The monster had hated a lot of things in his life, but not nearly as much as he loathed Confutatis.
He abhorred how she’d chosen his herd to desecrate, to scavenge, to savage. He detested how she refused to give in, how they struck back at her ruses and tactics, and she would feel the blow, but not the fall, galvanized and returning, a vexing, rancorous phoenix revived and renewed. He despised how she managed to land blow after blow upon him, how his skin and sinew laid, flayed and open, vulnerable and seeping, agonizing and miserable, how his frame felt, bitter and fatigued.
But he needed to use every ounce of the twisted, contorted malice, every fiber of his aversion, animosity, and acrimony, to implore one more attack, one more siege, one more assault: to show her the might, the tenacity, and the indomitable pride of the Basin.
The ice never ceased. The caverns never faltered. The summits never bowed.
When his brethren were defeated, they clawed and crawled across the ends of the earth, mending and repairing. When they were conquered, they retreated back to their wintry threshold, began anew, started over, and summoned more convictions of strength and diligence.
A burst of indignation coiled in his mind, because maybe, just maybe, he held contempt for her because she reminded him of his empire, his kingdom, his reign. The notion of equality with the sickening, disturbing wench was more than he could bear.
She came at him again, burnt but unfaltering, and he stole a breath of air, embraced the sultry whims of the rotunda, scalding it down into his bones, into his lungs, trying to brew another invocation of strength through the turmoil, through the afflictions. She tore towards his left, because she’d obviously strategized (for where would his weight have to go – along the right, where his hind was undaunted but his front damaged and withering), and he ground frustration through his movements. They were slow and cumbersome, no beautiful, breathtaking displays of swiftness, and leaning towards his right (a fresh grating of pain renewed and stabbed along his skull for his efforts), trying to dodge the spikes of mass and bone, nearly caused him to buckle and slide down to the floor.
Persistence, perseverance, and a quick, upright motion saved him from tumbling into ancient stone and marble, seething, scorching measures shaped and carved his mind into a brilliant display of belligerence and barbarity; her bone armor grazed over his skin, shaving hairs off his back. Her barrage wasn’t finished, however, for as he maneuvered his front end, she drew her mouth to his left haunch, biting at the fluid muscle, the undulating coils. The pain was sudden and significant, searing across his eyes in a blistering, scorching affair, a vehement rapture of torment, joining its brethren amongst their wild, savage throes.
Deimos took the only opportunity that he had within the haze – twisting his body back towards the left, hind balancing his butchered front, aiming for her moving frame, examining the motions rapidly, a scrutinizing study while his misery extended (was the wound already infected?). The cretin’s armor covered a huge portion of her body, her haunches inaccessible, her barrel guarded, but the flank appeared, seemed, open, tender, and susceptible. Maybe there he could maul and continue their brutalizing exchange: blood for blood, agony for agony, torment for torment. The Reaper reached for her left flank, lowering his long sword, yearning to pummel every ferocious sentiment, every unwinding portion of torture, of anarchy, of sinister ardor, into rupturing, into stabbing, into lacerating her flesh.
When this was all over, when the finale crooned its last war cry, when their actions finally ceased, would she remember the taste of his treachery, recall the pain, the torture, or the results of his dangerous tactics? Would she try to maul his brethren again? Or would she flee, back into the shadows, continuing the same pattern she always seemed to cherish, disappearing until her ashes were collected, her embers restored? Would his actions be worth it?
[4/4. 678 words.
As Confutatis reaches for his left, Deimos attempts, despite the massive amount of pain in his right foreleg, to dodge towards the right. Due to his injuries, the movement is slow, and Confutatis’ armor manages to take off pelt and hair from his back.
He can only get his front away from her, and her bite manages to land on his left haunch. In retaliation, he twists his front end back towards the left, lowering his horn, intending to stab towards her left flank.]
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[JUDGED] We're Comfortable Killers [Confutatis Challenge]
