The Reaper wasn’t provoked by petty insults. He was incensed by justice, by vengeance, by abominations and the certainty of violence. It was beautiful and soulless, sinister and depraved, and it chiseled, sculpted, pooled into the core of his chilling being. It crooned and beckoned, it brewed and coiled, it welded down deep into his marrow and funneled through his mind: his own little piece of peace, his own little wicked, decrepit bit of repose. Disaster was the answer, and ruin was the solution. The Pegasus could laugh and chuckle and chortle away, and in the end, it wouldn’t matter, not when he was naught but bones, ash, and dust.
Maybe he didn’t know who he was. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he simply lived as an inept fool, a scavenger squawking and screeching along the tides.
But he’d remember Deimos for the all the pain, all the heartlessness, and all the demonic motions he was about to endure.
The Lord watched for a reaction beyond the yelp and the slander, narrowing his eyes as he sized up his opponent. The flier wouldn’t be a pushover – they were akin to the same build, same height, and same vicious actions – but perhaps they’d be separated by species intellect, by swords, by rapiers, by cutlasses and knives –
So the beast was slightly surprised to see a dagger glinting from his enemy’s jaws (another stolen object, a piece of equipment he’d absconded from some other bereft soul?), aiming in a swinging lance towards his throat. Where had he acquired it? Did he think to slice his veins and the act would be over?
No. He truly didn’t know who he was at all.
He didn’t acknowledge the swelling of befuddlement erupting his senses, the slight raising of his brows. Instead, the predator dug into the thick sand, clawing and scratching at the fathomless denizen, slowed by its petulant wake, by its grasping, snatching dunes. Gull gathered closer and closer to his right side, and the King attempted maneuvering to the left, just enough to only feel the glancing prick of the blade cut along his neck.
The Pegasus had drawn first blood – but surely not the last. Deimos wanted the honor. He wanted the glory of condemning the ridiculous pest to a lifetime of woes and misery and complete, utter regret. He wanted him dead, bones bleached by the sun, crows pecking at his carcass, living out his decaying days just as he had his living ones.
They were closer now, in a ferocious, ruthless range, sinking and unwinding into the nefarious glimmer of rage and defiance. The Reaper, trying to ignore the slight ache in his nape (it’d yet to become a deafening roar, but it was only a matter of time and tribulations), twisted back towards the right, hoping to snag the painted infidel as he rummaged past. What would happen, he wondered with a sinister outlook, with a Machiavellian calculation, with savage, brutal loathing, if he were to pluck his enemy’s feathers?
He turned his skull, his horn, a worthy blade, a fatal saber, towards the fellow brute. In heinous outrage, in the pulsing, wicked abhorrence clinging to his skin, to his sinew, to his flesh and blood, the demon reached out with his sword to lacerate any passing hide along Gull’s left side – hoping for a wing, for flayed hide, for pain and torment to descend upon one who threatened the well being of his kin.
[2/4. 577 words.
Deimos attempts to maneuver to his left to avoid Gull’s dagger, but is still nicked on the right side of his neck, drawing blood. He tries to take advantage of their close proximity to twist back to the right, aiming his horn towards Gull in hopes of lacerating his left side if/when he moves past.]
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hang hallowed halos [Gull Challenge]
