To defy the future cast

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 The warrior embraced the rich decadence of the wood – even in its dawn haze, the uneasy connotations braced against his breath, and it was familiar, it was haunting, it was poignant. He could drown himself in the wake, in the existence, in the ethers and embers of the forlorn, of the enigmatic, of the wayward, winding trails and the caustic thorns without ever feeling out of place. It could seize and seethe, it could lacquer and layer, it could thwart and contort, coil and rampage, and simmer the same as him. The autumn traces were the signature of death, the sinking process of renewal, of rejuvenation, of a long-lost spring, come back again after Hades’ grasp loosened its grip on winter – he maneuvered and motioned between the symbols, the archaic designs, a silent Colossus gazing into the unearthly runes and ruins. There were portions of him yearning to twist and turn his way into thickets and groves, to stare openly across clifftops, to become lost in the sanction of warrens, mazes, and fog; become adrift with ghosts and phantoms, wraiths and specters, the cobwebbed, addled portions of his mind that chose to brood instead of fight. But the savagery, the nefariousness, the abhorrence and destruction immersed amongst his blood, his veins, his ichor, only instigated him onward, rigid and possessive, scintillating annihilation in stone steps, hollowed, hallowed rapacity in demonic art. There was naught tying him to the land except for his malice, menace, and reserve; a portrait of other worlds blended and carved together – a forgotten beast without a kingdom to claim, wreck, pillage, or defend. Had there been castle walls to guard, to siege, to rampage against, he wouldn’t have been meandering out in the glen, surveying mysteries and distortions – he would’ve been the same callous, indifferent, detached monster, laying waste, an immoral, vicious code sinking into claws and reaching for swords, brandishing bloodshed and diabolical schemes. In the present, in the moment, he was merely consigned, drenched in disfavor; a storm on the horizon, a mercurial chord striking the heavens. A rustle of movement, brush shifting, nettles and needles swinging, caught his attention. His nonchalant gaze widened for an instant as he measured his predictions, as he fought and determined his chances. Without a weapon, he stood little chance against bigger game, like bears, mountain lions, or anything else of bestial ilk, but there was always the opportunity for his hands to dig into their skin, into their fur, into their flesh and sinew, a moment for the sinister incantations to leave his skull and traverse through his blood, to pulse, to weaken, to decay and defile - death is what they wanted - he could whisper, he could howl, he could roar. It’d be like years before, providing the realms, the terrains, the territories with his terror, treachery, ruin, and disaster, bedlam on the rise, fractured disciples flanking his side, war horns and cries sweeping across nations as they fell at their feet. Out of habit, his right hand flexed to his side, reaching for a rapier that wasn’t there, and he nearly cursed himself for the audacity, for the boldness, for the belief he’d be able to conquer anything and everything out here – Except then a wisp of a female tumbled out, onto the trail, offering well-wishes. She might’ve been the least-threatening individual he’d ever seen, leaving a few tell-tale heralds out of his memory, and any pre-conceived notions of ominous, foreboding figures and predators quickly disappeared as soon as she loosened a squawk. His stare widened again and he could’ve sworn he felt the slightest pull of his lips, as if they nearly beckoned a laugh, before he registered his features back into a more formidable posture. His intimidating stature would likely be enough for this venture – she was a willowy, lithe thing, even there, sprawled across the forest floor. A gentleman would’ve offered her a hand, but the beast simply tilted his head, and answered her bellow with gruff tones, gravelly discord. “Hello.” Then, because ever since he’d lived he’d been bent into curiosity and interest, Deimos reached across the abyss. “What are you doing?”

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