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.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
@Felka