[Endless Night] Green Wrath

the Rift

[OPEN] [Endless Night] Green Wrath

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527

Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Heather

#20

07-30-2013, 03:39 PM

The Reaper didn’t frequent action alongside other species unless he intended annihilation upon their hides. The invasion had marched his motions across a sinuous battlefield, drums of war and havoc unleashed, bestial outcries and brutal corridors, where he’d longed to singe, to unravel, to destroy. He’d persecuted and devoured, driven demise into hearts and feathers, arched condemnation, longed for more and more wickedness threaded through his veins. These long, stretching moments where they became united clusters and clans of creatures, heathens, infidels and monsters cast to the same agenda, the same notion, the same goal, was odd. His machinations and calculations of irreverence, of licentiousness, of ruptured reveries and snared benedictions were always meant to scar and maim the kingdoms flying above his tyrannical schemes, parallel to his painted, satanic oeuvres, bordering along the condemnation of his dominating prowess and precision. But now, he bartered beside former foes, presaged enemies, future, ominous mayhem and disorder, where he couldn’t reach out and strike the futile, the inept, the weak, the downtrodden and the foolish, because they all had a pawn’s piece across the vile board. Who was he to damage a temporary ally?

D’art sauntered into his sights as his sword struck deep into the carnivorous limbs of the behemoth, grim and reticent, as he always appeared before the General. For a moment, he wondered if he should be concerned over his comrade, but the only response he mustered was a grating greeting, remaining undistracted from the fervency, the ignition, of assaulting and assailments. “Mender.” As his blitz took shape, urged bouts of pain and agony into the shell of rocks and pebbles, he shifted and contorted his frame away from the biting, snapping jaws, stones and boulders gnashing, echoing in his ear drums. His mordant invocations had apparently corrupted the motions of their beast, it grew sluggish, seemingly exhausted. How many more blows until it became naught more than dust and rubble, motionless crag and cliff, fallen in broken fossils? Would he be able to watch it die, exhume one final, dastardly breath? Or would it escape into the whims of its former ventures, buried back into earth?

The hazardous qualms erupt into further bombardments. He lost sight of D’art for a few moments, the exploding fireball of Lace, and only briefly noted the strange colt singing at his side, conjuring more earthquakes, and he was a series of movement again, trying to balance across the maneuvering stage, tripping slightly down on his right foreleg, standing quickly thereafter, ignoring the slight stab of pain across torn skin. His piercing, haunting gaze settled across the field towards the Time Mender and gilded Glazier, guarding a fallen Unicorn, providing sanctuary and shelter where he could not, would not, deliver the same vicious animosity. He was not a hero; he spun scythes, death and iniquity. All he craved now was destruction, agony and devastation. Deimos nodded once towards the gathered group, assured that through shields, through bodies, through simmering earthquakes, they would be somehow safeguarded, and aimed to heighten his assassinating influence once more.

But there was nothing.

Barren and bereft, he asked for his veins to conjure the breathless vibrancy, the pernicious splendor, the villainous, biting, gnashing, clawing and grasping cluster of deadly pinnacles – but they remained silent, mute, as hushed as his reticent exterior, as quiet as his impassive features. Gone, vanished, stolen and absconded again, and the only response he could offer was a rugged, deep snort, a heady bout of frustration furrowing his brows, embellishing his rage. Was that what the world wanted then, for him to accomplish his task, his derision, his scorn, his might and brutality without his Mephistopheles bestowal? He was not vulnerable, he was not susceptible, he was not broken or dismayed, only incensed, infuriated, bewitched and allured by the foundation of his own untapped power, the riches and disaster tainting the livelihood of his mere motions, his slashing rapier, his iron cutlass. Ferocity built, climbed, escalated until he was cretin, demon and infidel, infernal bliss haunting the lavished opulence of the darkened meadow, buried in the recesses of his savagery, bending nefarious whims and disregard into each sweeping movement. Drawn towards its left, the devil raised his skull towards the rocky underbelly of the beast, aimed to sweep his sword across its midriff like a lacerating blackguard, slaughtering, massacring, yearning to chisel away the ducts of rock and rubble, to drive demise from his detached villainy.

[After tripping on his right foreleg due to Hototo’s close earthquakes, Deimos attempts to muster his death magic again towards the rocky beast, but his body doesn’t respond. Instead, he goes towards the monster’s left side, intending to drag his horn along its underbelly.]

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