Initially, he was confused.
The bestial shades of his rage were suddenly consumed in a cooling, petulant slide of bewilderment, sinking and slinking into his barrel – because no sooner had he called, beckoned, commanded Confutatis to show her face, did Ophelia appear. He arched his brow, stood stock still, never pressing his movement or motion into any specific direction until his mind, until his calculations, could catch up with the proceedings.
He’d never met the wench before, but a skull face had marked all of her depictions and descriptions; something the present form in front of him wasn’t wearing. Instead, it was his co-leader and conspirator consumed by the decadent hues and the temple interior, and his membrane could only implode with queries and questions. What was she doing here? Had she come to watch? Had she changed her mind about them rampaging towards the Regime sovereign? Hadn’t she agreed with him? His vocals cast one subtle grate, marked and chiseled in uncertainty. “You…?” His piercing eyes narrowed, taking in every sight, every sound, the slinking, strange movements, the deranged posture, the wounds – and then his twisting machinations folded over the oddest contortion of all. There was no dragon.
The uncanny resemblance was foiled. Didn’t Ophelia take the flying lizard everywhere with her? Didn’t he watch it glide over them in battle? What a method, a tactic, hastening to deceive and exploit rather than match strength for strength, brutality for brutality. A composition of cowardice, a weaving of spineless, gutless provocations: he shouldn’t have been surprised. The monster clenched his jaws, stoked frustration and ire; annoyed and exasperated that he’d nearly been ensnared.
The stinging barbs were set, the infernal mettle cast and colliding. His wrath flared with a caustic, indignant brilliance, carving out the rime and the chill in his bones, posturing hatred in loathing, abhorrent designs, shaping the press of his hooves, hastening the sharp tip of his sword, driving him onward, watching each movement she made.
And in the back of his mind, he laid out a churning, boiling exposition of ire: how dare you.
She charged towards his right front, scraping against the stone floor, imploring his pain, his misery, his agony with a lift of her forehand, aiming to graze him with hoof and enamel. All he could smell, all he could taste, were the toxic incantations of rotten beings, and his senses were nearly overpowered by the disturbing onslaught, because while he employed death, he didn’t embody its withering invocations, and sharply, quickly, he dodged towards the left, away from her scraping daggers and her disgusting ivories.
But he wanted to use their vantage point, their close confines, to rip and tear, to expose and inflict. The beast and behemoth knew nothing of her body type, of her height, weight, muscling or tone, because she lay hidden beneath the cloak of the Forsaken, and he wanted to do naught more than tear it away and discover who the infidel truly was, to bend and break her, to destroy and annihilate her disturbing structure. The walls seemed too far away to ram her into their stone structure, and all the distorted colors of the rotunda could do was paint their battle in ruffian glows.
He maneuvered, swift, cunning, towards the right, hoping to aim for the left side of her nape. Sinister skull lowered, callous cutlass brandished, it yearned to slice and lacerate down the length of her neck, to cause as much agony and torture as the mare had done to his Basin, to his home, to his herd. In the same stead, his veins fueled the flares, the embers, the coals, of his newfound, infidel invocations, blessed by a Red Bull, brewing them to the forefront, so when he opened his maw, one massive fireball erupted from its chambers, intending to lace its searing contents across her chest and down her front legs.
[1/4 posts. 650 words.
Confused and bewildered by the appearance of Confutatis, Deimos is taken slightly off guard. Once realizing this Ophelia has no dragon, he presumes its Confutatis, and as she comes charging towards his front, he dodges to the left, avoiding her attacks. Utilizing their close confines, he attempts to cut back toward the right, lowering his skull and using his horn to stab towards the left side of her neck. He then employs his fire magic, creating one fireball, intending to scorch her chest and forelegs.]
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[JUDGED] We're Comfortable Killers [Confutatis Challenge]
