carnivore cornered, a predator preyed upon, with a striking finality, with a puissant certainty, with a pernicious scheme and a cold-blooded concoction, Deimos pushed against the crippling knives and the searing tirades. The Siberian statue ignored the warnings, scorned the commands, maneuvered one step, choked back a gasp, a howl, a bellow from the entombment of his virile distortions and the slithering, crawling agony – began to infuse his malicious, relentless contortions. A grateful mutiny, released and liberated from his hollowed, hallowed devil spires, entangled and poisoned from the warrens of Lucifer lies and deadly fumes, conspired and rang from the vows of subversive, revolutionary scoundrels. Like a cretin, like a fiend, like a Mephistophelean figure, he thrust the rapier of his deleterious invocations towards the charging beast, ensuing, galvanizing, corroding with one last noxious deliverance – death, carving a seditious rapture, a heartless condemnation, a scythe’s barbaric crescendo.

[Deimos stands his ground and sends death magic the bull's way. ;D]

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.