06-14-2017, 07:04 PM
Unmoving. Unforgivable.
He moved through the wood, silent as death. These thoughts were forever on his mind. The fall of Pangea had stirred a restlessness in him that he could not put aside, and the anger that roiled around in his belly was more than the indigestion of an old man whose dinner did not agree with him. He was torn asunder, with no prospects, and no direction.
He was an unmoveable object, with an unforgiveable face. What kind of world was there for such a creature as he?
The ground snaps silently as he draws his body between the trees, weaving this way and that. The shadows play with his skin, wreaking havoc as they reflect down a massive darkness. He is evil incarnate—but darkness only has so many places to go, before the light shines brightly again. And on this particular morning, the sun was wretchedly bright, burning white light that blinded the red-eyed stallion as he tried to find the last shadows to cling to. Summer was nigh, and the days were long and the nights were short. Gone were the days of frozen hearts and shivering bodies in the dark. Deimos, with nowhere to go, found himself stuck for the first time in his incredibly long life. Displaced, unmoving. Unforgivable.
He flirts with the treeline, grappling his massive talons as they reached to the trees, crushing them as he walked past.
He is bored.
So. So bored.
A turn and glimpse. The scent on the air is new. His nostrils flare wide at the prospect of new blood dipped in power, and he lifts his carcass into the air, like a black winged beast of old mythology. He followed the scent of her blood; the taste she gives off. She’s beautiful, he can tell that before his eyes even set upon her. And he is hungry.
Later. Always later, they say. When can we play? LATER.
When at last he lands, it is with a thud that sends the displacement of weight spreading through the entire wood, coming to stand a ways off from her, pumping his wings to catch his balance. Those big black things attempt to reach out, to grab and touch and taste, but he tucks them in, allowing their wretched fingers to sink deep into his muscles, bleeding black thick oil like blood down the sides of his barreled, muscular chest. The scent of his quarry assails his senses, and his body goes rigid. He is now attuned to her, aware of her every move. He does not eat, though he appears to. His curiosity… nee boredom, has brought him here. His dissatisfaction with life.
Deimos lowers his massive head to take the heads of the grasses in his mouth, he flicks his tail as the membranes of his wings shudder against him. The pain as they sink in deeper, to grab his heart and squeeze what little amount of life he had in this sick world.
Always the master.
Always the slave.
Unmoving.
Unforgivable.
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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