"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
He remembered their plight. He always remembered his place. The son of Mars had no love of beings that were beneath him. So the plan had come to fruition, and they all waited with baited breath while he pushed against them. Giohde and Ouija were his personal little play things, and Gryffen had his loyalty… for the time being. But even the white Ghost knew… that he could not control Deimos… never fully. Not if Deimos did not want to be controlled. He rumbled with a kind of power that oozed from the Netherworld, and when they had gone on without him, he had let them, content in his new path of life. But there was one… with her sly eyes and sassy walk. The one who would kill to show what a good little girl she was. The one who smelled like she’d bathed in another’s blood. Well hell… She certainly had his attention now, even he’d only been mildly interested in her before. He emerges from the shadow of twilight, knowing that she was there… perhaps seeking him… perhaps updating him with information on Gryffen’s whereabouts. Not that he cared much either way for where Gryff’s current location was. “Thana…” his voice was husky and thick, and he sung her name as his dark red eyes gazed over her body. “You returned to me much sooner than I gave you credit for…” His voice turns silky then, dressing her pelt in his wonton desires. “Are you through being Gryffen’s pet, and wishing to descend further into the bowels of Hell with me? Or has something else brought you here? Has Gryffen been successful?”
She can hardly stifle the crackling laughter from erupting from within -
A wry smile is drawn along the edge of her dark mouth, teeth bared with a sardonic, twisted humor clinging precariously on the edge of her unspoken words. Her two-toned glowering stare bores into him, tracing the hardened line of his shoulder, roving over the thick muscle that lay beneath a gleaming skin, heavily scarred and weighed down by the hefty burden of his broad, leather-cloaked wings.
The temptation that had drawn her to him has waned - he held so much promise once, but the immense power that had exuded from the surface of his oily skin had faded away, leaving behind a void and empty carcass in its wake. He had grown too content and complacent, fading into the ether while the rest had moved forward with a ravenous hunger.
He did not crave chaos as she did, and so he was of no use to her. Alas, she can sense his boredom, but she can also see it is shaken only by the stench of death and dried, coagulated blood lingering along the sinew and bone of her long, shapely legs.
There is a mischievous gleam within the silvery gray of her left eye, settled intently upon the emptiness of his own - perhaps there is potential in him yet; she had yet to see his full capacity for pandemonium and bedlam.
The metallic scent of spilled blood is settled deeply into her skin, enveloping her and stirring a restlessness within her wild, unwieldy self. His voice is low, murmuring just over the surface of her dark indigo flesh, his breath warm and lingering across the shivering surface. She can feel his lustful desire seeping through, and for a moment, she is left wondering whether it is the lithe, shapely curve of her feminine body, or the bloodshed she had caused without any provocation.
A humorless chuckle rises from the confinement of her throat, and there is no semblance of amusement in her darkening gaze. She does not shy away from him; she is all too aware that he is strong enough and powerful enough to kill her, to pin her beneath him and take her at his own will, but he is a creature of habit - a predator, seeking something more than the typical chase.
”You found me, Deimos,” she croons to him, stirring from her too-still posture, gliding her slender body against the broad girth of his own - quietly, and for only a fleeting moment, her blunt and yellowed teeth give way to the sharpened canine incisors of the beast that hid beneath the surface, deeply pressing into his hip. ”not the other way around. I hoped for so much more from you,” she admonishes, her blackened eye peering back at him, while her haphazard lock of ivory drapes over her gaze. ”you have disappointed me. A creature as powerful as you should not be hiding in the shadows. What purpose do you have here?”
A pause, and then, encircling him and tracing her one more equine-based teeth over the ridge of his wing, the coy smile returning to her, while her gaze is as untamed and as feral as what lurked within. ”Gryffen has gone to the Taiga, to declare his challenge,” she muses thoughtfully. ”time will only tell if he will be successful.” And her voice is softened, wistful, her mind drifting away to a different time - to a different place.
”Tell me, Deimos - the adrenaline I feel, it is positively thrilling. Does it ever dull?” Does it ever bore you to end a life?
He moved with a rickety grace. A well-oiled machine that had seen better days. Instead he spluttered blood like oil as it dripped from all the different places on his body where there was a festering wound that never fully healed. Such power that had the ability to heal itself, to be contained in a pretty box of dark beauty… but instead was warped and twisted into something grotesque—mainly for effect, and with a sarcastic… almost arrogant look upon his face, he leveled his eyes upon the blue girl in front of him… much like a bruise, Thana was an inkstain upon the world… her fathers missed jizz shot that had missed and been accidently successful.
And yet, the words that she hisses as her delectable body slithers around him… he finds it intoxicating. She accuses him of being sterile…of being stagnant. Of hiding in the shadows. Because he does not play with them. Because he refuses to become them. And yet, the call has been sounded, and Deimos will answer it.
As much as it pains him to do so.
An age of languishing about in the dark, pouring his soul into nothing and finding that the return to glory was not nearly as exciting as he had imagined it to be…
It is true. Deimos is bored.
He wants to feel the grip of his wings scraping against flesh again. It was time to find Ouija and Giohde again.
And then, her voice turns whimsical… almost… happy. She looks at him, and asks him the question that nobody has asked him before, and his body goes rigid with the way she speaks. Tell me, Deimos - the adrenaline I feel, it is positively thrilling. Does it ever dull?
His wings, they thrum with excitement, the tendrils of his membranes bristling with motion. Feeling that old fire finally start burning within the seat of his belly. “No. no it does not. Once you’ve tasted death, you will do whatever you can to feel that way again.”
