It seemed as though there was little need for fanfare or introductions – the Reaper was satisfied with the notion, carried on with a nod in direction to fellow warriors. They all seemed occupied by destruction (a crimson understanding; they all served the same end, the same purpose, the same driving motivation) and mayhem; and he could appreciate the familiar, inaudible war cry settling between his veins. Though little and hardly worth a note, the simplistic idea that he could continue with a bludgeoning, chaotic pastime was all he required in those feral, ferocious moments. It was a tangible distraction from the unknown; a twisting, turning, bout of mayhem and menace – something he grasp, entangle, and devastate.
Deimos’ eyes narrowed and scanned for his next available target – watching Ronin and the ensuing explosion with a head tilt, curious and intrigued, and the archer woman’s arrows tearing through a few more wayward gourd soldiers. The expectation, the appreciation, of ruin and annihilation peaked as the rest of the horde came into view, eerie eyes and eldritch motions, springing into action by the constant, consistent fall of their comrades. He wanted to laugh – and perhaps a raw chuckle managed to escape his throat – but the nonchalant, detached, cold hold to his features brushed over his agreement with Wessex, embroiled along a calculating, meticulous nod. The beast rarely needed an excuse to exercise might, tenacity, and fortitude.
He reached down to grab ahold of an incoming vegetable, seizing it around the pointy stem, and instead of gesturing it towards another rock or stone, he attempted to provoke friendly fire, throwing it with formidable strength towards its gathering brethren. A few on the front lines toppled, slid, or split open, and he took advantage of several more of them and attempted to repeat the same pattern, occasionally kicking one that had managed to escape his grasp.
