There was a tangible weight to his silence – belligerent and merciless, ruthless and conniving, sinking just like the knife his enemy brandished, just like the sword he carried. It strung together on sheets of perilous conviction and dastardly deeds, simmering on the searing, scorching, ravenous bits of death and damnation, squeezed and ensconced and enlivened by the tapestries of disaster. It was ruin and hollowed, hallowed victory in the ghostly parallels of debauchery and licentiousness, absconding in its wicked temper, in its fragmented hell, in its consignment to oblivion and catastrophe. He’d woven calamity in taut threads, in predacious nooses, in scoundrel, molten exposition, and he lavished the way it tied neatly around his enemy’s throat, watching in fascination as the Pegasus’s stumbled and trembled. He witnessed him quiver beneath the pulsing, pervading might of his absolute hatred, of his embittered loathing, of his antagonistic puissance; feeding the fire, the scathing defiance, the viperous allure rippling through his soul. He was barbarity and brutality and everything in between, soaked in immoral coils and pierced with a Lucifer gleam – a tireless fervor and furor rapturing his senses, his wounded sight, his lacerated figure, until he was merely looming domination, overwhelming supremacy, grinding, unwinding treachery. The beast wanted to laugh as Gull’s screams died, as they withered and decayed at the atrocity of his power, at the eldritch abomination thriving through his core, obliterating his soul, fixated on destruction and havoc. They’d played a vicious, ferocious game, they’d gambled with their lives, they’d mauled and conquered and crooned annihilation across their bitter tongues – and he’d won this time. His eyes, still wincing, still smarting, still blinking away the granules of sand tossed within their sights, spotted the fall of the wolf pelt, the hide that had ignited the augured, foreshadowing crackling of monsters and demons. It was his now, meant to be given again to the one who’d lost it (to the one he hadn’t protected – but now, now would they see how deeply his passions lay for the mountains and the valleys, the bounty of caverns and snow?), barely stained, barely marked, by the scorn and anarchy it’d seen. He traced the foundations of the Riptide slowly, still a feral, carnivorous cretin, still a controlled, contorted fiend, loosened from his momentum but never his pride, never his menace, never his strength, haunting the quiet with a pariah hiss, with a nefarious warning. His chilling, poignant air flooded the scene, and his icy barbs stole across the iniquitous layers of sand and dunes, proffering only heathen twists and turns. “Do not think to prey upon my herd again.” His stare, from whatever meager stance it could bestow, riveted solely upon the bleeding foe, ensuring him the same fate would happen in a continuous, eternal cycle if he chose to snake and serpentine his way towards the Basin. Deimos said nothing more, just as reticent, just as cold, just as cruel as before, parting his jaw to enclose his teeth over the fallen pelt; taking what he’d earned, and following his way back into the shadows.
 
[Thank you for the wrap-up Shady! I enjoyed fighting with you!]