Carve Out a Niche [Seasonal Event]

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 Reaper was instinctually drawn to the desecration of others; it was in his blood, in his soul, in his deadly, nefarious essence. It seeped through his veins and poured through his bones, intertwined with his acrimonious breath, with his toxic, iniquitous indulgences. But without a true enemy to face – no crusading adversaries, no biased abductors, no murdering or gallivanting thieves – he was forced to consign himself repeatedly to exterminating the constant barrage of gourds. He wandered into the labyrinth this time, pausing at the entrance, not yet eager to wander into the confines with the eternal distraction of gnawing gourd teeth and eerie stares. His whole life had been a damned warren; he’d venture into this one when the current assaults and sieges had ended. This time, instead of just kicking or throwing the little beasts, he’d taken to stabbing them as they got closer with a broad stick he’d picked up along the wood line, taking great pleasure in feeling the makeshift dagger lacerate its way through rind upon rind. Sometimes he used it as exercise and training; as if this were some great trial, instead of the ridiculous nuances hovering over them. In a few moments he went painstakingly slow in his draw, letting them get closer and closer in order to perfect his precision – swooping down by their stems as they growled and hissed. Others were dispatched swiftly, hastily, quickly, pulp and seeds flown in every direction. It almost made him smile.

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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

ALISTAIR Alistair had but one run-in with Deimos, and it was quite enough to make an impression. Didn't appear the type to waste words or actions, oddly enough reminded him of Devrum in that sense. Which worked out well enough because Alistair couldn't stop speaking and he moved as freely as the wind. He had tracked Deimos with the intent of offering a chance to join the Bounty Hunters Guild, no doubt Ronin would approve. Though as he drew closer and realized the large man was approaching the Labryinth, Alistair hesitated but a moment. The whispered hiss and hum of his mask, and the gears that powered it pumped through as he tilted his head curiously. A click of his palm and Alistair appeared sitting on a wall to Deimos' side. "Hello" A distorted voice could be heard through the mask. "Labyrinth by yourself, either very foolish or very brave. Awful lot of nasty things in there waiting for you. So which is it...?" The voice asked as Alistair leaned forward, catching a view of a pumpkin off the corner of his eye before quickly steadying his bow and firing a shot through its mouth. The distorted voice laughed as he leapt down to Deimos' side. "Lead on then, brave fool." Arm swayed forward for Deimos to take the lead.

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 expected something to crawl its way out of the maze: such was the nature of beasts and heathens, and he understood them well, gravitated to fiends and demons because he was one and the same, bestial and savage, untamed and barbaric, a fluid, maneuvering blade. The world had used him as a weapon more than once; and he’d adhered to the mantle, to the siren call, like a fish to water, like a moth to a flame. But the first thing to wander from the depths wasn’t an adversary or phantom, spirit or monster: the masked man from the settlements. Deimos’ features didn’t portray the slightest of surprise bent into his notions, remaining still, cool, nonchalant, a portrait of reticent, of unattainable, unreachable movements and motions, long since consumed by iniquity and immorality. He gave a nod to Alistair, his coldblooded gaze roaming from the outset of the veil and shroud, and back to a few stray pumpkins bothering to rumble forth, dispatching them in one feral sweep of his stick. “Perhaps I am nastier,” he smirked and replied. Maybe it was a death wish, to come here and wander, meander in the mists of curiosity, intrigue, and interest. But anyone who would ever dare to stop him weren’t here, weren’t even alive – and in the back of his mind, the thought burned and tarnished. He was already ash, smoke, and cinders. He arched a brow at the bow, then glanced at his wooden staff, suddenly realizing that for all his nefarious qualities and treacherous enchantments, he was poorly equipped for a march into the unknown. The blacksmith’s shop hadn’t opened yet, and the forest, fields, and glens hadn’t been obliging in providing some magical, mystical treasure formed into a sword, dagger, or rapier. “Where did you get your bow?” He raised his head, piercing, penetrating stare flickering to the arched contortions of wood, the arrows nettled and perched, ready for the fray; and here he was, a pathetic, stick-wielding soldier. The Reaper ignored the quip on leading the way into the warren’s denizen, lingering in the entrance, searching for another form of weapon if worst came to worst. It always did.

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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

ALISTAIR "You don't know do you?" The distorted voice asked with a chuckle. "I made it myself. Have a knack for creating. My mind..." Fingers raised and made a swirling motion around his head. "Always moves. Constantly. So I create, explore, improvise." Truth be told, Alistair was a rather intelligent man but there was something about the mask that was altering his personality in very subtle ways. Perhaps the side effects of your body phasing in and out of existence. He glanced over at the stick and stabbed his bow onto the ground, leaning against it with a tsk tsk tsk gesture before reaching into the side of his boot, flipping his hunting knife out. "Fancy 'ey? Fierce looking chap like you will be giving her a fine use I'd say." With that Alistair flicked the knife to Deimos "A gift, for your chatty company. Now if you don't mind...this adventure won't be having itself." Arrow slung into the bow as he held his position at the ready, stepping in cautiously in front of the larger man. "Have a name? Or will we be settling for Chap...I like Chap. Chap it is."

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 Apparently the ignorance Deimos exuded was stupefying: he didn’t even know how much ineptitude pervaded from his figure. He tilted his head, cautiously curious, listening to the distinct tones of alteration, personalities blending and melding together, and even that was unknown to him: a part of the channels of unfamiliarity. While the warrior could say the same about his mind, a maneuvering, Machiavellian specimen, constantly brandishing a hold on soldier, warlord methods or calculating, treacherous outliers, he’d yet to stumble upon creation. Deimos’ main role had always been death; to bludgeon, to destroy, to tear down ramparts, to howl into the midnight air, to strike and assault until the enemy was defeated, crushed beneath the weight of his blows. This time, however, his bewilderment was obvious as the hunting knife was flicked towards him, landing beside his feet, handle sticking out of the entangled grass. The generosity stunned him, wove him back into more silence, but this one was lacquered in shock, instead of a cold, hardening nonchalance. His palms met the edge with a ferocious spirit, held the gift as if it were rendered from some unholy, seditious spirits – the only celestial beings he’d ever worship. “Thank you,” rumbled from his mouth, from his lips, from duty and reverence, gaze still on the keen, steel fringes, the borderline of desecration and mayhem. The beast would’ve been at a loss in the labyrinth, and at least this would give him a chance, close-combat, or one lucky throw. He could carve a thousand lines in brutality, in ruin, spilling insurrection in his wake. The notation was received; he would also owe the man a debt. He tucked the blade into his empty belt, and nodded at their intended progression. Deimos did blanch at the moniker of chap - likely intended to get a rise out of him – only displaying the briefest of snarls, an eye-roll directed into the dark abyss. “Deimos,” he extended, a hand drawn in efforts to shake the others’, before he maneuvered towards the aperture again, a restless coil unraveling along his shoulders. His steps melded right back into savagery and nefariousness; an eldritch titan waking fellow demons and devils.

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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

ALISTAIR "Mmmm..." Ģears of his mask flickered as his eyes squinted with a mechanical hiss as he Alistair nodded, taking in the name Deimos had spoken with a soft nod before turning keeping his bow aimed true. "Chap it is." He concluded as he rounded the first corner of the Labryinth. "Of which lands does someone so large and brooding hail from?" He'd ask with a sense of pep in his voice unaware a large vine, masked by the ivy strung along the walls and ground, was slithering toward his foot. "Come alone?" Alistair asked, finding a small, slithery pumpkin peaking slowly over a near by wall, pinning an arrow between its eyes with a gurgling groan. "Doesn't seem half bad given the stories I heard of the pl..." With that Alistair zipped out of view, around one of the Labryinth's walls, thick, rope-like vine wrapped around his ankle. A large, gurgling roar heard before Alistair phased back into view, stumbling back, covered in a vibrant green goop. "Well...that was unpleasant..." He muttered, laughter pushing through the mask as he staggered to his feet. "Hope you're ready Chap...there's adventure afoot." The roar grew closer as the sound of walls crumbling under its girth was heard closing in. The large vampiric pumpkin, vines swinging wildly like aimless whips lashed out at the two.

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 They rounded corners and ventured further into warren outskirts; and he had no intention of uttering too many revelations. His stare was reserved for the walls, for the heights, for the monsters to come erupting from nowhere, presuming the worst well before it arrived. But Alistair was chatty, intending to spiral discourse instead of silence, and the bestial man thought about ignoring it entirely. The only thing keeping him from completing the obvious indifference and apathy was the gifted blade in his hand; his mother had taught him enough morals and codes to not be an outright jerk (but the temptation was still there, regardless). “Isilme.” It wasn’t a lie, and it wasn’t a great disclosure or confession; the lands were long gone, split apart by warring kingdoms and blistering sovereigns, anyone he’d ever cared about long since passed in the gloaming hills. The soldier turned his head, not watching Alistair’s feet, a critical error, brooding as it were; attempting to shirk off any further questions with noncommittal replies and shortened, clipped phrases. “Alone.” He’d been alone for so long that it was normal, it was routine, to be a discarded, forlorn figure, presumption of desolation and abandonment kept him far, far away from high expectations and camaraderie. He left others to their own devices, and they did the same to him – the sort of forsaken ambition and aspiration that left even a lone wolf out to slaughter. Then came a pumpkin peeking over the barrier, extinguished by arrows well before Deimos had an opportunity to maul it (and perhaps that’s what he was here for most of all: for the simple act of violence and vehemence, to shove a blade into something’s chest, to feel the zealous, ardent, fickle fervency again, barbaric and twisted). But temptation had reared its ugly head no sooner than Alistair’s latest statement (and he’d made many), a vine snaking around his ankle and yanking him into the shadows; and the warrior made to follow, slinking his way into the darkness. It was all for naught again, and it was torment; the other man simply maneuvered back into frame covered in slime and goop. Deimos sighed for the ridiculous nature of it all. The roar thereafter was a damned, nefarious blessing, and he finally had a moment to sink every nuance of frustration, vigor, contempt, and outrage into the incoming monster. It wasn’t too overbearing – he’d seen far worse – but enough of a demon, of an infidel, to give him practice, to allow him to enter the fray again. He’d been awakened on the battlefield more than once, forced out of listless lethargy, out of brooding fruitions, claimed by Ares’ contortions and barbarous notions. This would be no different. He watched the beast for a fraction of a second, scrutinized, calculated, the weight and trajectory of its vines. He leapt out of the way of one, drawing the knife back into his grasp, but didn’t escape a second twining its way around his middle. For an instant, the most sinister snicker wrapped itself around his mouth, and he was just as menacing, just as malicious, just as ominous and forbidding as the cretin – and didn’t use the blade. Instead, before it could lift him off the ground, it was the force of his invocations, of his deadly, noxious magic, that entangled and wrapped itself in his motions, palms grabbing hold of the vine and pulsing, pervading, every ounce of lethal magic into its being. Its ensuing scream was magnificent.

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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}