The air is ripe with the scent of blood. Deimos’ eyes revert to snake-like slits and his ears roll backwards, taking in the feelgood drag. It was intoxicating, and fed his bones as he walked through the expanse, each step purposeful. He was growing. He could feel himself rising out of the smoke, his muscles reattaching themselves to bone—sewing themselves together and stitching them against the skin that was laying against his flanks in tatters. He was a broken man, his body fading into the limelight, looking for a shadow of power that he had once been. The fear that over took the ones who called his name.
He tilted his head, heard the distinctive snap! of bones crushing under the weight of hooves—that is a sound he would know anywhere—and he pressures forward, his nostrils now aflame with the heady smell of death in the air. He was longing for something… Someone to give him the power he longed for. Something with a heart as black as jet.
Someone he could cling to.
The cinders of his life from before—the memories there—were useless. This was a power that he had to return to, and a grappling sensation that these were not the lands he was familiar with. Black smoke was exhaled as Deimos turns to the one who, with yellow eyes, sees his world with a keen dissatisfaction. He is wanting death—wanting it for himself, wanting it for others—and this is the sort of character that Deimos can bring himself towards, meld himself with, until he is strong once more.
Devoid of character, rolling in the bowels of hell, this is the one who will return the god of war to what he once was. Deimos cackles—an echo that bounces off the trees and flits off into the twilight. He sees that Phynn is struggling; and it pleases him. He hides in the shadow, willing the smoke to cover him; obscure him from the dog’s view as he peels words inside his mind, planting the seeds. Taking over.
“What say you, Hyena? Content with eating grass the rest of your life, you useless rabid animal?”
He tilted his head, heard the distinctive snap! of bones crushing under the weight of hooves—that is a sound he would know anywhere—and he pressures forward, his nostrils now aflame with the heady smell of death in the air. He was longing for something… Someone to give him the power he longed for. Something with a heart as black as jet.
Someone he could cling to.
The cinders of his life from before—the memories there—were useless. This was a power that he had to return to, and a grappling sensation that these were not the lands he was familiar with. Black smoke was exhaled as Deimos turns to the one who, with yellow eyes, sees his world with a keen dissatisfaction. He is wanting death—wanting it for himself, wanting it for others—and this is the sort of character that Deimos can bring himself towards, meld himself with, until he is strong once more.
Devoid of character, rolling in the bowels of hell, this is the one who will return the god of war to what he once was. Deimos cackles—an echo that bounces off the trees and flits off into the twilight. He sees that Phynn is struggling; and it pleases him. He hides in the shadow, willing the smoke to cover him; obscure him from the dog’s view as he peels words inside his mind, planting the seeds. Taking over.
“What say you, Hyena? Content with eating grass the rest of your life, you useless rabid animal?”