12-11-2016, 03:37 PM
It had been another world that Deimos had held dominion over. He had wielded power as a mace—war was his device and he held it close to his breast as a lover. When it became time to meet Hell as an old lover, he took to the dust as if he’d been made to it. So many times before he had been responsible for the blood dripping out of the bodies of others, and when he had laid down in death, Deimos had known peace for the first time in his life.
To be spat out of Hell and knocked back into life as if he were nothing more than a cheap tourist was something that did not sit well with the Son of Mars, and that war machine was left to bring death and pestilence upon the world that he had known in a previous life. And so, to find himself in the field, where those who pass by him are just looking to start their lives or look for unconditional love—when the only thing that is unconditional is the coffin that they lay your corpse in—Deimos seeks an ending. A way to bring about this destruction to their so-called peace.
He wanted to rewrite their nightmares.
So, as the Krampus approaches, Deimos can feel the air growing colder and the wind shifting away from him; the scent of foreign blood stinking up the air around him. His fire-red eyes are hooded by black lids, but black billows on his exhale confirm the scent; this creature is from Carnage’s land. Pollock speaks, making his pretty words that are anything but classy—Deimos’ kind of language, to be sure—and he is offset, pushing on his backhand. The words are cracked as the bent man approaches, but the message is clear.
Come to Pangea.
Deimos smiles, his thin lips wrapped around yellow teeth that bear a set of fangs; he knows Pollock as one of his own. Indeed, there was no real need for introductions. Death greets a select few as an old friend, and this creature is one of hell’s own. His wings rest beside him, that thick black leather sweating with the need to attack. Impatient slag. Know your place. Black blood pumps through his body—his power for the time being sated. This creature could serve for other uses. Ally. it said. And so, he speaks. “How do you know where anyone belongs unless you know them well enough to taste their flesh?” Acid drips from his mouth, but he does have to concede the point; the Field was a complete shithole. “Deimos.”
He says nothing further. Instead he nods, indicating Pollock to lead the way. Pangea may have been created by Carnage, but it provided shelter from the open areas. There was still some dark places in the world left for creatures such as they.
To be spat out of Hell and knocked back into life as if he were nothing more than a cheap tourist was something that did not sit well with the Son of Mars, and that war machine was left to bring death and pestilence upon the world that he had known in a previous life. And so, to find himself in the field, where those who pass by him are just looking to start their lives or look for unconditional love—when the only thing that is unconditional is the coffin that they lay your corpse in—Deimos seeks an ending. A way to bring about this destruction to their so-called peace.
He wanted to rewrite their nightmares.
So, as the Krampus approaches, Deimos can feel the air growing colder and the wind shifting away from him; the scent of foreign blood stinking up the air around him. His fire-red eyes are hooded by black lids, but black billows on his exhale confirm the scent; this creature is from Carnage’s land. Pollock speaks, making his pretty words that are anything but classy—Deimos’ kind of language, to be sure—and he is offset, pushing on his backhand. The words are cracked as the bent man approaches, but the message is clear.
Come to Pangea.
Deimos smiles, his thin lips wrapped around yellow teeth that bear a set of fangs; he knows Pollock as one of his own. Indeed, there was no real need for introductions. Death greets a select few as an old friend, and this creature is one of hell’s own. His wings rest beside him, that thick black leather sweating with the need to attack. Impatient slag. Know your place. Black blood pumps through his body—his power for the time being sated. This creature could serve for other uses. Ally. it said. And so, he speaks. “How do you know where anyone belongs unless you know them well enough to taste their flesh?” Acid drips from his mouth, but he does have to concede the point; the Field was a complete shithole. “Deimos.”
He says nothing further. Instead he nods, indicating Pollock to lead the way. Pangea may have been created by Carnage, but it provided shelter from the open areas. There was still some dark places in the world left for creatures such as they.
DEIMOS
are you going to deny the savior in front of your eyes?
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