03-17-2017, 02:27 PM
Dust has exactly one color. Brown. And Pangea was full of it. The man wrapped in black preferred his world to sport a bit more color. Red—the color of blood, and of life. And Black—like the shadows; the night.
And of Death.
And so the goat-king makes his utterances—a babbling sound that was riddled with a dangerous, steely tone. He wants to paint the town. Something that Deimos wholeheartedly approves of. He turns away from the rather dismal landscape, centering his cold gaze at the leader. “What did you have in mind?” Pollock’s mind was not a place he dared go venturing—though the gift-giver was fully capable of presenting a formidable attack, it was important to understand the asset of a good ally—they were so few and far between these days. And frankly, the madness that lay there was not one that Deimos was willing to take on himself. Better to let the leader speak his mind and let the war machine dissect his words.
He is one of the few that command the attention of the son of Mars—when the ram speaks, he will listen.
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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