He’s fused, stirred, into the crag of wicked and heinous demons. Debauched, licentious and decadent, an abandoned, dissipated gift of death and dissolution, claimed by the Acheron and the fiendish, sullied breath of eternal damnation. He burned, scorched, singed, and seared with each tumultuous inhalation of air, scattering, banishing, the fine caresses of life, absconding the essence of existence with a shattering, piercing void. Beneath the shambles of insouciant control and arduous composure, malice and menace embroiled in the forlorn sentience of nocturnal sinistery, pulsing, a feverish indulgence furtively stoked in the aching desires of sidling treachery; singeing, seething, coiling in the serpentine strokes of vicious vipers. An archaic denizen of sin against skin, sliding into the rancorous depths of humanity, unholy stitches and seams, a carnal reverie of destruction and mayhem, chaos mired and entangled in nefarious caresses, minatory kisses, fatality in the iniquitous hymns of his quiet motions. A haunting, melancholic twist to a desolate heart, molded so firmly in the darkening tresses of poignant, passionate poison, the ardent fury of restraint and supremacy, the intimidating plunge of callous corruption. The enigmatic fortitude of his being was encased in lacquered armaments of bedlam, contorted and intertwined in the laced, irreverent, warrior endeavors of a satanic seraph, poised to siege, plunder, destroy – and in this world, this heathen realm with its savage barbarians, cruel, precarious sanctums and tormented brethren, infidel abominations, he was home. The demon guarding the gates, the phantom whispering over mayhem, the argent Cerebrus in the dusky, hallowed nights consuming bodies, lacerating hearts, piercing souls.
He ignored the other stallion. His predatory, rapacious gaze settled elsewhere, indifferent and calloused, listening, but otherwise predisposed to apathy and indifference. His leader, eerie in the shadows of twilight, proffered his hardened, cruel presence a welcome; in return, he lifted his maw towards the spotted creature, and flickered his stare upon the charred edges of the wood. This Ambrose requested a rank, the polished sword of warrior, promised brutality in the ambitious, aspiring candor of his speech. In his flagrant nonchalance, Deimos merely watched, silent and studious in the rigid display of intentions. His eyes, cool, frigid, glacial, swept to the luminous Mauja, furtive, specious, Machiavellian, scheming, witnessing in the darkened heat of spectral wantings – then suddenly, he became the focus.
The leader idled closer to him, a sly, conniving sidle that chiseled brash movements, presumptuous and insolent, brushing into the treacherous and precarious layers of his own mage artillery. The indifferent monster, beast, savage, narrowed his stare and watched as his leader barged into his wild depths, touched his muzzle, poised at the only sanction of his vicious body that didn’t emit deadly daggers. In response, he burned. He’d been allowed to commit the act once, and only once, in surprise, in incredulity, in bewilderment, but not again would the barbaric statue permit his sovereign’s brazen-gratification upon his person. I will be a weapon, but never a toy. In the vivid, thick silence, a warning ensued, festering, pricking, lancing at the flesh of his silvern carcass, flaring in the rancorous bliss of derision, scorn, contempt unto the monarch. The poisonous vectors of his wicked necromancy reverberated in an abhorrent thrum, a bewitching cadence of alluring brevity, entrancing, enchanting, one to take their last breath, their carved finale. Draining, intoxicating, it hummed with the wicked delusion of grandeur, Lucifer’s opulence, daring, dauntless, audacious in the pricking, puncturing grasp of mortality. His chilling glare fell from the valiant, though foolish, ruler, and unto the other. His presence was to be this beast’s test of resolve? His challenge? And would he, the intimidating, formidable Deimos, be allotted to wreak havoc on the stag’s body, or simply simper, be a marionette on a shelf of puppets? He’d pledged loyalty, to the cause, to the cadre, and in this muddled mess, he was sworn into an allegiance that was now using him as an examination piece. But still, he stood, beguilingly brutal, honoring his portion of code, the quiet, silent menace that breathed augur sentiments.
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