His steps were a rhythm to war beats and fiendish drums, savage and sinister, motions and movements akin to battlefield dirges and requiems. He delighted in the fervor of another foe vanquished, lodged from the end of his foot and past the goal stones, gliding into the grass, halted eventually the lines of untended stalks, a hole in its side. When another came near he merely repeated the cycle and pattern, amusing himself without much fanfare; practicing, perfecting, whatever art came to mind.
Something, someone, hollered, caused his head to lift from the nearest pumpkin ready to be lanced – piercing gaze settling on Rexanna. A tilt of his head indicated his curiosity and surprise, for he hadn’t regarded her as a being yearning for games of this craft; but perhaps he truly didn’t know her well at all, and blended lives hardly mattered when there were new regions, new kingdoms, new lands embroiling at their feet. “You may,” he indicated with a smile, a chuckle, a raw bloom of laughter settling over his chest, one finger pointing out her next chance as her first sailed, but not into the drawn lines. The beast thought about moving closer and giving her some suggestions for a well-assailed punt, a way to indicate direction, to implore complete, utter devastation behind its jolt, when another came upon them.
He didn’t recognize this one at all – but she made her presence loud and clear with a snap, a singe, of fire and embers. Stunned, mildly bewildered, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the nonchalance all but expired, then shrugged, and clapped slowly at the blazing performance. Deimos could appreciate potency and potential in those snapping synapses; his father had mastered the art of the blaze long before the Reaper had howled into the world. He didn’t have long to acknowledge or welcome the finery of the blistering array – she sailed another vegetable to him, much less scorched, and the heathen accepted it with great aplomb. A portion of him didn’t want to be outdone, so he allowed the slightest relish of his deadly expertise to scald over the pumpkin, and when the poor gourd was unleashed through the air, it had already begun to expire mid-flight, withering, decaying, languishing before it hit the ground.
