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10-02-2012, 04:38 PM
Oh, now he could wait and watch while destruction, incensed and boiling, tore against the opponents of another nation. This was his predatory moment, to witness the crying, drifting soldiers limping and hobbling, where the weakened minutemen lay strangled upon the ground, engulfed in injury. If only he’d been able to do more, unleash his vicious, vile necromancy upon a ravenous, pulsing throng, enchant them unto an early grave, throw them into their waiting catacombs. If only he’d been able to curse the bodies of his enemies, throttle them into their dying, gasping breaths, slaughtered, damned, and condemned. Instead, he could only relish and be satisfied as they drew away from him, wounded hides rampaging towards another sector, another corridor, not wishing to be caressed by the nefarious armaments of death. Deimos enjoyed watching them run, twisting and turning off towards the distance, where his puissant, intoxicating touch didn’t pull them away from the perils of life – it spurned him on, wishing the bedlam wouldn’t end, yearning for the spells woven into his body to be unchained, again and again, ruthlessly scraping into the weakened doldrums of their vacuous opponents. Even his icy sovereign, once so callously emboldened by a touch of survival, tore into the plains, not wishing to be extinguished from existence. He was alone again, along the open wounds of the battlefield, untouchable and impervious all the more, eternally nonchalant as screams echoed from across the vast borders. So he stood, listening, craving more, but relinquishing the longing for more acrimony, for more violence, by harboring and absconding the isolation and seclusion of the darkened, hovering shadows.
