[Training] got lost in the game

ISAR

Arm yourself

Water dripped from the ceiling. A sound like raindrops falling on stone multiplied and echoed through the winding tunnels. Somewhere up ahead a crack in the bedrock let a ray of light through that erased the utter blackness of the passage. With small skylights and occasional pockets of vegetation growing over old cave ins it wasn't a dull place to be by any means, though Isar had a feeling things would look different at night.

While curiosity had brought him here, he wasn't sure he enjoyed the place. There were far too many signs of activity for his liking. Muddy footsteps, subtle scribbles on the walls and a feeling of being watched kept his attention on high alert. That the rushing waves put a hamper on his ability to hear anything beyond his immediate vicinity didn't make it much better. He'd hope to find treasure, or perhaps something washed up and half-dead to eat, but when he reached an intersection and found a recently doused lantern instead, he decided it might be safer to return to the beach instead.

About to turn around, a shuffling sound somewhere down one of the paths made him duck into a crevice. Hoping his dark colors and the faded nature of his clothes would let him blend in, Isar waited with bated breath to see whether the sound belonged to a creature, a person, or a meal.

He wasn't picky.

Because no one else here will save you

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

Unfortunately, or fortunately? For Isar, it’s a bit of all three, a creature, a person, and a meal. Because the shuffled sound is absolutely from a hidden corner, an offshoot into a room that looks as if it hasn’t been used in years. It has, today, specifically because there’s a familiar man within, standing beside a stone table with a few oddities amongst it. A torn apart ramphire carcass is the main feat, and beside it some pearly white bones that certainly don’t look like they belonged to any animal nearby.

(They don’t, because it really kind of looks like a human arm and all the bones in between).

And Astaroth, settled beside the hull of his prize, his fine clothes swapped out for white in order to be easier to clean, dips a handkerchief into a bucket of water, wiping away the blood from his throat and lips in a careful, casual motion, unexpected of company from this deep within and uncaring whether he is found.

Certainly the tang of iron in the air would either draw attention or divert it away.

And so, the Butcher continues to wipe away the evidence from his skin, caring little for how splattered his clothes are.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

ISAR

Arm yourself

Well well. Apparently devils show up even without being spoken of. Poking his head around the corner, Isar observed the scene with a detached interest. The carcass had his mouth watering, the bones were given a cursory glance but it was the broad back of the man that retained his focus in the end. This could go several ways; aggressively, or not. Given the guy's size, Isar had a feeling that any aggression would hurt a lot.

In the end he tested the waters before jumping in. Finding a loose rock with a foot, he punted it off along the tunnel floor. It skittered off with a loud rattling sound that would wake the dead. Waiting a moment, he then stepped out so that he could make himself visible in the doorway.

"Am I interrupting?" Sounding far calmer than he probably was, the shaggy-haired Halovian leaned a shoulder against the aged wood of the doorway, arms lightly folded over the chest.

Because no one else here will save you

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

Luckily for Isar, any bloodlust had been sated and dinner already had – Astaroth having the ability to kill two birds with one stone (or grab an arm from the clinic for dinner and a ramphire for the hunt of it, more like). Either way, the cloth is dipped again, brought to his face, clearing out more and more of the blood from his cheeks and manicured beard, when the rock practically thunders an echoing approach.

Dark eyes flit to the entrance as Isar steps through, and given a moment of pause, the butcher continues to clean, this time toward his throat and arms. “Not at all.” He hums toward Isar with a grin. “I was simply just finishing up.” Wringing out the handkerchief, Astaroth’s gaze lifts toward the other Ancient as he cocks his head, pronged horns casting a bit of a shadow along the floor from the singular torch in the back. “What, perchance, were you doing?” His dark brow rises, his entire focus on the fellow kin from Whitebrim.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

ISAR

Arm yourself

No aggression appeared forthcoming. Pleased with his ability to avoid getting curbstomped, the ram-horned Ancient shrugged with one shoulder and offered up a lazy grin. "Oh, just poking around, avoiding trouble... Seems I conveniently missed the fun here. Lucky me."

Unabashed, dark eyes took in the Ancient from top to toe, searching for similarities to people he'd once known. Not that he was finding any; black hair and dark eyes were not uncommon and there was little else to go on. "You know... I never thought I'd hear that drawl again. It's not exactly the same, but close enough. You really are from Whitebrim, aren't you?"

Because no one else here will save you

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

A low chuckle leaves the butcher at Isra’s observation as he cleans up his hands now, moving to hang the rag on the edge of the table before he picks up a bag he’s brought, hidden by the side of the stone table, before he starts to pick up the human bones and slip them into the bag. “What fun it was, too. Alas, I still feel pent up.” He sighs in a way that seems to suggest he’s already wistful and nostalgic of the time despite it being essentially minutes since it happened, though a thrum of tension remains in his shoulders.

But the grin blooms in full force when the other man speaks of Whitebrim, inclining his head as he tucks his trophies away, collecting feathers and other bones from the ramphire’s carcass. “I am indeed. Only… centuries before your time.” Tilting his head toward Isar, his dark gaze flickers back toward the other Ancient. “Still Whitebrim, however, through and through.” Closing the bag, Astaroth turns to cleaning up what’s left, snagging a small bone from the ramphire he’d left, using the blunt thin edge to clean beneath his fingernails to get the blood off. “I hear it doesn’t exist any longer.” He murmurs, casting his gaze up to Isar.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine