Monster against monster, demon against demon; the Reaper rejoiced, scalded, and conjured without mercy. With effortless, ruthless, and heedless grace, he joined the sanctum of devilry and assailment, a caustic balance of discord and reverie, a rapture in blades and munitions, a scorching, searing, roaring tide of annihilation. He breathed desecration and disaster, craved every moment of ruin, stalked, frayed, hunted, and preyed upon the remorseless sanction of their gestures and movements; became another one of the carnivores seeking blood, enticed and allured by the sounds, by the scent, of bedlam and havoc. The touch, the taste, the relish of violence spurned them all on – a rolling midst and mist of labyrinthine defiance, all twisted, all contorted, into their own finite maze, only sinister, nefarious threads goading them onwards.
 
But Deimos couldn’t see his son, perhaps one of the few things granting him a sense of discomfort, and his narrowed eyes scrutinized the scene, looking and looking for a child draped in blue; but the throng never parted, searing and seizing and seething all in one tumultuous breath, and he was left to forge through the unknown.
 
His heart warped a little: a press, a prickle of nerves, deeply unsettling and irritating.
 
But there was no time to search for the boy, not with the reptile searing and flailing – fire touched upon the beast amongst his hesitations and distractions, and he growled with displeasure as the embers raked across his hind, biting and gnawing and rankling his flesh. He set his jaw, he ground his teeth, and his hard, resolute stare established one last look, attempting to ignore the annoying, irksome barbs of pain, catching only the faintest glimmer of his son towards the hinds of the infidel – still alive, still present, still whole. For now, it’d have to be enough.
 
The sword, the cutlass, the weapon advanced, slowly, hindered by the burst of flames across his hind, antagonized and irritated, bristling and audacious, maneuvering towards its massive chest, hoping to rip out its heart. His incantations, wild and ardent, untamed and bestial, alive with fervor, with cruel, malicious, vindictive intentions, scattered away from his maneuvering frame, gliding, whispering, uncoiling and boiling towards the opposing cretin, a rush of death, a kiss of quietus, a scalding, wondrous, savage, sinister art of demise.

[Scalded by fire across his hind. Getting closer to the crocodile's chest, Deimos summons his death magic and aims for the reptile.]