the replays run for you

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place He was wiser than the current exhibition, but it was difficult to tell – control manifested its gnarled surface over his reticent features, yet the rest was left to chance, opportunity, and seditious impudence. Deimos was an embodiment of contradictions; forceful but quiet, aggressive but cool, a blaze of fire and ice contorted to fiendish perfection. Today, however, the unknown battered him in the face, and he stared into its heedless void like a blackened, tarnished, ashen entity - do your worst bled from his thoughts and he might’ve laughed, might’ve chuckled, had he not wandered directly into stairwells and innermost chambers. How he’d managed to meander further and further into the reaches of nefarious folds and savage temptation was its own mysterious classification – and the man was too far gone to truly care. One moment, he’d been hunting, a predacious, glorious figure peeking into shadows, into rifts, into crags, and rocks, becoming every bit, every piece, of ruin and stone, and the next, a sullen mercenary left with naught (a deranged pattern; clockwork and cyclical, gaining and watching it all fall apart in his hands). Audacious, an emboldened step and stride bolstered by nefarious muscle, by utter indifference, by a beast who’d lost, lost, and lost, the fiend marched straight into the tavern’s distortion. Drink and ruin were familiar when everything else was not; his eyes didn’t bother following others movements and motions within the same sanction, instead, his gaze was pinpointed solely on the bar, on forgoing anguish, on circling right back into his personal demons and further oblivion. Why carry on when the past sank its teeth into his flesh? Why glance to the future when he could remain steadfast and haunted? Destruction, self or otherwise, was a favorable distinction amongst the abhorrent and fallen. “The strongest you have,” a request and a demand: he uttered to the bartender in deep, harsh tones, gravelly from lack of use. He was frequently meant to linger and brood in silence, and kept to its hushed, quiet fathoms (a gargoyle, a carnivore, a molten rapier stalking its prey) until it seemed unsuitable – the worker wouldn’t be able to read his mind, or tell his preferences by the nonchalant look on his face. Thereafter, he reached into pocket of his trench coat, managing to procure a few coins that had managed to make it from his wayward journey, placing them across the barricade.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}