The ice sovereign continued to command irritating, cumbersome things of his deadly person and prowess. That wicked, malignant smile alighted on the monarch’s features, and Deimos knew he would be subject to some other crude examination. What was ignited and required was a duel, a spar; a way to witness the practices of one’s warriors, those regaled with such high prestige. Yet, the circumstances surrounding this test of skills were hindering, restraining: the argent creature, this feral, foul cretin, would have to be in far more control of his necromancy. While he usually contained his movements in rigid, firm authority, this feud would have to assess just how far he could repress and subdue a poisonous, plundering vector, reaper brought to life. There was no profiting from a dead ally. His heinous gaze turned to study this Ambrose, a guileful swing of his eyes, scrutinizing, studying, analyzing. The Stygian foe was larger, brawny yet refined, where Deimos was slighter in height, yet not in bulk. Who would be swifter, who would be hardier? He was too far away to ascertain any scars, any remnants of prior experience, but the Tartarean brute was sure, due to the lacquered formation of constraint aligned upon his character, that this stallion had fought before. The battle would certainly prove to be interesting. With a simple nod given to leader and opponent, he moved.
And despite his heavy, foreboding silence, on the battlefield, he sang.
What was normally rigid, taut, strung together in an unyielding stature, became fluid, a fatal hymn and lethal lament. Undulating muscles pulsed bestial elegance, a corrupted, debauched and depraved serenity against the throngs of the scorched, parched land. Quiet, hushed movements, a shaded, shadowy fixture in the sun’s beaming light, drummed against the dry earth, a rapacious, rhythmic chant of puissance. A recoiling grace, a monstrous coil, he rippled closer, nefarious and brooding, stoic features remaining poised, intangible threads of ethereal nonchalance. He breathed in the stifling, suffocating air, boiled in the oppressive heat, and simmered in the heralded siege, tucking his fiendish head against his chest in a protective, defensive gesture – the devilish, choking throbs of warmth only made him more hostile, tempestuous, but wary. His stride increased, a powerful crescendo of swarthy, silvern limbs, until he was drawn towards Ambrose’s left side. As his movements carried his predatory carcass, the minatory clamor of assailment seized him whole, embracing the solid forms of assault instead of eldritch incantations, burying them in his argent, menacing skin. He angled his regal head towards the body of his opponent, aiming the lengthy, darkened horn towards the ebon titan’s shoulder, longing to pierce, plunge, penetrate flesh, intending to drag it down the length of his form as he rushed by. Upon arriving at the edge of the other brute’s structure, the front of his muscular frame swerved away, and he swung his hind end towards the horned brethren, back hooves rushing towards hocks and lower limbs.
Summary: Deimos tucks his head against his chest and comes upon Ambrose’s left side, intending to drag his horn along Ambrose’s shoulder, barrel, etc. As he rushes by, he swings the front of his body away and tries to use his back feet to kick towards Ambrose’s lower legs. He is attempting to control his magic, so we don’t need to worry about any draining in this post.
Post: 1/3
Ooc: I have no preference, so whatever you would like to do, Phantom. :D I would enjoy a judging, just so I know what I can work on (its been such a long time since I’ve fought and who knows if I’ve even simplified this thing enough >.<). Please let me know if there was anything confusing or something I did wrong so I can fix it. Happy sparring with you!
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