Every action he had ever committed was for the Basin. It was a strange realization to summon and conjure in his mind now, but amidst the pain and gangrenous edges tumbling down his shoulder, he was left with raw vulnerability, and perhaps the present was the time his membrane chose to address it.
He cherished them like his own flesh and blood, held their presence, their motives, their designs above all others: guarded their halls, wandered their corridors, protected and safeguarded their wares. He’d never expressed his blackguard tendencies towards their battered souls or their winded minds, he’d never told their black hearts that he’d forever sown his devilish opus into their soil and it meant he’d fight, he’d bleed, he’d die for each and every single one of their barbaric existences. The Reaper’s mouth was not his talent; he composed the tale, the promise, the conviction through exploits and deeds, through maneuvers and conduct, and whether or not they ever took notice was not his goal. His designation was always to provide a sanctum, a sanctuary, an overflowing chasm of power and potency.
But she’d rankled it, this Confutatis, seasons before, showed them that sometimes might and glory and danger provided one with naught; and even if one pushed, even if one fought, the results weren’t always in their favor (because she’d taken them and threatened to again, and he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t cease, until an end was met).
Not since he fought Lace for his freedom, and lost, had so much agony, so much peril filled him; only this time, it wasn’t precisely for himself. She needed to be ruined, sink down below into her chosen devastation and ruin, where she could slink and toil into Tartarean underworlds, where she couldn’t harm any more of his brethren, where she felt misery and turmoil, where all of her transgressions and sins opened up her veins and seared her soul. He wanted her far below their surface, dead and lanced, so she couldn’t touch anyone belonging to the Basin ever again.
Some strange rankling of normalcy entered their fray, his narrowed gaze capturing the nuance of fading images, of doppelgangers fleeing, and suddenly, they were alone, without tricks, without ruses, without ploys, locked in a battle amidst marble and stone. Some energy was brought back to him, taken and stolen from her, fizzling down into the layers of his hate and malice, trying desperately to stitch some portions of his shoulder back together where the fringe hadn’t blackened. His stare followed her, because his body didn’t dare, fused into the floor, right shoulder extending its misery and tribulations through his mind (it was almost exhausting, how bitterly the ache bit into his frame).
She pivoted, she faced him, and they were just two determined monsters, capable of so much treachery, so much danger, so much precision and venom. All he could think, as she wielded another scarring bout of munitions (and he stumbled, shuffled again, his right front claiming uselessness), was if he was going to go down, if he was going to taste and see death rather than wield it, he’d take her with him.
Her rotten invocations traced over him again, escape futile, and he nearly choked once more on the slate of misery strangling, suffocating, binding him to one place, sweat breaking over his nape, down his chest – her wrath licked and rasped and oozed and stretched across his right shoulder again, unwinding all the hard work his Lucifer whispers had exuded, stripping flesh and bearing sinew to the world down his right foreleg. It spread like a disease, like a pestilent regime, flanking and shuddering; he lowered his crown, tried to bend inaudible suffering into the floor. The Reaper plunged one feral gasp, one all-consuming shock of pain and torment, before grinding it against his mind, barreling the friction, the trials, the torture into resolution, into perseverance, into the satanic ritual of behemoth contortions.
He raised his head, bore his eyes into hers, and had the dignity, the devilry, to smirk.
Not moving, not maneuvering: frozen in place, he was still the everlasting cretin, the bestial Grim; and with the strength still left inside him, he fueled the anarchy, the savagery, of his purpose. The fire burned along his chest, chiseled through his throat, embarked on its journey again, flaring as he opened his jaws, unleashed ambitious, blinding, burning, searing menace, one massive ball of flame, of heat, towards her front.
[3/4. 746 words.
OOC Note: I’d been using my directions from the onlooker’s point of view in your diagram. I’m not too fussed anyway, since the attack missed. We’ll just let the judge sort it out.
Deimos is hit by her rotting magic again, and despite the fact that some of his death magic had stolen her energy and tried to heal the wound, it reopens and continues down a rotting path from his right shoulder and wandering along his right foreleg. Unmoving, he channels another fireball, aiming for her front.]
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[JUDGED] We're Comfortable Killers [Confutatis Challenge]
