who we are and all that we're trying to be
The only thing reminding him of his human existence was the voice tangling through the webs of everything else – the temptation to run, to rampage, to launch, to contort, coiled and undulated its way through his muscles, through his veins, through every other inch of his frame. The other was either unafraid or inexperienced, perhaps both, and the arch of intimidation threatened to brim and fume over the edges of him, the boundaries and fringes ready for the fray, yearning to cast his nefarious, sinister wake over the endless expanse, the mutinous boundaries, the seditious splendor. In other world, in another place, in another time, no one would have dared to approach him – a haunting entity, unreachable, unattainable, the living, breathing weapon of the mountains.
And what was he here?
A growl, a rumble, churned through his body, and the stranger could either consider it a warning, an ultimatum, or naught at all – instincts curling and searing through his flesh and blood (a roar, a pounding of ichor in his ears; war drums bristling and waiting, wanting the ripping of flesh, the breaking of bone). Even more ridiculous in the plains of twilight and the bristling glimpse of the unknown, was the launching, the leaping, of the leopard, to stand before his massive prowess and think themselves a companion. Deimos remained still as a stone, unyielding, unbending, a statuesque portion of predator and strength, a promise of prowess, should the onlooker attempt anything at all. Naught else was bared, granted, or given, save for the state of his vocals, the puncturing, piercing glance rendered solely on the cat. My friends have names. He knew them all by heart – the ones that had crept into that blackened, decrepit, withered portion, given it fragile life again. This creature was not amongst them.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
