Deimos was not to be taken for a fool.
He’d spent years honing his skills, his trades, and his oeuvre to diabolical arts. While he was an inadequate politician, he made up for his lack of diplomacy with the ability to commit treachery, to act upon violence, to control and contort the venom in his frame for absolute vehemence. It was one of his only talents worth noting – and he was good at it, capable of brutalizing the world around him to protect his kin, his people, and his kingdom.
But this child, this ruffian who had hoped to sneak in and whittle away at their wares, at their inhabitants, was making him feel like a hopeless ignoramus. It was as if he was back in Isilme, flung across the tides, sinking into the sand as his sister laughed and told him to get up again. He was too dull, he was too irritated, he was too slow, his mind felt like mush and his sentiments were unraveling, torn and frayed because none of these events should’ve ever taken place.
So his initial reaction was frustration all over again. His horn missed its mark, a cutlass with no target, swinging, slicing, and slashing, at nothing but air. For all the Reaper’s experience, the boy’s speed was counteracting any productivity, and a new scheme would have to be concocted. The monster’s teeth clenched, his jaw tightened, and he attempted to settle the frazzled, fizzing notions still circling through his mind.
The icy slate of his gaze caught the sudden movement of the youth’s hind legs thrust his way, and he maneuvered forward, attempting to stay out of reach and away from the flying daggers. At least this portion of his motions were successful, and he managed to avoid the incoming flight of hooves and malice – but not the rampaging curse flying from the boy’s mouth, the antagonizing smirk, or the gleam of his mother’s rage festering behind his eyes. He dashed towards him, and the monster turned, ready for another onslaught, for a wave of soullessness to crash over them both – and then Rikyn turned, fleeing into the woods.
He stood, for a small matter of moments, in disbelief, blinking steadily, watching the child race off, perhaps into cover and brush. There’d been no surrender, no white flag raised and waved, no crumpling along the soil. He’d run away and hid.
Your mother never ran, he wanted to shout, dig in, hurt the boy like he’d hurt the King. It still didn’t pass through his lips, or reverberate through the clearing. Eventually, the youth would realize the error of his ways.
But he knew the stakes now: it was a predator and prey game, a ruse unfurled by an inept child. The beast followed, but at a moderate pace, not tearing across the loam, not beating war drums against the ground. He took his time, allowing the moments of machinations and energy to fuse together again. It was short-lived relief from the wicked heat and the sultry turbulence. The sweat still clung, dripping and sliding along his neck, down his chest, but he could ignore it for the taste, for the chance, of finding holes in Rikyn’s diversions.
His nares widened, following over trails of the boy’s scent, eyes noting the broken brambles, the crushed branches, the sticks and stones rattled and loosened due to the idiot’s travel. The piercing weight of Deimos’ stare slid over possible routes and paths Rikyn may have taken, where the youth might be lurking, attempting to ambush, run the Reaper through, stick the blade into his chest and be finished with it all.
But the demon hadn’t grown up fighting, maiming, and torturing to be felled now. Unholy machinations were in his blood, in his mind, churning and unwinding, brewing and boiling, mixing and coiling with a ferocious, nefarious fury. As he proceeded, hooves slowly following where he thought the boy had gone, towards strangely angled leaves, towards bent boughs, the weight of his demonic powers began to contort.
They were easily manifested – alluring and beguiling, a constant friend and foe to his existence, an enduring insurrection of death and indulgences. Rikyn must have known what he was, and still, he tempted him, he lured him, into assaults and sieges, into hidden wares and witless concoctions.
He was still too young to understand that the Reaper was never to be trifled with.
The noxious enchantments were dangerous and toxic, loathing and contemptuous, sliding from his figure in an eerie, eldritch march. The silent incantations of the devil slithered, crawled, and uncurled in pure, demonic glee, spreading out in the direction the monster had chosen, where he thought the youth might’ve lingered.
[3/4 + 0/1 posts. 786 words.
* As Rikyn attempts to kick/buck towards him, Deimos rushes forward and avoids the assault.
* While Rikyn runs off towards the woods, Deimos takes his time, coming upon the area slowly, checking over the surroundings for clues of Rikyn’s whereabouts, including broken branches, moved leaves, loosened stones, etc.
* Instead of rampaging into where he thinks Rikyn is, he uses his death magic, allowing it to spread through that particular area.]
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One More Word and You Won't Survive [Rikyn Challenge]
