There was a light breeze that picked up and tousled his hair as it fell in front of his eyes. So much was gone from his world, and he found that for the first time in his rather extensive existence, that he held just a bit of regret that they had not gone a bit better. His heart rattled and pumped as he moved through the trees, silent like death, as his eyes drew an invisible line through the trees, an acidic breath escaping from him as his heavily knotted chest rose and fell with the exhale that told him he was still alive.
Pollock was gone. Bruise was gone.
Pangea was gone.
And even Ecco had withered and faded away, such that she did.
And he, the demon known as the War Machine, had remained. He always remained. And it was getting tiresome.
A grim look set upon his features as he saw a creature that was both hard and soft making her way to his location—where he lurked in the shadow. There was not much upon his mind today, except to say that his foul mood was not out of the ordinary. A gruff exterior set upon a massively scarred body; those characteristic leathery wings with membranes outstretched across a wingspan that could cast a shadow against a storm cloud. His talons pulsated angrily. He has not had a victim in so long… And he is itching… Itching.
Death is so permanent, its beautiful.
Except it wasn’t so beautiful, or perfect for him. He was a dead man walking.
And so when the curious looking female comes closer he admires her hardness… and her softness. He is after all, male.
Leather and lace. Bad and good.
So good.
And yet, he does not move from his place. His appreciation of her still does not propel his need to explore more about her. She like all of them, is beneath him. He could strip her meat from her bones if he wished…
He just can’t be bothered.
If she catches his presence… Well.
He quietly hoped she would, even if he would not admit it to himself.
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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