"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
The skin stretches over his too tall frame, taunt and slick. The inky black seems to bleed like tar from the bell towers of medieval castles in storybooks long lost and forgotten. His movements, though well executed, are forced and stiff. He feels foreign in this body and it is unnerving. His form is slightly emancipated from his lack of nourishment but it is by choice. He misses the taste of flesh sliding down his throat, the way blood spills across his tongue, face, and coat. The unpleasant growl of a too empty belly reminds the tall stallion of this.
A frown etches into the cracked and split lips, grimacing slightly from time to time with annoyance for his sheer existence without his true form. The damned fairies had taken his sharp teeth and returned him, BELITTLED him to this skin and bone cage.
He hates it.
Damned are the fairies and their games. Perhaps it was jealousy that brightened the glow of his yellow eyes as he stalks along the forest floor with dragging hooves and hatred burning in his breast. The feral beast that lay dormant snaps angrily in his head, wild and hungry and desperate. The feral beast grinds his teeth, drives him relentlessly, tirelessly as he seeks a way...a purpose. Occasionally as he walks, Phynn crushes a few rabbits nests that he stumbles upon. The tongue slinking from between bleeding lips as he attempts to lap up their still pure blood. He attempts to ignore the repulsion his digestive system feigns but the feral beast will not let him rest till it has been sated at one cost or another.
11-17-2016, 06:20 PM (This post was last modified: 11-17-2016, 06:24 PM by Deimos.)
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?”
The dark stallion takes no heed of the dark one. Yellow eyes are bright and rolling with the fester of insanity that lay just beneath the murkiness of his skin.The emaciated creature only reacts when the other, thick and well formed, approaches with challenging words. Spittle flits and glitters in the spring sky as the heavy skull wings to see who called him 'hyena'. The feral thing, the wild thing, with snapping jowls and heckling laugh spikes up in response.
Phynn halts his movement, frozen in the mid day sun that flecked off the dulled coat. The wire hook lift the very edges of his lips in a grimace that split into a too-wide grin. "Why no." His response is mechanical with a voice hoarse and creaking as though gears lay rusted and rotting int he depths of his throat. "What do you say, devil? How do you know so much about me?" The words are spoken between swallows of salivation. The stallion with the snarky words and glinting eyes smelled delicious. The salt of skin and sweat, the heat of rippling muscle-
But Phynn knows he is too weak, too inadequate with the flat molars that cursed his equine form. Lobes half mast towards the other with a wary eye as he listens, sifting through the silt that clouded his brain.
Deimos has no need for time-wasters. He pumps his newly acquired wings, grasping talons pulsating for the need to taste flesh. He baits the hyena, taking note of the sick little fleas jumping ship from the flat-toothed disgrace. There was something about him that said weak, and Deimos ran his tongue over his fangs and allowed the acid saliva to drip from his maw and land with a singe to the ground.
"I know you, slave, because I am one of them." He does not say magician. He doesn't need to. Magicians were, to his mind, ones whose blood was blessed enough to be counted among the ancients. He was not like them--not a member of their club. He had never been, and had never wished to be. His magic ran from a deeper, more sinister part of the world. Having driven his abilities from the same pool that fed Carnage, Deimos' immorality had gotten deeper and ever aggressively more heinous. He is not a top-hat wearing, bunny pulling side show at a freak circus.
He is hell.
"I can grant you back your abilities. But only if you concede to be one of mine. If you wish to taste flesh again, you must swear to it." He breathes a dark smoke of exhale as his chest rises, black charred bones evident as the skin is tightly stretched across his ribcage.
He will return to what he was. He just needs this lemming to make it so.
Yellow eyes are shining. Hate swells them, bugging and angry. The feral thing gnashes it's teeth in his gut as he watches how skin ripples over tender muscles and tendons. Acid may seep from the jowls of the winged bastard but saliva dribbles from Phynn's. He should be more mindful of the ugly words but hunger distracts him, guiding him with lashes of gut rotting pain from the consumption of grass.
Desperation makes Phynn weak. It manipulates a boney thin frame with a bloated belly to bend under the demon's will. The mention of flesh rips away his gaze to meet the hard eyes of the magician. Before he can even speak, he begins to grin a little too wide, nodding a little too quickly. "I swear it, Deimos." Phynn does not consider the consequences of this. He is an animal underneath it all and does what he must to survive. He would submit to another to gain what he needs despite what the unleashed creature in his mind screams feverishly. The yellow pools glitter rabidly as she stares at the great fanged stallion, awaiting what would be determined next.
12-08-2016, 07:51 AM (This post was last modified: 12-08-2016, 07:52 AM by Deimos.)
A black laughter surrounds the foul beast that has now claimed another. With poisonous fangs that bubble and burst to the other's back, causing a not-so-pretty scar, he steps back, kicking black earth into Phynn's eyes as the venom enters the dog's blood. "You feel that beating in your sick twisted heart, life to your useless body." He grins, those yellow teeth once again become flat; Deimos had never had a taste for flesh. That was best suited to be left for the mundane and grotesque creatures that craved to devour their own. Deimos had no love of his fellow man. What he wanted were their souls; not their bodies. Take their power, and depose of the lifeless bodies to the beach where such nonsense belongs.
Deimos side-steps Phynn's body, watching him writhe with the pain of taking on his abilities again. Soon, he would be to rights--but never quite the same again. In the meantime, that corroded sludge that seaps from him--that magic that leaves him and comes back to Deimos as a drug-high--that beautiful addictive power he craves--pulls around his body, and he is made whole once more. A black massive thing--svelte, and beautiful. Dangerous. His red eyes glow; slight feathering on his legs and the way the muscle wraps neatly around his frame. Black leather wings hook on to Phynn, grabbing at bleeding flesh hungrily--No. It is not time.--but drop their quarry, resting at his side. A dark, velvety voice is emitted from thin black, cracked lips.
"Go. Fill that belly of yours. When you have sated your lust for the hunt, come to me again. I have need of you in the Taiga."
He had need of him, alright. They would never be rid of him.
Phynn had not expected to feel teeth sink into his boney back. His eyes widen as she shrieks maniacly. The pain that tears through his flesh, what feels like disolving flesh and bone, is far worse than starving to death (ad in this moment Phynn feels the very first, very small, pang of regret).
Phynn can feel his head growing light and foamy. Worms behind my eyes. He thinks with a little bemused smirk when Deimos grips him and then dropping him. The dark stallion can feel the others poisonous stink burning hi nostrils as he gulps at air desperately to claw back from the darkness that threatens to over take him.
But the hunger has awakened his senses. His immortality seizes his heart, forcing the blood to rush through engorged veins.
Before Phynn realizes it, blood from a fawn in the grass seeps into his skin, the soft belly tore open as he consumes entrails and bone aloke. The feral creature laughs and laughs and laughs into the darkness.
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When his belly is fat and his fur stained red, the hyena returns to the dragon man. Yellow eyes glitter in the now dark, watching the stallion closely without so much as a word, listening for his next direction with a lifted ear. After all, Phynn has swore himself to the dragon for eternity.
