The fuse, friction and fissure of damnation stared over the abyss, the dungeon, the glacial cataclysm and embraced its dark form, became one with the shadows, with the demons, with the tattered fragments of iniquitous halls. Seduced and embraced, master and menace, molded magnum opus of infernal, devilish decrees, even without the tainted form of demise and quietus slinking over the depths, the fathoms, of his sinew, flesh and blood, his soul was still marked for ruin, for havoc, for abomination. With every slender breath he courted the rapture, the reverie, the destruction of the finest halls, with every tender, sinuous movement he dove into the tenebrous thicket and threatened to devour the warm moralities, the taut virtues, and with every moment he lived, another caved into a condemned cavern, hastened away by the fury of his creation. With ferocity came termination, with power came precision, and with his massacring machinations came slaughter, robbing, absconding livelihoods, scorching, smoldering, constantly consuming the flames of existence, sentience and humanity. Strangling, choking, rattling and smothering the echoing voices and chambers of paragons, of saints and beatific reverence, tossing, unwinding and unraveling the reverberations of singsong arias, he delivered harpooning legacy of morose, villainous recoil, heinous grace. Marked by precision, molded and woven into the drowning hums of pernicious, puissant poison, strength and power derived by fervent passion, disastrous decay, withering hearts and unzipped revolution, where his incantations remained silenced, he became ever more malicious, ever more vehement, ever more twisted and muted. The monster was hushed resonance, the reverberant outcry of villainy, the rise and fall of infidels and decomposition, resting against the surface of the earth, ripping out compassion as seconds, minutes, hours and days passed by. Not subdued, not despondent, but waiting, eager, for the taste, the deliverance, the liberation and relish of infatuated rectitude to come crashing down from the heavens, calloused, ruthless, heartless, menace in the wings. What he wouldn’t give to denounce each waltzing, wandering affection and sentiment with the flick of his rapier, swift, brief, brevity in the Stygian shallows.

His eyes caught the stray motion of another, and the piercing, lacerating gaze ensnared the juncture of beast, of the unknown, of the unfamiliar. The scent that drifted upon frigid winds was not wholly strange, it had been stranded amongst brethren gathered at blasted meetings and political drones, but with his reclusive enmity, Deimos never put a face to a name. The opposing stag’s stare was an interesting conjecture, aloof, distant, nearly moonlit and seemingly eerie, ethereal, abnormal in a world lacking any glow, any luminosity. But where the behemoth, wretched and abhorrent, sinister and nefarious, radiated and immersed himself in the stretched hands of satanic bliss, of infernal licentiousness, he felt no animosity filtered from the fellow Unicorn. Was he without morals, without scruples, without ethics, and merely good at hiding it? At chasing it away into the gallows of his emotions, confronting abhorrence and might with quiet perusal, harmonious study. Not wishing to be a piece of his inquiry, examination or analysis, the powerful features of the argent Reaper remained nonchalant, composed, indifferent and apathetic. Even when he perceived him to be Crowley, a silly rumination that wasn’t worthy of regard, the deplorable, horrible creature remained insouciant. Statuesque depravity carved into the length of cloaks and daggers, he uttered a simple answer to the other’s query, imperious recherché grinding along the deep carnage of his vocals. “Deimos.” The alluring, beguiling depths of the General’s scrutiny didn’t cease there, pausing momentarily to model his own poise and prose – what little he was willing to give. “I do not know yours.”

[I don't mind at all - thank you so much for posting! <3]