who we are and all that we're trying to be
Feral, savage amusement coiled through the length of him, wicked and eldritch, born amongst those used to being the unattainable, unreachable demons. Cold-blooded machinations drew their way through his skull, through his bones, through the layers upon layers of anarchy, distortion, and decadence. He could become a sinuous, unwinding thing, a detached machine, a seething maelstrom crossing over sands, limbs contorted in rapid succession, in allured danger, in finessed ferocity, in no time at all. What would it take, to set apart the pernicious, the macabre, the potent? How many times had he done it as the Reaper, chasing, driving, massacring the foes that dared to think they could pierce their way into the Basin? King of death and desecration, of wiles and tempests – eons and lifetimes ago, conjured and compelled now, a surge of memories and potential.
But he kept his fiendish foreboding, sitting back on his haunches like a primitive, primordial enmity, an entity possessed by hell and thriving in its discord. The howl had completed the task, and there was no need, currently, of summoning the rest of demonic, monstrous cretins, of shattering the world in his hedonistic elation. Disappointing, really, as the man placated instantly, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender, in explanation of movements and motions.
Deimos glanced at the sea, and then back to the stranger, settling along the dunes by his pile of debris, pondering his next maneuver. It came on a slow, predatory walk, grabbing hold of the nearest trash, some piece of paper threatening to float into the waves, and then dropping it into his heap of rubble and ruin. A hint of his actions, of his motives, beyond terrifying wandering fools. The hound still cast a wide berth, permitted the man to move along if need be, the threat and warning there in his mere presence, in the way his frame stoked and paced.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
