Deimos’ opus unleashed, his composition reworked, his oeuvre refined, the monster courted the fine enamel of battle, of bloodshed, of tactics and movements erupting into pain, torment. The infidel had to give the new Lady some credit – at least she didn’t squeal, didn’t panic, didn’t flail, and didn’t whine when his first actions corrupted her flesh. When there was no begging for mercy, when she’d accepted the macabre onslaught, his mind settled into bestial contortions. He wouldn’t have to dance and shirk and ensure he didn’t press too firmly; she wasn’t going to cower or cry. The battle could be a ringing of clarity, a testing of skills, rather than tumbling deeper and deeper into loathing and contempt.
She drummed out attempts at releasing her own potential, kicking out towards the left side of his open chest. The only thing he could do to avoid the blow was shy to the right, swift and fleeting, before it scorched across his muscles and flesh. It grazed along his hide, a flailing strike not quite leaving its intended mark, not dominating him with the indignation, the ire, of pain and agony. He twisted around, settling to devise his own plan of actions, when something utterly bizarre and strange occurred.
His mind felt occupied, like knotted, gnarled fingers traipsed amongst its gallows, its secrets, its haunting, poignant thoughts, sliding and slithering, crawling and crooning. In the confusion, he nearly ceased all movement, too befuddled, too perplexed and bewildered – the shards of his reticent features all collapsed to reveal undying incertitude. His eyes widened, and he shook his cranium back and forth, yearning for the anomaly to cease and desist. So foreign and peculiar, it seemed to run around his skull like a barbaric, impish invocation, exploring regions of his ruminations, his patterns, and a desperate, beguiling worry stole over his body as he wondered at what it saw. What hidden barbs could it reach? The Plague? The murders he’d committed? The distaste and derision he felt for many Helovian citizens? The wicked, demonic loathing contained and lodged deep into his core?
But then, as if it had never been there at all, the sensation was gone. His gaze ended up staring at the vast plains before them, the twinkling lake, the rich loam, lost and baffled, mystified and disoriented. He could no longer remember when and where his opponent had last been, where her companion had gone, where he’d stood, what he was supposed to be doing. It riled and rattled his core, shunned and mauled his senses, shuffled into his barrel in an unfamiliar curl of unease. But, at the last moment, a glint of armor shone, gallant in the noon light, towards his frame, and he swept over to the right to refrain from her devious actions, lunging across tundra grass, evading and ducking (battle, you are in the midst of battle. Here is where you dominate, not shirk and stare). Was that her magic, to lodge herself into one’s mind and wrap amongst it, trap and ensnare, confuse and allure? How much more could she see, and how much damage could she do?
The silent questions, the unsaid inquiries, left him unsettled, caustic, and rancorous. The villainous raptures carved all the more back into his face, heaved nonchalance over apprehension, built domination over misgivings. The beast, the Lord, the Reaper could show her more enchantments too, more unrelenting, pernicious schemes, more daunting, heartless motions. She’d pricked and poked and barbed a vicious, ferocious cretin, and couldn’t get away with tumbling about his designs. Longing to prove that she couldn’t have all of his secrets, he sculpted a seething, searing crescendo through his hide, allowed it to simmer, to burn, to flail along his mouth until it coiled and curled across the roof of his maw, and unfurled a molten throng of fire. The Red Bull’s gift, a scythe’s reward, a calamitous sedition, bridged over their skirmish. Like a vicious dragon, he aimed it towards her left barrel again, intending for it to hit another open chink in her armor.
[@[Ophelia] 2/3. 679 words.
Deimos shies to the right to avoid the first attempt towards his chest; her hoof grazes him only slightly. Her mind magic, however, sends him into a nervous, bewildered state. He becomes distracted with her whereabouts and movement, too worried about what she’s seeing in his mind, and only at the last second is he not overcome by her horn, dodging to the right again. In response and anger, he unleashes one large blast of fire from his mouth towards the left side of Ophelia’s barrel.]
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[JUDGED] Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle]
