#Deimos x OC

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

forty-one - where it all began masterlist But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last. Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction. They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

TIMOTHEUS FLIPS ONE of her daggers into the air, catching the hilt as it falls. The craftsmanship is remarkable. He's not seen blades such as these in all his years serving in the Athenian forces. They're perfectly balanced —the metal lighter and edge sharper— with soft pale leather wrapped around the hilts and shining dark red stones set in each of the pommels.

He does not doubt these dual blades give his sister an advantage over her opponents, but he's seen her fight with an ordinary spear and kopis before too. These twin blades are not the reason men fear the mention of her epithet. Beyond the craftsmanship, they seem to be only ordinary blades, no more special than the sword he carries at his side. "What is so special about these?" Timotheus asks.

Lesya's head rolls back as she slumps against one of the benches at the stern of the Ippalkimon, the bandages wrapped around her middle dotted with fresh blood. "They belonged to Penthesilea," she rasps, eyes squeezed shut. Chrysis told her of the Amazonian queen after the Cult presented her with the blades —the same night Deimos was given the Sword of Damokles. Ancient and powerful weapons to make their champions even more deadly. She hadn't believed it until her first battle —wielding those blades, she always seemed to know her opponents' next move. They called to something deep inside her, just as the artifact does.

"The Amazonian slain by Achilles?" Timotheus cannot believe it. He believed them to be legends, the stories their mother told them as children. But given everything he knows about Enyo and the Cult of Kosmos, he does not doubt his sister's words. He looks at her and frowns. Her face is knitted in pain, the likes of which he cannot imagine. She should be dead, he thinks, but the gods have not taken her yet. It's easy to believe she truly is a demigoddess after witnessing what happened in the arena. "After your feats, history will say these were the blades of Lesya" —her lips quirk upward even if her eyes remain shut— "defender of Hellas."

Her smile fades. "Or Enyo," she whispers, feeling a hot tear streak down her cheek, "the sacker of cities." 

THUNDER ERUPTS AND lightning fills the dark sky above snow-capped mountains. The bolt of lightning strikes the stone of a broken altar, illuminating a lone figure garbed in gold-and-white armor painted with rivulets of red. Lesya thrashes, screaming, and rolls off the stern bench with a crash and scream. "Lesya?!" Someone cries her name from far away, but she cannot wake, cannot go back.

Lesya searches, but the storm is deafening, and she can only move forward. Deimos? She reaches out, fingers brushing his bicep. At her touch, he turns with a distant, empty expression, then falls back into the dark chasm below —the spear of Leonidas embedded deep in his chest. ALEXIOS! "Lesya!" Tundareos shouts, shaking her shoulders as hard as he dares. 

Her laurel eyes open, wide and unfocused —face a pale white canvas of horror. The daze releases her, and then panic sets in. "I have to get back to Sparta," she cries. Tundareos stares at the red splotches seeping through the white linen of her bandages —a wound that seems will never heal. Lesya presses her hand against her middle and sees the blood on her fingertips, but it doesn't matter. She grips Tundareos' arm. "Please, brother." It is a broken plea mingled with her sobs. She must return. "Sparta."

Tundareos nods once, then rises and stumbles back, nigh disbelieving his sister could ever look so weak, so desperate. He does not want to entertain whatever horror could make Enyo like this. "Timotheus!" He calls his brother. Timotheus strides to the helm of the trireme from the deck below. "Keep watch over her" —he motions back to their sister— "Tryphena." His second lieutenant rouses from sleep. "Help me prepare for departure." Then the rest of the crew wake, stumbling into their positions.

"But–" Timotheus protests, gripping his brother's shoulder to pull him back around. Their sister is in no state to travel. Rough seas will be enough to tear the wound on her stomach open wholly and send her to Hades. It's a miracle she's evaded Charon's grasp this long.

"I know," Tundareos says, barely a whisper, "but we have to go."

Timotheus swallows his protest and goes to Lesya. He kneels at his sister's sides and offers a vial of poppy milk —it will ease the pain and perhaps allow her to rest whilst they begin the voyage back to Sparta. Lesya drinks the bittersweet milk and tosses the vial aside. She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing the remedy would take away the pain —all of it. "What is it?" Timotheus asks. "What have you seen?" 

"Deimos." His name is barely a whisper. It's been nigh a year since she last saw him following Amphipolis, and vengeance cannot chase away the longing or fill the abyss in her heart that his absence has created. Lesya doesn't want to remember the dream, but his tawny-gold eyes —void of life— now haunt her waking thoughts. "I saw him falling from Taygetos," she admits.

Timotheus holds fast to her hands, hoping to provide reassurance —solace. "That doesn't mean–" but she cuts him off, shaking her head. "You don't understand, Timotheus." It is always memories that plague her dreams. Every horrified bystander. Every man and woman who's begged for their lives before receiving the kiss of cold iron. Every time Deimos' lips had ever brushed against hers —every tender and fleeting touch. It's all too much. "My dreams have only ever been memories" —she swallows the knot in her throat and looks away to hide her tears— "but that," Lesya can't bring herself to say it aloud. She knows it is not a memory but a foretelling of what is to come.

"ALEXIOS?" KASSANDRA STAMMERS. Ikaros's warning cries above the thunder are all too clear now, the eagle circling and screeching above. Alexios does not reply. She stares at her brother's back, his black-and-gold chiton hanging off one shoulder, revealing the angry welt of a recent scar from the arrow wound —it had not healed cleanly. There are other scars too. Some masked by his dark matted locks, but it's the one spanning the length of his exposed side that makes her stomach churn and throat feel tight —it's a jagged line of silver flesh from the night he fell.

Deimos turns to her, his face impassive. "I knew you would come here." There is a terrible steel in his gaze. And Kassandra realizes he is looking not at her but at someone behind her.

Myrrine steps up to Kassandra's side, her eyes wide and watering as she beholds her son for the first time since she left his mangled body at the Sanctuary of Asklepius —she sees the twisted scars on his body and the simmering rage in his tawny-gold eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thinks her daughter's intuition about him is right, but Lesya's words still give her hope. Hope that he is not lost. Hope he can be saved. She reaches out to him, breathing his name, a quiet plea. Alexios, she calls him.

Deimos' brow pinches, and he looks away. Unable to face his mother and sister. "On the edge of the world," he draws in a deep breath, "a mother cries out for her child." It is an echo of the night they brought him here to die. An echo of the moment that sealed his fate to become nothing more than a twisted weapon. "Touching," he sneers, unable to break the hold of the Cult's teachings.  

"Alexios, please," Myrrine whimpers, reaching out for her son. Kassandra grips her mother's arm, stopping her from going any further. She does not trust her brother and does not know what he will do —especially with Lesya absent and unable to quell his anger.

"You use that name as if it means something to me," he growls, turning his back to his sister and mother, hands clenched into tight fists at his side. It is the same name Lesya had started calling him too. But Alexios died as a babe on the cliff where he stands now.

"It's the name your father and I gave you." Myrrine's voice trembles.

"Was that before or after you brought me up here to die?" Deimos asks, looking over Sparta and beyond to the Valley of Two Kings. This should feel like home, but he's only a stranger here —loathed every Spartiate and helot alike.

Myrrine clutches her chest as though she is watching her son die all over again. "It was the Cult!" She cries, trying to make him understand. "I did everything I could to save you. The priests told me you were dead!"

Deimos shudders where he stands. "And they told me you abandoned your son!" He shouts. Left to die in the Sanctuary of Asklepios. He turns to face his mother and sister, beholding them with mistrust.

Kassandra sees the fire rise within him —a venomous rage. "Alexios, it is over," she tells him, taking a cautious step closer, "the war, the Cult." It all ended at Amphipolis. The last pillars of the Cult would fall without Kleon, without Pausanias, without him. She takes another step and holds her hand out, meeting the burning hatred and misery in his tawny-gold eyes. "Lesya" —Kassandra can see his face soften at the mention of her name and the harshness of his gaze ebb, if only a fraction— "she's gone to search for you," she tells him. But as quickly as he shows a shred of vulnerability, it vanishes behind tall, thick walls.

He shakes his head slowly, head lolling to the side in thought, and falls silent for a time and pictures her copper hair and laurel eyes —skin sun-kissed and brushed with freckles. "When I was little, Lesya and I found a lion cub trapped in a snare," he starts. "My friend tried to free it . . . and that's when I heard the deadly growl of its mother." His head begins to rise again. "I watched as the lioness tore my friend to bloody shreds." His voice lowers to a harsh rasp. "Even in the world of beasts, a family protects its young!" He looks at his mother and sister, his eyes dark and wet with emotion.

"I loved you," Myrrine sobs. She grimaces for a moment as if quarreling with herself —struggling to believe this is her son. "I still love you!"

He reaches to the scabbard on his hip, quarter-drawing his sword. "The one you love is dead," he proclaims. "My name is Deimos." Then he steps toward them, tearing his blade free in a flash. Kassandra's broken spear meets his strike —not letting him come any closer to their mother. Myrrine does not flinch, but her face floods with fresh tears.

"Alexios!" Kassandra cries, throwing him back and then pointing the Leonidas spear at him. "I don't want to fight you, brother." But spittle flies from his cage of teeth as their blades clash in a fury of sparks —the terrible song of steel rising from the mountainside, and all Myrrine can do is weep. She backs away and sinks to her knees as Deimos launches a flurry of strikes. He is too strong, Kassandra thinks, barely able to evade the sharp edge of the Sword of Damokles. She inches closer to the precipice, and if not for kicking up a puff of dust, he would have run her through.

Dark clouds gather and thunder rumbles high above —the first drops of the coming downpour echo off their armor. 

THE DREAM AND the feeling in her gut are right. She leaps off the back of a golden mare, hitting the rain-slick ground running —pressing through the pain and fatigue, knowing she is the only person in Hellas who can help end this. "DEIMOS!" Lesya charges him from the side, but he pivots in his blind rage and seizes one of her arms, tossing her aside like a child's doll in his blind rage. She cries out, not losing momentum even after colliding with the ground. Her world does not stop spinning, even as it disappears beneath her.

Lesya's fingers catch a divot in the cracked stone of an old altar floor. The scream torn from her lungs blends with Myrrine's hoarse cry for her children to stop quarreling with one another. "Alexios! STOP!" Kassandra shouts —pointing her broken spear at the edge of the cliff. Lesya's grip on the smooth, wet rock shelf falters.

Eyes squeezed close, she waits to plunge into the unforgiving abyss below Taygetos —waits to feel weightless before the shattering impact. Waits for true freedom. It never comes. A hand wraps around her wrist, keeping her from falling into the chasm. Tawny-gold eyes stare down at her —wide, fearful, and filled with regret. Deimos.

With a single heave, he hauls her back up and into his chest. She clings to him, her face streaked with tears, heart pounding in her ears. Deimos squeezes her against his chest, face buried in her neck —panting. "I–" he starts, unable to meet her petrified gaze. "Lesya."

Myrrine steps to her son and reaches for him, her hand resting on his shoulder as she kneels. It’s then Lesya pulls from the embrace and sits back. He looks at her, his sister, then his mother. There’s nothing he can say to make amends for the atrocities —for all the pain and grief he’s wrought upon his family. “I’ve” –his voice breaks– “I’ve done terrible things.” The admission does not come easily. 

“We all have,” Myrrine tells him —love could make monsters of even the most devout. Alexios grips his mother’s hand and rises from the shattered altar stone, eyes wet and shining with unshed tears. She grips his forearms, above where the metal of his golden vambraces ends, and feels the weight of Hellas lift from her chest. My family, she thinks —Nikolaos, Kassandra, Alexios. Everything the Cult had stolen from her is returned, at last. All except for time. “All that matters now is what we do with the time we have left.”

Lesya stands with a grimace and turns to face the valleys and hills of Lakonia. Sparta. She thinks this should feel like a victory —the long years of hunting Cultists and working to pry Deimos from their grasp have finally come to an end. He is free. But she knows neither of them can ever truly be free of the horrors. He is home. She sways on her feet, feeling the cool patter of rain on her skin —masking her tears— but the rain cannot wash away the fear of uncertainty about what the future now holds.  

Alexios breaks from the embrace of his mother and sister and turns to gaze upon Lesya’s silhouette against the dark sky. “Give them a moment, mater,” Kassandra whispers into Myrrine’s ear, guiding her mother away from the temple ruins on Taygetos —where it all began. 

He goes to Lesya but struggles to meet her laurel gaze when she turns to face him, always forgiving. Always overflowing with love —love that he does not deserve. Alexios reaches for her, meaning to caress her bruised cheek, though his hand falls away before his fingertips can brush her damp skin. She takes a step toward him, and then he does the same. “Lesya—” he falls to his knees, clutching the linen of her chiton, face pressed into her middle “—I.” He doesn’t know what to say or how to begin to set things right once more, but the tears gathering in his eyes speak more than words ever could. 

She runs her fingers through his damp matted locks and around to the nape of his neck, breathing a slow sigh of relief through the aching pain. “I know,” Lesya whispers. She’s the only person in all of Hellas who can ever truly understand. The only one who really knows. “It’s done,” she tells him. It’s over.  

Alexios looks up at her, guilt filling his gut. “I should not have left after Amphipolis,” he breathes. Darkness claimed him once more after leaving her embrace. He should have stayed with her —should have accepted freedom then instead of crawling back to war and destruction. He should have taken her back to that beach in Megaris and stayed. Lesya lifts her hands to cradle his face, and he knows the look in her laurel eyes well enough. We cannot change the past. But then something warm soaks into his palm resting on her side —blood. A red stain blossoms through the pale linen of her chiton. “Lesya,” Alexios chokes, fumbling backward, afeared he’d been the one to do this to her. 

“It wasn’t you,” she assures him, shaking her head —she will tell him of the events that transpired later, but for now Lesya only wants to truly rest.

He rises and is quick to lift her into his arms —there is no protest from her this time. She rests her head against his shoulder, and he can feel her warm, shallow breaths against his neck. He glances at her, and the sight of his Enyo like this makes his heart twist and ache. It is a long trek down the slopes of Taygetos, but given the chance, he’d carry her to the ends of the Earth and through the gates of the Underworld. Alexios turns his head, letting his cracked lips brush against her temple and forehead. Lesya curls her fingers into the linen of his tunic and closes her eyes, a fleeting smile twisting her lips as she breathes: “Se agapo.”

[taglist: @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @erzsebetrosztoczy @stormyblue90 @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @overratedsun @thepreciouspurrsian @alexandra-alle @mrsragnarlodbrok]if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my taglist for Kryptic, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing #holy hell its been a hot minute #i got one last chapter planned after this one #and then after three years Lesya and Deimos's story will be complete 😌

[rencoons-trashcan]

I'm late as always but still wanted to do something for Valentine's day (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

#I tend to forget that I used to do selfshipping with deimos XD #maybe it's 'cuz back then I didn't know about selfshipping and didn't post the doodles I made about it bc shame lol #anyways- AAUUGHHH- I LOVE MY SCRUNGLY WUNGLYS SO MUUUCHHHH AAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!! ( o''>//H/<)o'' <3<3<3<3<3 #art #my art #self insert #self insert x canon #self insert art #self insert ship #self insert x fictional other #canon x self insert #oc x canon #self insert community #self indulgent #self indulgence #self ship #self shipping #self shipper #self ship art #self ship community #sans #undertale #sans x self insert #tsurugi kyousuke #victor blade #inazuma eleven #deimos #my husbone 🦴💙 #ourple boy 🔦💜 #no puedo tengo furbo ⚽💜

[akekiitaz]

Don't mind the black hand... Bane's chosen can't resist his favorite assassin right after a religious ceremony

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 durge #durge #the dark urge #dark urge #dark urge x gortash #durgetash #durge x gortash #the dark urge x enver gortash #my oc art #oc art #bg3 oc #Deimos Dalael

[grismavessel]

A post to remind y’all that I am very normal about a certain subway boss and a certain oc of mine

Baby Deimos and Phobos everyone!

Gris, back in Alola in Po Town got to help babysit and take care of some of the team skull kiddos and Ingo is very accustomed to baby sneasles and their antics as well as children at Gear Station.

Nothing prepares the two of them for twin gremlins that don’t want to sleep during nap time, stay up at ungodly hours, and eat as quick as they can spit up.

Ingo n Gris are managing the best they can✨💕

#gris hadn’t had the energy or time to go get a hair cut/brush their hair #and Ingo’s face is numb from how much Deimos and Phobos have pulled on it #the fellas adore every moment but like raising a kid ain’t easy #especially if you combine emmet and Ingo and sprinkle team skull on top and you get evil masterminds in the making #pokemon #pokemon fanart #submas #pokemon legends arceus #ingo #pokemon oc #pla #pokémon legends #pokemon legends ingo #warden ingo #oc x canon #fan kids #sketch #doodle #traditional art #deimos phobos #gris #grisingo #Gris n Ingo

[siennadraws]

Got my loves done by @palepinkycat and I'm completely in love with the piece!!!

#assassin's creed oc #deimos ac #assassin's creed odyssey #laïs #notmyblobs #laïs x deimos

[veevadoovee]

Ok but that one twt trend with my oc and Deimos

Original : Veil by @_k0tterl_ on twt

#madness combat #madness combat deimos #fanart #artwork #oc x canon #frida #veil

[k-d-t-art]

"Don't 'darling' me, darling."

"Whatever you say, darling."

seen this suggestion in my inbox and went 👀👀👀 so naturally I had to be a cringe-ass nae nae baby and draw them together

#fanart #original art #lord deimos #mettaton ex #mettaton #undertale #oc x canon #drawing while black #artses and fartses

[beeep97]

hello--- XD sorry for disappearing, I'm getting addicted and loving drawing on whiteboardfox😭🥺

here the recent stuff, and two drawings went to amazing people on instagram C:✨💖💖 and I posted minutes of the tests here before😭😭😭😭

#madness combat #madness combat oc #madness combat hank #madness combat deimos #hank j. wimbleton #deimos #friday night funkin #pico school #hotline miami #don juan #don juan hotline miami #undertale #undertale au #xtale cross #xtale #x tale #xtale chara #xchara #xfrisk #oc #original character #oc x canon #art #hank #self ship #self shipping

[loulowruschel]

Madness Combat stuff. (+OC)

nude ver: (no genitals)

:333

#oc x canon #madness combat #madness combat hank #madness combat oc #madness combat deimos #madness combat sanford #loulowruschel art

[slimmestslime]

a wimble and his circum

#she is fucking small #smaller than deimos even. cuz its funny #they silly #madness combat #hank j wimbleton #madness combat oc #madcom oc #hank j wimbleton x oc #oc x canon #<- I HAVE FORGOT ABOUT THIS TAG SORRY

[drawinxink]

Vi que un montón de e gente hacía sus oc x canon asi que aquí está el mío de madness combat (El Que tenga miedo a morir que no nazca 🤑)

El lore de esa carajita miada es que literalmente se coló con Deimos, Sanford y Hank (esto pasó antes de conocer a 2BDammed o como se escriba) en su camioneta Toyota. Entonces la muy estúpida amenazó a Hank y a Sanford para Que le dieran papaya pero termino con los dos antebrazos rotos y se las tuvieron que arreglar por pena.

Luego se volvieron besties ‼️🫦‼️

(No tengo imaginación entiéndanme)

#art #fanart #traditional art #madness combat #hank j. wimbleton #madness combat sanford #deimos #2bdamned #oc #oc x canon #oc x character

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

forty - are you not entertained masterlist But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last. Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction. They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

"I'VE COME TO fight," Lesya announces, standing before the gates of the arena. She nor Deimos had ever ventured to the fighting pits, but there are many among the Cult who had —all fodder for the Beast of Sparta. Today, his reign would end by her hand. 

"For glory or for riches?" The old gatekeeper asks. No one came to the arena in Pephka seeking an honorable death anymore —the age of heroes is gone. The crowd may cheer and sing praises of the champions, but the walls of the arena no longer shook as they once did when contenders stepped onto the sands. 

"So long as the crowd sees blood spilled, why does it matter?" Lesya refutes, impatient. The gatekeeper sighs. He has no doubt the woman before him is a warrior. The whispers of demigods walking amongst the realm of men have traveled on the winds. Lesya is not here to become a Hero of the Arena, but Skoura thinks she has the makings, even if it is vengeance burning in her laurel eyes. "I am here for Belos," she announces, and she will not leave until he is slain —body lying cold in the sands of the arena.

But the Beast of Sparta is only one of the champions, and scores of men lay between the twin blades on Lesya's back and Belos himself. Skoura motions around to the monuments celebrating the champions, and the scores of defected soldiers and mercenaries come to try their luck. "Then you must carve your way through the other contenders to see the ranks of our champions," he says. My blades are ready, old man, Lesya thinks, tired of the conversation —she has come for blood, for vengeance, not for conversation. Skoura motions above, and the gates to the area begin to swing open. "Your name, fighter?" He asks.

"Enyo," Lesya answers, no hesitation —the name which will strike fear into the heart of all those who knew of the Cult of Kosmos.  

SHE BRACES HER weight against one of the wooden pillars supporting the netting above the arena floor —forehead slick with sweat against her forearm, chest heaving with exertion. The crowd still shouts and cheers from above, and among them, she finds her brothers. They do not hail her as the others do. Their faces are a solemn mask of concern that one could almost mistake for pity. 

Scattered around the sands are no less than twenty-five corpses. There were no more left to challenge her except for Belos himself. Straightening, she steps back —staggering, finally feeling pain blossom in her thigh. There's a bloody cut just below the tassels of her dark leather belt. Lesya goes to the nearest corpse, ripping a long strip of linen from the man's chiton, and binds the wound, quickly.

Deep from the labyrinth of the pits comes the booming echo of a war drum —impending doom and dread. She paces the sands like a caged beast kicked one too many times. 

The drums grow louder as the iron gate at the far end of the arena lifts. Belos strides forth with his massive shield and labrys held aloft. From behind him stride a dozen more men wielding shields and spears, maces, and swords. Whispers made their way through the arena that the disgraced champion of the Cult of Kosmos had come to fight —Belos would not chance losing to her. "You've come to die, whore?" He bellows, knocking the broad head of his labrys against the bronze shield —the crowd erupts in roaring cheers. 

The vanguard encircles her, weapons leveled and shields raised. She curses Belos for his cowardice. That he hides behind weaker men and cannot face her alone. Lesya stands her ground at the center, leaving one blade sheathed on her back, daring one of the Spartiates to make the first move. A heartbeat passes before one of them acts, thrusting the end of his spear forward. She catches the wooden lance and rips it free, breaking it over her knee, and spins —ducking under the man's shield. He lets out a wail of pain when she thrusts the splintered end of the lance into his chest. His cry is silenced by a quick cut to the throat and a warm spray of blood. 

 Another tries the impale her with a dull spear, but she rolls forward, under the blow, and springs back to her feet, driving the other half of the broken spear into his thigh and her own blade upward through the chinstrap of his helm. "He's cheating!" Timotheus grits out, leaning onto the wooden and rope railing, looking down into the arena. No other champion fought with a host of men to protect them. "We have to help her!"  

"We can't," Tundareos reminds him, unable to tear his gaze away from his sister. "The rules," he utters, "it would forfeit her life." Lesya hammers her blade into the man's ribs, cracking through his exomis, skin, gristle, and bone. Pressing deeper as blood sluices from the gash and over her hands. She rips the blade back, and he falls in paroxysms of agony, unable to breathe with the blood filling his lungs. 

Two more lunges at her, and one scores her breastbone through the linen of her chiton with a swipe of his spear, the other nearly crushing her head with a heavy iron mace. Too many, Lesya curses, knowing she grows slower with each blow absorbed and strike dealt. And Belos, the Beast of Sparta himself, weighs the moment to strike the killing blow. Kosmos will reward him handsomely for bringing Enyo's head back to Delphi. Lesya scrambles backward, knees knocking against one of the weapons racks. 

The iron banded wood is rough and splintering under her fingers, but she surrenders her blades and hefts up the shield, stooping low as the iron mace swings above. Before the man can turn to swing again, Lesya smashes his face with the iron boss —breaking his nose, forcing the mace from his hands. Discarding the shield, she rushes to recover the mace and heaves the heavy weapon high above her head before chopping downward with a harsh scream. Blood spatters when the flanges bite into flesh and bone. The man crumbles instantly, his skull split wide open, and the crowd grows louder still —drunk at the sight of blood.

Belos remains behind her bidding his time, leaning on the heel of his great two-handed labrys. She hears the whistle of the sword cutting through the air and ducks, twisting out of the way, recovering a discarded spear. A swift cut to the backs of his knees and the Spartan falls, unable to stand again. His misery ends as Lesya thrusts the spear through his throat, pinning him upright with blood gurgling from his gaping mouth. The last of the vanguard protecting their champion, but then Belos is upon her without mercy. 

Lesya steps back and out of the sweeping arc of his axe, feet sliding on the slick sand. Regaining her balance is almost impossible. As quickly as she evades one blow, the next comes. Belos roars, aggravated, and throws aside his shield, using both hands on the labrys. She dances around him, always out of reach, but then he charges forward like a raging bull and pins her against the wall of the arena with the wooden lance pressed into her throat. 

The Beast snarls, pressing harder and pushing upward, the tips of her toes leaving the ground. For the briefest of moments, Lesya begins to panic —she has never met a foe she could not overcome— but Belos will not claim her.

Kicking out, her foot finds purchase on his bent knee, and the leverage is enough for her to reach back and unsheathe the blade on her back. He tries to pull it from her grasp, but his grip falters, and Lesya drives the blade into his shoulder with a harrowing scream. Belos drops his labrys, and Lesya darts around him, picking up a dulled sword from one of his defenders as he pulls out the blade and throws it down, recovering his axe.  

Belos feels the cold bite of iron just above the inside of his knee. He swings his axe down as Lesya quickly jerks the blade back, then his left leg twists and gives, blood spurting from the gash. 

The champion tries to stand in his stupor but cannot rise, and in place of the roaring crowd is only stunned silence. She takes the labrys from his grasp and uses the blade's edge to knock off his one-horned helmet, revealing the disfigured face beneath —one half marred by flames, the taut mass of scarred flesh pulls his lips into a permanent, sickly grin. Belos grits his teeth, fingers curled around the hilt of a dagger at the back of his armor, one last chance. It is not enough. He moves to strike, but Lesya kicks the blade from his hand and begins to pace around him —a rusting iron sword held tight in her bloodied right hand.  

She steps behind him and jerks his head back. Lesya will make sure Belos looks upon her as he draws his final breaths. Her cry is harrowing as she saws through Belos' thick neck with the dulled sword, but then she severs the last tendons, and his head comes free —body flopping forward, still twitching with the last beats of his cruel heart staining the sand. 

Lesya stumbles, lifting the maimed head high for all to see. The crowd erupts a mix of cheers from those blood-drunk and protests from those who know what this defeat means —upheaval in the rankings of the arena. She paces to one of the spear racks at the center of the arena, skewering the champion's head on a spike next to the decaying head of another felled contender. The Beast of Sparta is slain.

But the deafening roar of the crowd fades as Lesya steps away. The blood-lust stupor dissipates, ushering in pain. Her leg gives way, streaked with blood and the fabric of her chiton is torn open. The blood on her hand is dark and drying —not her own— but when she presses a hand to her side, it feels as though she's been touched by the Monger's hot poker again, and the blood on her fingertips and running down her front is bright red, slick and warm. Lesya looks up at the crowd, wishing to rise once more, yet she cannot do so. For a wavering moment, she straightens, then falls —laurel eyes turned upward to see a full moon shining down through the netted ceiling.

TUNDAREOS IS THE first to fling himself from the stands and into the arena, feet carrying him toward his sister as soon as he hits the sand. "Lesya!" She does not move. He falls to his knees at her side, skimming the burgeoning bruises and open wounds. Her eyes are open wide and darting around. For the first time, Tundareos sees fear in his sister's eyes. Even demigods fear death. Time is not on their side, and they will find little aid from those who head the fighting pits. "Fuck," he hisses, moving swiftly —stripping off his chlamys. 

Covering the wound, he brings her hands over the cloth and urges her to press down to stay the bleeding before lifting her into his arms and starting toward the gates. "My–" Lesya grimaces, voice fading as she points to the bloody twin blades lying on the arena floor "–my blades." He curses her for worrying about something so trivial, but Timotheus sees what she is pointing at and reclaims the two blades, following his brother —and fearing it may be too late.

They come across a Spartan camp on the shores not far from the arena. "Hold!" The Spartiate at the entrance calls, leveling his spear to stop them from coming closer. The small group looks to be vagabonds who've lost their way, but as they draw closer, the soldier sees a woman covered in blood with hair like flames. The men with her have little regard for their safety, expressions of worry twisting their faces. The Spartan lowers his spear but not his guard as they draw nearer. 

"Do you have supplies to spare?" Timotheus asks, desperate and hoping they will not recognize him as a former Athenian commander. Their arrival brings the rest of the Spartans occupying the camp to the entrance.  

"I know her!" One of the hoplites points out. It was hard to forget fighting alongside a copper-haired goddess of war. "We fought together on Pylos." He'd seen her save Brasidas and face down the champion of Athens. It's a sight he will not soon forget and is enough for them to welcome the trio into the small camp, albeit reluctantly. They point to the captain's tent, and the soldier most skilled in medicine joins them.

The Spartan peels back the stained chlamys and grimaces. It is not a clean-cut, and they do not have the means to properly suture the flesh back together, but she would not have made it to Lato for better treatment. He calls for water, linen, and boiled wine then looks back at the two men who accompanied her. It does not seem possible one renowned across Hellas for fighting like Enyo or Eris with the strength of a dozen men should be wounded in such a manner. "The fighting pits," Tundareos says, sensing the question before the Spartan can ask. 

He does what he can with what little supplies he has. The bleeding ceased, and the dried blood and sand washed clean from her side and leg. Only time will determine if the copper-haired demigoddess of war will live to fight again. "The wound is clean, but–" the soldier spares a glance back at the thick linens wrapped around Lesya's middle "–I have seen men die from less," he confesses. Demigoddess or not, she still bleeds like every other man, and only someone of great strength and with the gods' favor could overcome such a wound.  

Tundareos shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose when he sees Lesya stir and wake. "By the gods," he starts, "you're a bigger fool than I thought." She turns her head to look at him as he paces. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?" He doesn't try to hide the anger in his voice. Tundareos spent his life searching for his sister, and now that he's found her...he cannot bring himself to think of losing her —to know he'd given up his life for this. Lesya doesn't answer, the pounding in her head is nigh deafening.

"Is that why you wanted to come here?" He asks. But death would be too easy, and the gods were not so merciful as to let it end. She turns her head, feeling hot tears slip from her eyes. I am still Enyo, after all. "I will not pretend to know what you feel, Lesya, but if you continue to do this, it will kill you," Tundareos says, and Lesya knows he's right. There is little choice for her, and they both know it. "I will not watch you do this to yourself."

Lesya grits her teeth, forcing herself to sit up —the pain is almost paralyzing. "If I do not hunt them," she says, breathing labored, "then they will never stop hunting me." She will have no peace until the last cultist is snuffed out, ripped from this world by the roots. Until then, she must pursue them and break their hold on Hellas —must find Deimos. "I am a fool," Lesya admits, barely a whisper. "But–" she shakes her head "–what they did to me. I can't forget, and I won't forgive." But revenge is its own executioner.  

[taglist: @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @erzsebetrosztoczy @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @overratedsun @thepreciouspurrsian @alexandra-alle @mrsragnarlodbrok] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my taglist for Kryptic, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! 

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing #holy hell its been a hot minute #hope you all enjoy #and hope it was worth this long wait #the end is nigh #i hope u like the gladiator and spartacus references #felt fitting for this chapter

[itz-the-simp]

it's been a while since i posted here, also got ibis Paint back

Yaay them

Mary (c) belongs to me

Deimos belong to Krinkles

#madness combat #madcom #madness combat deimos #madness oc #oc x canon

[akekiitaz]

Remake of a drawing I made pretty recently because I didn't really like it. I like this one better. Don't mind the black hand!!!!!! Gortash did that

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 durge #durge #the dark urge #dark urge #bg3 oc #bg3 oc art #Deimos Dalael #durgetash #dark urge x gortash

[grismavessel]

Everyone! Meet Deimos and Phobos!

Named after the twin moons, their names literally mean dread and phobia, so they aren't a force to mess with!

Deimos smiles, Phobos frowns, but they're very expressive in their own ways.

I wanted them to have aspects of the submas subway theme and also Gris's skull pride so they have the dad and uncle's old uniform coats that got a little two well worn, Gris fixed them up to be somewhat functional and fashionable.

Unlike Ingo and Emmet they don't want to be the exact same, they have their preferences.

Deimos:

Runs very hot and needs to stay cool (will bake in the sun like Ingo)

Likes shorter hairstyles for easy styling and also to stay extra cool

Inherited Gris's old suspenders and nack for bracelets

Very calm, cool, collected, won't speak much unless it's very important

Loves sweet and sour stuff

Is the 'Older' twin.

Phobos:

Runs very cold and neats layers to be comfortable (will freeze in the snow like Gris)

Likes having longer hair, it makes him feel nice <3

Emmet gave up his old jacket just so Phobos has extra on hand and Guzma gave him an old Team Skull bandana as a makeshift scarf.

Very talkative, will go on and on about anything and nothing. Won't stop talking until Deimos decides to pick up the rest of the conversation.

Loves spicy and savory things.

Is the 'Younger' twin.

They are similar in a lot of ways. They are inseparable and care for each other dearly, brothers by blood and by bond.

Ingo and Emmet liked trains and transportation and also some mechanical engineering. But Gris always had a nack for trinkets and a little bit of mischief. So, Deimos and Phobos like to tinker with gadgets and inventions.

They're evil geniuses but in a good way! They'll use their little plans for their own self-gain and personal use but aren't mean-spirited like let's say team rocket or team plasma.

They're city kids at heart and run Nimbasa City whether the citizens know it or not. All thanks to Gris making sure the twins are still as punk as they were.

As smart as they are in mechanics they are fierce in pokemon battling too! They rule the playground and nick pick their father and uncle's strategies for fun.

And they're very loved by Gris and Ingo <3

(I will also like to add that due to Gris and Ingo's strange hair genetics the twins's natural hair is a poofy geometric disaster)

#after all the trouble and hardship Gris n Ingo go through whether eeby deebied or not they get to have a cute little family together #I DECIDE THE COMFORT HAPPY ENDING EHEHEHE #lunar twins #Deimos #Phobos #fan kids #submas #oc x canon #pokemon #pokemon fanart #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon oc #digiatl art #reference sheet #I FINALLY GOT THE DESIGNS DRAWN

[siennadraws]

I needed to get this out of my system before writing another thing with them so here! Have a break up!

Laïs could hear familiar footsteps behind her- far quicker and heavier than they should be. She whipped around.

Deimos was angry, and at that moment she knew why.

He had figured it all out. She had slipped up.

When had she gotten so sloppy? She swallowed in dry, she knew exactly when.

"You!" She didn't flinch, but her heart twisted at the scream. "You traitor! You really thought you could keep me in the dark?"

Her mouth opened uselessly. Guilt pooled on her belly and twisted her insides. She could almost feel fear. Paralyzed, she could almost inspect it- she wasn't scared of him, she was scared for him.

Her and her damned masks- keeping her safe, separating her from the world. She wanted to scream.

She let out a huff as he pushed her against the wall, forearm pressing against her ribcage, below her neck.

Laïs swallowed in dry, feeling the pricking in her eyes.

"Please, listen to me."

Deimos let out a grunt- and she could see his eyes glint, hear a shakiness to his voice.

"I am so sorry you found it this way, at least let me explain everything," she took a shaky breath, forcing herself to look him in the eyes. "I met your si- Kassandra after I met you. Before your cult's gathering. I knew my aunt's killer was part of something bigger, so I was also searching for them.

I only discovered who you were when she got out and told me your name. I never told her about you- I thought it didn't matter then, but then I kept seeing you, and I was afraid she would think I was a cultist.

She wanted you back, and I know what it's like to lose your family, so I had to help her.

I befriended you. But despite Kassandra or the Cult, it was genuine. You can think whatever you want of me, but you have to know, I truly care for you. So much..."

He didn't look at her as he let his arm fall to his side. A tentative relief crept up on her.

"You-" he pursed his lips as he stopped himself, "I will let you go. But if we cross paths again, I will kill you."

Laïs gave a heavy nod, unable to look at him either. She heard his footsteps fading away through the streets, and when she was finally alone, Laïs let herself slide to the floor.

Exhaustion hit her then, and she couldn't stop a sob from bubbling up. She growled at the defeat, as her shoulders shook and tears fell. She dug her fingers into her hair, her bun coming undone.

What did she think would happen, anyway? He would have found out, one way or the other. Would she run away, if he hadn't walked away? She probably would.

It had been easy being his friend, despite her growing feelings, because in the end, they'd always separate. That was their thing. They were on two different sides, both knew it way before this. At the end of the day, their duties, their lives, would irrevocably keep them apart. He couldn't be taken from her, because he was anything but hers, and that was so easy.

At least, she had thought so. But she could feel her heart tearing itself apart, choking her.

If she hadn't relied on that, on her masks, what would have even happened? They had met time and time again by some trick of the Fates. Would she have avoided him?

The shards of her heart twisted at the idea. And she hated herself for it. Now that he had discovered she was with Kassandra, would he ever think about escaping the Cult? Had she ruined any chance for Kassandra to convince him to leave?

There was nothing she could do now, except staying out of the way.

Would she ever even see him again?

She allowed herself this moment, crying until she had no more tears left.

Then she stood up, trying her best to clean any evidence of her breakdown. She was still needed by her allies. No, her friends.

Her friends, her people.

Keeping herself so separate had already cost her too much. Even as it terrified her so, as she walked back to them, she vowed to let go of her masks.

#siennawrites #laïs #laïs x deimos #deimos ac #assassin's creed oc #assassins creed oc