11-16-2016, 12:29 PM
Hell had spat up another one. He was a pile of viscera and sinew that was loosely wrapped around bone and he cracked when he walked. He dragged himself across the sorry meadow, his flesh burning as it created scars in the flesh of the earth. This was not his Beqanna. This was not the land that he had left.
To be fair, he had never belonged anywhere. These were just the places he found himself congregating the most, before he told them all to fuck off and had plunged himself back into the cavernous depths. And now, without the power of his magic to support him, the true form of his age showed his weakness. He was without his wings--those magical pulsating things that longed to taste blood and rip flesh--and he walked with a swayback, contorted and ill-formed. He was an old man who struggled to make his way across the land, his body rotting and his flesh falling from him. His eyes, they were red and wreathed in flame--it was by his eyes that he would be recognized if there were any left to have had the good misfortune of having met the God of War.
Deimos exhaled, that consistent black smoke pulling away from him and wafting up into the air as the dust of his body continued to decompose into the ground. He was old, and without his power he was defenseless. Almost.
Without power? Never.
The war machine was angry, and he was about to turn this world on its head to return himself to rights.
To be fair, he had never belonged anywhere. These were just the places he found himself congregating the most, before he told them all to fuck off and had plunged himself back into the cavernous depths. And now, without the power of his magic to support him, the true form of his age showed his weakness. He was without his wings--those magical pulsating things that longed to taste blood and rip flesh--and he walked with a swayback, contorted and ill-formed. He was an old man who struggled to make his way across the land, his body rotting and his flesh falling from him. His eyes, they were red and wreathed in flame--it was by his eyes that he would be recognized if there were any left to have had the good misfortune of having met the God of War.
Deimos exhaled, that consistent black smoke pulling away from him and wafting up into the air as the dust of his body continued to decompose into the ground. He was old, and without his power he was defenseless. Almost.
Without power? Never.
The war machine was angry, and he was about to turn this world on its head to return himself to rights.