DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
There was some brief satisfaction in his bombarding efforts; because while his weight compounded, bulk he’d used to take down Roana, it didn’t seem to matter with Oliver. A trace amount of confusion rolled along his skull, and he intentionally pushed back, intending to dislodge paws and claws, to mimic the sensation of crushing, of mauling, of demolition.
Then he rolled, and could feel the slide of those talons coursing through his hide again, leaving behind tufts of fur and crimson lacerations, but providing the brandished evasion. Free of Oliver’s clutches, he could do something else besides bear the brunt of the pain.
Another notion contorted, distorted, rattled along its demonic cage: because in another world, the Reaper had always done much the same, fighting, sparring, practicing, encouraging fellow Basin members. They’d unleash and he’d take the damage, they’d stoke and he’d breathe in the cords of pain and anguish, always tempted to unravel bits and pieces of hell back upon them.
It wasn’t much different with his tiger form, as he regained his feet and composure, as he tampered it down, down, down, into recoiling instincts and stranded wakes. But his piercing eyes narrowed, and he maneuvered quickly, swiftly, despite the tugs of wounds, intending to get closer, to advance upon Oliver, and then drag one foreleg back, a building of power and strength, before launching it forward, attempting to knock the youth asunder with one potent swipe of his paw.
Then he rolled, and could feel the slide of those talons coursing through his hide again, leaving behind tufts of fur and crimson lacerations, but providing the brandished evasion. Free of Oliver’s clutches, he could do something else besides bear the brunt of the pain.
Another notion contorted, distorted, rattled along its demonic cage: because in another world, the Reaper had always done much the same, fighting, sparring, practicing, encouraging fellow Basin members. They’d unleash and he’d take the damage, they’d stoke and he’d breathe in the cords of pain and anguish, always tempted to unravel bits and pieces of hell back upon them.
It wasn’t much different with his tiger form, as he regained his feet and composure, as he tampered it down, down, down, into recoiling instincts and stranded wakes. But his piercing eyes narrowed, and he maneuvered quickly, swiftly, despite the tugs of wounds, intending to get closer, to advance upon Oliver, and then drag one foreleg back, a building of power and strength, before launching it forward, attempting to knock the youth asunder with one potent swipe of his paw.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
