Frustration was an avid, cantankerous contortion that bit and gnawed at Deimos’s membrane. Within the context of befuddling, swift movements, he found himself not grinding, not lacerating, not puncturing Sinuhe, but merely their horns scraping at one another. There was no blood, no torment, no agony postured from her lips or torn along her flesh, no bleating of wretched outcries, no corpse requiem curdled along her mouth. The only hints of discontent that passed over his normally impassive, nonchalant features were the grinding, clenching, of dentals within his jaw, and the smooth pulse of air that quivered into the evening chill, a rancorous snort driven from his nares. Had someone granted her salvation in her brisk, rapid motions? Was she gifted with some art of speed that he hadn’t seen, hadn’t visualized, or hadn’t conceived in the analysis of her frame? Never one to bestow or pledge mercy, he proceeded in his hedonistic haze, in the yearning, in the longing, in the decadent desire and callous craving of her desecration. Their horns rasped against each other for a few slender moments, like an irritating itch one couldn’t scratch, before he lowered his cranium, still postured on her right side despite her strange twisting and turning, seeking further upheaval for the lengthy blue-tipped sword. It deserved its rapier’s urging, its cutlass clawing, it’s desperation for anarchy, for bedlam, for the touch, the taste, the relish and fervor of her life force. He drove forward, aiming to graze at her right shoulder again, a savage, nefarious beat of motion that promised, indicated, anguish. The monster continued on the same track, swerving his body outward for the briefest of moments to gain a better angle, drifting away from the potential flailing of her hooves, then tipping his cranium in to adjust his heinous horn towards her right haunch. He longed to push the sharpened blade into her skin, rip, tear and slash, a long, stabbing harpoon, an opus to his satanic ire.
Further motions are muddled, foggy, as Sinuhe’s target changed and, oddly, the monster was left to his own devices. Used to the tangling, distorting drumbeat of war pounding in his ears, the furious, righteous wrath of an enemy barreling upon his body, he was suddenly abandoned and forgotten. Was this the art of his intimidation, to force a rival elsewhere, to have them wish for another target? Or had he truly been neglected, ignored and discarded, tossed into the shadows of the nocturnal eaves to become one of the murky mantles, waiting for the sun? Both notions stirred him, incensed and ruffled, roused him further to the brutish, barbaric plunges of conflict. He’d show them the price they were bound to pay for neglecting his presence, for forgoing his entity, for relishing their idiotic pursuits upon his fellow warrior instead of minding the existence of his atrocious, depraved attendance.
The demon slipped off to the right, sliding around the crashing bodies and the zealous entanglement of femmes, careful to avoid skidding along the terrain’s ice, rime and slush, and all the while he analyzed the state of the newcomer Pegasus. Her intent was clear, pinpointed upon Alan, charging rapidly towards his comrade, and so he drove his own onslaught of terror and torment towards Africa. He wouldn’t allow Alan to face assault after assault without the condemnation of his own assailments battering upon their adversaries. Africa and Deimos were nearly of the same stature, height and bulk, so winding his weight into hers would likely matter very little; he’d have to be more direct, more forceful, more persuasive. He used his sword for the matter once more, escalating his ruthless movements towards her right shoulder, a lancer, a spear, thirsting for her anguish to be heightened, for her scream to pierce the midnight skirmish. They would show the fools, the kingdoms and the world, why no one trespassed, why no one ignored, why no one disregarded a demand from the soldiers of the Basin.
[663 words.
2/4 posts + 0/1 defense. 0/1 magic.
Sinuhe and Deimos’s horns clash briefly, before he lowers his cranium and continues along Sinuhe’s right side. He attempts to graze at her right shoulder with his horn. He then moves his body forward and outward (to the right), hopefully to avoid any flailing hooves, and twists his head inward again (left) to hopefully stab at the vicinity of Sinuhe’s right haunch.
When he is not given any more attacks to defend against, he slips off to the right and around the mares, finding a new target in Africa. As she rushes towards Alan, Deimos charges and directs his horn towards Africa’s right shoulder.]
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Come not within the measure of my wrath. [Sinuhe & Africa Challenge]
