Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
It suddenly occurred to Deimos that he was the prey. He was being hunted.
Which was a ridiculous, bewildering notion, but not the first of its kind. He’d been caught once, trapped and snagged and snarled; partially due to his own arrogance and overconfidence, believing himself to be an unattainable, unreachable modicum of power and prestige, that no one would bother, that no one would dare. Except they had, and he’d growled and tore at the lines of his freedom, until truces were made and treaties hardly struck; exchanges bellowed and howled in his roots, amending himself to becoming better, stronger, mightier. Ferocity had been a second-nature, intimidation a barbaric interlude, predilections vicious and unwinding, and until now, they’d worked.
He listened to the roar, distant but close all at once, the modicum of protection and guardian walls never lending the beast any thought to departure or fleeing – the rose beneath him safe and secure as long as he could remain chiseled in his position.
And sure, they could solve it without steel. He had other means and measures for weapons.
The Sword had left his bow at home, but between his palms he created another, a set of arrows nestled in a quiver at his feet, quiet, swift, the residual, gilded glow of his concoctions hidden behind the rock formation. He breathed, biding his time, calculating the circumstances. He could launch an assault, but give away his position, and it might’ve been the only thing keeping the enemy, blighted or not, at bay. But for how long?
There were always the nefarious incantations brewing along his veins – the bestial pride of his existence, curling and coiling, distorting and repelling, eager to set anyone and anything into tarnished, condemned remnants. Perhaps as a last resort – or if his time had run out. The Reaper remained tucked down, along the stones, waiting, waiting, waiting, brutally insistent and urgent.
Which was a ridiculous, bewildering notion, but not the first of its kind. He’d been caught once, trapped and snagged and snarled; partially due to his own arrogance and overconfidence, believing himself to be an unattainable, unreachable modicum of power and prestige, that no one would bother, that no one would dare. Except they had, and he’d growled and tore at the lines of his freedom, until truces were made and treaties hardly struck; exchanges bellowed and howled in his roots, amending himself to becoming better, stronger, mightier. Ferocity had been a second-nature, intimidation a barbaric interlude, predilections vicious and unwinding, and until now, they’d worked.
He listened to the roar, distant but close all at once, the modicum of protection and guardian walls never lending the beast any thought to departure or fleeing – the rose beneath him safe and secure as long as he could remain chiseled in his position.
And sure, they could solve it without steel. He had other means and measures for weapons.
The Sword had left his bow at home, but between his palms he created another, a set of arrows nestled in a quiver at his feet, quiet, swift, the residual, gilded glow of his concoctions hidden behind the rock formation. He breathed, biding his time, calculating the circumstances. He could launch an assault, but give away his position, and it might’ve been the only thing keeping the enemy, blighted or not, at bay. But for how long?
There were always the nefarious incantations brewing along his veins – the bestial pride of his existence, curling and coiling, distorting and repelling, eager to set anyone and anything into tarnished, condemned remnants. Perhaps as a last resort – or if his time had run out. The Reaper remained tucked down, along the stones, waiting, waiting, waiting, brutally insistent and urgent.
DEIMOS
