06-16-2017, 02:14 PM
Viscera.
Sinew.
Black blood that globs out slowly, atching those last few consequential beats of one’s heart as it is being squeezed of all last traces of life. Deimos had been pulled from hell from some unknown consequence, cursed by the fairies, and then left with no purpose. He had clung to the outskirts of insanity when he had taken up residence in Pangea, only to watch it sink. His was a heaviness that lingers with the sing of immortaliy. Of undeath.
A rock strikes out and smacks the side of Deimos’ head. He growls, settling his eyes on a pale figure that casts a white shadow. He growls, narrowing his blood-red eyes to catch glimpse of the perpetrator. He talks to himself, the war-machine notices, muttering senseless words of power and boredom. He is mad. Crazed. He has also cast a stone at the wrong man.
A seething heat filters from Deimos, as he phases into nothing, and then steps out of the void once more, coming right at the ghost who did not look so undead… indeed, he looked very much alive. Blood is pouring down the side of Deimos’ head, and he says nothing as he walks up to the winged beast testing his mettle. The stench upon his hide is telling. Cross. So that cunt of a stallion had managed to produce stallion even more powerful than himself. There were few friends that he had had, Cross had been one of the few. The bloody battle when the not-yet King of the Tundra had discovered that Deimos had driven his mother Crazy. Ophelia.
He gives a great breath then, his mind going back those hundred years, where he knew her body to be. Long dead. Long gone. Days when magic ran rampant and power was ripe for the taking. His body goes hard. His wings. Those talons shiver. They want to play. They want to kill. The son of mars finds that he cannot control them any longer. The loss. The boredom. Death unwarranted. Power unrequited. They are all gone.
Gone.
GONE.
GONE!
Deimos flares his nostrils and screams, reaching back with the grasping fingers of his talons, punching right through Gryff’s chest, grabbing him by the heart and squeezing. The action brings them chest to chest, and a hot breath rides over the Ghost’s back, his voice dangerously close to a whisper, though laced with whiskey and death. “You know better than to fuck around, boy,” he says. His talon fingers squeeze again, causing them both to jolt just a bit, and Deimos rolls back his eyes in ecstacy. It has been so long since he grabbed someone by the throat, felt their blood on his body. Too long since… Since…
Ophelia.
“I think your death will cure my boredom well enough” Clenched yellow teeth spit acid. “What plan do you have in place…that will stop me from dropping the son of No Crosses Count right where he stands?”
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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