Deimos app
[OOC]
1. Name: Cherie
2. Age: 26
3. Email: kes.suhr @ gmail.com
4. Timezone: Pacific Time, California, USA
5. When are you primarily available for gaming: Generally in the evening, more frequently on weekends.
6. Messenger Information: RoseFireDancer (AIM)
7. What interested you in Labyrinthine: Sarah waved it under my nose. Also, where can you go wrong with Greek mythology, really? (Don’t answer that.)
8. Choose a PB for your character: Jensen Ackles (Shared with Phobos, his twin)
9. Picture you would like to use for the community profile page: http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b
[IC]
1. Name: Deimos (Damon Kyle)
2. Association: God
3. Age: Immortal
4. Occupation: Mechanic, tricks out cars
5. Affiliation with others: Phobos, Ares, Eros, Aphrodite (pending approval)... the gods in general as family. Deimos likes to pull Eros’s chain, which has occasionally resulted in him temporarily falling in love with inanimate objects and etc. It’s essentially Phobos’s job to keep Deimos ‘in line’, which means that Phobos is on the receiving end of plenty button pushing himself. Ares is boss. The end.
6. Where do you stand with regard to the upcoming war: Anything that allows Deimos to break all the things is awesome. Essentially, Deimos stands with Ares-- and Phobos.
[WRITING SAMPLE]
It was war-- war all around him, the scent of fear like a cloying, clinging perfume that teased at his senses. Deimos was besotted with it, smitten by it, enthralled. He loved the taste, loved the smell, loved the sight, loved the sound of fear. Terror, specifically, and all of it was his, belonged to Deimos. Pleasant dreams tonight with the dirt and the muck and the grime, and the blood under his fingernails. Pleasant dreams like a kiss from Phobos in the night, color sweeping through his sleeping mind like his father’s chariot. Oh yes, he would sleep well tonight.
His eyes were bright with the reflected light from a nearby explosion, nostrils flaring as he took in the scents of war, of battle as it raged around him. He swept through it, slipping into the ranks of the soldiers like some hungry, ravening beast whose thirst for blood went unquenched. Bullets flew through the air, shells hitting the sand with a soft pat pat pat, and he relished it all. They were dying all around him, and he loved it. As the tides turned, Deimos didn’t stop-- couldn’t stop, until Phobos pulled him out of it like always, the berserker fury that made his blood sing cooling down this time at his brother’s touch.
In the quiet as the dust settled and the bodies lay sprawled out on the sand like so many trophies, Deimos reflected that this? This was a good day. He clapped his brother’s shoulder, a wicked, wolfish grin splitting his face. How many battles had they fought together, the twin brothers whose domain was horror and terror? How many times had they done this before? It was not enough. It would never be enough. He’d hunger and raven and ravage and it would never be enough.
The stark terror that flooded the mortals that did battle was thrilling, intoxicating, and he was a drunkard. It was sweeter than the finest wine, more potent than any ambrosia, and it was all his. His to have, his to take, his to make. With Phobos by his side, he would fight and fight and fight until the end of everything, and even then Deimos suspected he would find a way to press beyond what was possible and continue this reaping of a harvest so rich and bountiful. A particular harvest that was their (near) sole domain.
He woke up sweating, eyes heavy with sleep and something else, hand slapping against bare flesh. To his deep disappointment, the smells had faded until all he could scent was Phobos. Really, that in and of itself was not so much a disappointment, but the sudden shift left him feeling a profound sense of loss. “Sweet dreams, brother,” he whispered, wondering if his dreams had a supernatural origin. He’d been there on that battle field, and not too long ago; they’d only left it late the last year, after all. Pity. Slowly, Deimos slipped into a more restful sleep, dreamless and dark.
1. Name: Cherie
2. Age: 26
3. Email: kes.suhr @ gmail.com
4. Timezone: Pacific Time, California, USA
5. When are you primarily available for gaming: Generally in the evening, more frequently on weekends.
6. Messenger Information: RoseFireDancer (AIM)
7. What interested you in Labyrinthine: Sarah waved it under my nose. Also, where can you go wrong with Greek mythology, really? (Don’t answer that.)
8. Choose a PB for your character: Jensen Ackles (Shared with Phobos, his twin)
9. Picture you would like to use for the community profile page: http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b
[IC]
1. Name: Deimos (Damon Kyle)
2. Association: God
3. Age: Immortal
4. Occupation: Mechanic, tricks out cars
5. Affiliation with others: Phobos, Ares, Eros, Aphrodite (pending approval)... the gods in general as family. Deimos likes to pull Eros’s chain, which has occasionally resulted in him temporarily falling in love with inanimate objects and etc. It’s essentially Phobos’s job to keep Deimos ‘in line’, which means that Phobos is on the receiving end of plenty button pushing himself. Ares is boss. The end.
6. Where do you stand with regard to the upcoming war: Anything that allows Deimos to break all the things is awesome. Essentially, Deimos stands with Ares-- and Phobos.
[WRITING SAMPLE]
It was war-- war all around him, the scent of fear like a cloying, clinging perfume that teased at his senses. Deimos was besotted with it, smitten by it, enthralled. He loved the taste, loved the smell, loved the sight, loved the sound of fear. Terror, specifically, and all of it was his, belonged to Deimos. Pleasant dreams tonight with the dirt and the muck and the grime, and the blood under his fingernails. Pleasant dreams like a kiss from Phobos in the night, color sweeping through his sleeping mind like his father’s chariot. Oh yes, he would sleep well tonight.
His eyes were bright with the reflected light from a nearby explosion, nostrils flaring as he took in the scents of war, of battle as it raged around him. He swept through it, slipping into the ranks of the soldiers like some hungry, ravening beast whose thirst for blood went unquenched. Bullets flew through the air, shells hitting the sand with a soft pat pat pat, and he relished it all. They were dying all around him, and he loved it. As the tides turned, Deimos didn’t stop-- couldn’t stop, until Phobos pulled him out of it like always, the berserker fury that made his blood sing cooling down this time at his brother’s touch.
In the quiet as the dust settled and the bodies lay sprawled out on the sand like so many trophies, Deimos reflected that this? This was a good day. He clapped his brother’s shoulder, a wicked, wolfish grin splitting his face. How many battles had they fought together, the twin brothers whose domain was horror and terror? How many times had they done this before? It was not enough. It would never be enough. He’d hunger and raven and ravage and it would never be enough.
The stark terror that flooded the mortals that did battle was thrilling, intoxicating, and he was a drunkard. It was sweeter than the finest wine, more potent than any ambrosia, and it was all his. His to have, his to take, his to make. With Phobos by his side, he would fight and fight and fight until the end of everything, and even then Deimos suspected he would find a way to press beyond what was possible and continue this reaping of a harvest so rich and bountiful. A particular harvest that was their (near) sole domain.
He woke up sweating, eyes heavy with sleep and something else, hand slapping against bare flesh. To his deep disappointment, the smells had faded until all he could scent was Phobos. Really, that in and of itself was not so much a disappointment, but the sudden shift left him feeling a profound sense of loss. “Sweet dreams, brother,” he whispered, wondering if his dreams had a supernatural origin. He’d been there on that battle field, and not too long ago; they’d only left it late the last year, after all. Pity. Slowly, Deimos slipped into a more restful sleep, dreamless and dark.