[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

ISAR

Arm yourself

"It's that tame, this Hollowed Grounds place, that you gotta go out of your way to sate the appetite?" He'd only seen the front gate but all things considered it didn't hold much appeal. Too soft.

He grunted at the response, pleased despite everything. It was almost like discovering you had a cousin, or meeting a legend. "Mh, it got taken down by the Citadel. Years ago now. I reckon we're the last ones around. It was rotting anyway. Eirachi got her claws in em - then they who decide such things thought it a good idea to march on the walls." Scoffing, Isar shook his head at the ground and spat, his opinion on that clear as ice.

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

Barking out a laugh more akin for his fyrhund shift, Astaroth grins at the cultist with a shake of his head, immediately reaching up to slip the hair back into place. “Dygra, no. I have my spaces there. We were simply passing through and I felt like enjoying the warmth.” Because the Grounds was still caked in snow and Astaroth had already struggled once with the possibility of turning to stone when taking on a few of those ice mages he’d apparently offended by telling them to treat the place nice.

At least the ringleader tasted great.

As for the comments over Whitebrim, Astaroth begins to clean up further, content to leave the carcass where it lies and take the bones from the arm he’d nabbed, nodding to the younger man with that same sharp toothed grin. “I cannot say I am surprised by that. Back then Whitebrim was made up of separate tribes. Mine ended up devouring themselves.” Literally, though he leaves that out, feeling as if the sentiment is clear enough. “And so I left. I figured eventually one of them would end up trying something ridiculous.” Shrugging a shoulder casually, Asta closes up the bag full of his trinkets.

Astaroth

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

ISAR

Arm yourself

Isar cocked a brow and pursed his mouth, nodding slowly. "Places, I see. So you're still sneaking around. Hiding. Wonderful - gotta fucking love that." Except the look in his eyes suggested that he wasn't amused. Watching Astaroth like a stray wolf waiting for a chance to snag a prize from a bear, his gaze went to the remnants of the animal, and something hungry passed over his expression.

"There were remnants left when I grew up," he reminisced, idle as can be. "Ma unified them and by the time I reached manhood she'd moved many of em into the Fangs. O'course, then them outlanders started to pop up... Made for good hunting, but damn they were nosy fuckers." Pausing, he ran a tongue over his bottom lip. Assessed Asta, trying to gauge his mood.

"Listen... how 'bout I help you work off some of that energy, and then we can chat over the last of that critter, whatever it is, hm?"

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

“Mm, unfortunately, a few of those within the Grounds don’t take kindly to the more specific of preferences I have.” He comments idly, gaze focusing on Isar as the hunger passes his face. A look he knows all too well. Such though, that he continues to watch the other man as the comments of stragglers of the tribes crosses the air between them, and Astaroth can imagine it. Even if the old traditions have vanished.

Snorting lightly, the butcher settles on his heels, shifting his weight as he scans the other Ancient, horned head tilting as he tracks his dark gaze along the ram horns. “Of course they were. It is hard for anyone to understand outside of Whitebrim.” There’s a look in his gaze that seems to suggest ask me how I know. But a grin splits under the idea that Isar may share the same sentiments he does over eating meat, particularly of the human variety.

It’s a grin that remains as the other man makes an offer, his head tilting in a calculating manner. “That sounds like a perfect option. Shall we begin here, or elsewhere?” Dark eyes focus on the cultist, while Asta settles with the cane in hand, already calculating.

Astaroth

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

ISAR

Arm yourself

"Ah. Are they the majority? Because if not, it seems they're the ones who need to get over it," he shrugged. "Not sayin that because I enjoyed my old life, mind you. I prefer having options. But, well... no one should have to hide and scrape and ask for permission to be who they are, right?"

Shrugging that it was all he had to say on the subject, a responding smile spread slowly onto Isar's lips. His teeth were not quite as sharp as Astaroth's but the sudden intensity in his eyes made up for it in spades. "Here's where the food's at," he said; and in a sudden flurry of movement he shifted into a Fyrhund and lunged for the remains of the Ramphire. It was a challenge, a dare, a taunt - it was a hungry man's desperation showing through and allowed to take the reins.

This was not a friendly spar. This was a fight for survival, and a measure of strength to see who would come out on top.

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

Humming as if considering – mentally ticking off those that would fall under the category, the smile remains as he inclines his head a fraction. “Mm, they do seem to be the majority as of right now. However, I never ask for permission to be who I am.” Danta already knows who he is. But it had been part of their little deal – don’t make a scene – which was something totally doable, even if a bit meticulous and annoying at times.

Either way, Isar’s duller smile toward him does little to dissuade the eager hunger in the cultist’s dark gaze, and Astaroth’s grin broadens as he straightens up a bit, giving a silent nod as the man turns to a fiery fyrhund, and Astaroth watches as the canine lunges for the ramphire remains. Content to let him lunge for the leftovers, Astaroth slips to the side, flipping the cane in his hand to where the flat edge of the handle can be used as a pry bar – aiming to press hard into the fyrhunds tough side to shove him off the table. And if the rest of the ramphire goes with him? So be it. Astaroth has already taken his fill.

Astaroth

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

ISAR

Arm yourself

He didn't quite make it to the leftovers before the cane cracked into his ribs. With a pained yelp the fyrhund tumbled to the floor, but scrabbled up on his feet a moment later.

There was no real tactic behind what he was doing, no strategy or aim beyond filling his belly. And seeing as there was someone between him and it, well... It meant that Isar lunged for Astaroth next, with searing hot jaws aiming for a throat that was just a little too high up to be entirely reachable. There was a saying about that, something something reach for whatever... he'd think about it later over the meal.

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

Grinning as the fyrhund is pushed off the table, Astaroth resets the cane in his hand, once again missing the fancy version he had from back when. It’s a thought that buries itself into his mind for later, perhaps asking Dygra to help him make it as it once was. But anyway, it gets the job done enough.

So much so that when the fyrhund scrambles back to his feet, Astaroth is ready, dark eyes tracking the canine as he lunges for his throat instead and a deep chuckle leaves the older Ancient. The cane lifts as he steps aside with grace, pulling himself out of the line of fire for the other man, but not without using that cane again to try and smack him on the back as he jumps, trying to change his trajectory back to the ground.

Astaroth

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