[SE] Duolingo is waiting

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

Iskra has been musing over all the offerings Melita always places around, seeming to gravitate to some shrine or another. It's quite the change from when they were children, but he imagines becoming a demi-god has a bit of that effect, whereas he's always found the source he can conjure to his own fingertips prayer enough. At least, until recently, when he's finally acknowledged maybe some heavenly help is needed, once in a while, and not the source of all his woes in life.

There's one god he's still not so familiar with, isn't even sure Melita bothers to offer much to this one at all, so it seems worth travelling to the realm the god oversees to find out a bit more about what's unfolding. Goose trails beside him, alert in a lazy sort of way, ears airplaning but pace lofty. The dog has been in higher spirits ever since the season broke into colder weather, and because they haven't been back to Torchline, which while it had its aspects of fun, Goose is definitely against the temperature range there.

Iskra stops before the rise of the temple, hands fisting into his jacket pockets. He's wearing a blue and green plaid shirt, suspenders visible beneath the open front of his dark brown coat that hangs low to his knees. He's got on jeans and boots, and as always an axe is tucked away along his belt, more out of habit than anything else. Goose sits beside him, an unimpressed yawn offered to the stones, but then a dog's not usually impressed by architecture or gods.

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

These days, it feels as though the visitors to the Temple are mostly Ancient. Either that, or they have some Ancient relative they’re praying to Dygra for or offering respects for her to take care of them more. Not that Dygra was particularly that type of goddess. In between the chaos and debauchery, there was a beauty in the way that she let you figure it out, and if you required help then she’d be more than willing to help. He’d never felt as though it was transactional, that his personal results were because of how devoted he was to her.

After all, his chaos was buried deep. He wasn’t like Charlie or Danta that wore it on their sleeves. He preferred the fine, tailored clothing, the organization that came with ensuring everything was in its place. His chaos was far more of a bloodier, dangerous nature, and perhaps that’s why Dygra took to him so well.

Whatever it is, the butcher finds himself drifting into the Temple, a touch on edge as always this season but dressed down a touch. Rather than the full finery of suits and vests, polos and ironed pants, the butcher’s clothing is looser. A nice button up long sleeve, unbuttoned for the top three buttons down, leaving the wild patchwork of scars on his chest out for the world to see - something he often preferred to hide.

Either way, he’s got a small little satchel with him, held in the hand that doesn’t harbor the bladed cane that clicks beside him as he walks, stepping up confidently beside the stranger hesitating outside of the Temple with a canine in tow. A nod is offered to Goose silently, before the butcher’s shark-tooth grin is offered toward Iskra. “I am afraid this Temple no longer harbors the shrines of the rest of the Old Gods, presuming that is what you are looking for.” The butcher hums, his head tilting as his dark gaze scans the shorter man. Asta, himself, looks like the picture perfect Ancient at this moment. The tool harp smile, the horns that are far more than his regular self would boast — helped out by the Haunt in his blood. The fire obsidian antlers are extended, boasting four tines on each, like a cradle of spider legs pointing up toward the sky, keeping his brushed back dark hair neatly tucked in beneath them.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

Admittedly, Iskra hasn't met many Ancients. He's seen them from afar, but his place of residence is a bit of a challenge for getting to know them, and Iskra's habits of sticking to home have kept him out of their regions. So it is that he gawks a bit at Astaroth, gaze drawn pointedly to the, well the points on Astaroth. He nearly looks like a Luxere stepped into a man's body.

Seeming to catch himself, and his jaw, Iskra offers a weak smile in apology. "Oh, no, I actually came here to learn more about Dygra. Maybe pay some respects." He lifts up a small bag from his belt, an assortment of candies and wood carvings inside, leaning towards Ludo's preferences out of practice now. "I'm Iskra, woodcutter in Halo. And that's Goose." The dog had glanced up when Asta first approached, but his attention had since drifted to the cane, nose twitching as he attempted to smell it from afar. At his name though, the husky gave a low series of barks, gaze fixing back to the cane with clear intention.

"Goose no, that's not a fetching stick," Iskra says as he grabs the dog's snout affectionately, giving the fluffy head a mild shake like it might clear the focused pup's mind.

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Oh he’s very pleased to be gawked at. Iskra can stare away as much as he pleases to and the butcher will stand there prim and proper, though essentially motionless as a predator might be. He watches as the weak apologetic smile blooms across the other man’s face and Asta nods his head in understanding. “Well, in that case, I would be happy to introduce you Iskra. And Goose.” Nodding to the canine that seems to be eyeing the glinting cane, he chuckles softly as the husky is chastised for how much he wants the cane as a stick.

Even though it wasn’t anything close to a stick. “I, too, am originally from Halo. Though I have not returned in quite some time.” He’s sure Iskra can imagine why as he turns in his heel to guide the woodcutter up the stairs toward the heavy Temple doors, lifting the cane to keep Goose from wanting to play with it while he opens the doors. And once inside, he finds beside the door nearer to one of the many fireplaces that dot the interior, a relatively small stick that he hands to Iskra to keep Goose content. “If you would follow me, I will take you to her shrine.” Mulling over what the offerings were that Iskra had brought, if only to show him just how to pay his respects to Dygra well enough that they both don’t get cursed, the Ancient keeps his perfect posture as he strolls down the hall toward an offshoot room, sure that the woodcutter would follow him.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

"Oh really?" Iskra asks, a touch brighter at meeting a fellow Halovian, which has come up more times than he can count when crossing stranger's paths in different realms as of late. "Seems to be a place many people set behind them," he chuckles, all too aware the climate leaves something to be desired for most. Hard to say if he's just grown used to it, or if there's something about fighting with nature every day and feeling the teeth of it that gives him some sort of satisfaction, once the only one he could scrounge up.

"So you're a—uh—convert then?" he asks with a tilt of his head as they ascend the stairs, not certain he got the story right, but all too aware of why it is he doesn't see Ancients in his neck of the woods. He scans up the impressive doors as they part beneath Astaroth's hand, his eye drawn to nice craftsmanship in whatever form it takes. His gaze continues up as they step into the temple and all its grand, sweeping space, a monument rather than a shrine. Iskra's ogling is interrupted with the familiar feel of wood laid out on his palm, and his gaze tips back down, confusion spreading into ridiculous joy at the considerate offering. "You're a dog person!" he chimes with an abundance of warmth, like it's all the confirmation he needs that this man is good people.

Twisting around to Goose, Iskra holds up the stick, the hound's attention drawn to it. Iskra chucks it out the temple doors they're just crossed, and with nails skittering over stone, the dog dashes after it, content to fuck off outside with his prize. Meanwhile, Iskra totters after Astaroth as he continues on with the tour.

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

“As it stands, I cannot return.” Even if he wanted to, but some memories were best left to the House of Midnight’s interpretation. Either way, the smile he slants Iskra’s way is one that’s a touch sharper than normal even if his amusement is palpable. “I was changed, yes. Dygra saved my life. And the Halo you likely know would be completely unrecognizable to me.” Centuries of shifting plates would do that for an environment, after all.

But then he hands the stick over to Iskra with amusement and knowing glinting in the dark shadows of his gaze, grinning wider when Iskra’s delight reaches his ears. And so, despite the season, the butcher’s quite pleased to know that he can still manage to be a gentleman. “I am quite fond of them, yes.” He answers as he watches the husky bound out the doors of the temple in pursuit of the stick, all while Asta’s tail waves behind him not unlike a canine himself when he turns to guide Iskra toward the shrine.

Stepping into the space, the butcher’s arm extends out into the beautiful chaos of the room. Leading up to the room, everything appears prim and proper – organized with a place for every mismatched item in their presence. Until it begins to shift, the extension closer to the shrine suddenly ripped up with earth and stones beneath it, as if the shrine itself were a meteor or a perfect contradiction. Ruby clusters sprout against the shrine, half of it pristine and flat and glisteningly beautiful while the other is carved in a macabre manner, leaving it rugged and sharp.

“Hello my darling Dygra.” The butcher hums, stepping over to the shrine and placing his hand against the smooth surface briefly before he glances over his shoulder. “I have brought someone who wishes to pay his respects.” Informing her whether or not she’s listening, the butcher fully half turns back toward Iskra now as he pulls up a sleeve. “Dygra has a preference for blood in her offerings.” Nodding to Iskra’s toys, the butcher then proceeds to show the wood carver just what he means. Reaching over to slice part of his palm on the sharp edge of a ruby, blood beads to the surface swiftly and as he lowers his hand it begins to drip to his fingertips. Here, he draws a little design in the top of the shrine with his own blood, seemingly uncaring whether or not his palm continues to bleed. After all, Iskra might need some of his to make the toys more Dygra centered.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

For all the heat the Ancients love, Iskra can't help but feel like there's an aspect of coldness to the design, likely due to so much of it being in stone and grandeur that lifts the space. He's become accustomed to the cozy architecture of Halo, where a smaller size means less is lost to heat, and a mixture of wood and brick and metal structure their buildings. He's grown up in the sweeping layouts of Torchline, meant to draw in cross breezes, full of windows and warm in a reassuring manner with reed and thatch and wood along with stronger bones and character unique to each place. Which is not to say that the housing around here might not be warmer, but here, in this placer meant for worship, it is more unsettling to Iskra than any of the other shrines he recalls visiting. Beautiful, yes, but many things that are beautiful are ones worth granting distance to.

His gaze skips over the odd manner of order and chaos folding into each other, curious as he is wary. It's new, and strange, and not entirely to his tastes, but... he keeps an open mind. At least, until they come to a halt and Astraoth's words change into a demonstration as offerings are laid out in a most uncustomary way. "Blood?" Iskra parrots, like he's testing out the word to make sure he heard it right, that it's the same blood he knows, that it's—yep, it is. Astaroth's palm peels red over a ruby, resulting in a wince form Iskra as he visibly leans away and cringes at the sight.

Not squeamish, exactly, but he's never exactly witnessed someone intentionally carve pain into themselves like that. Having split his skin plenty of times of various tools and sharp edges of bark, he knows the sensation all too well, and a ghost of it throbs in his hand now at the sight of Astaroth's injury. "Uh—why?" Iskra asks, smaller than he'd like, as he now hunches over his bundle of toys and treats like a child that has found themselves in the wrong classroom and isn't quite sure how to make it to the proper one, especially since finger painting seems to be on the docket for this room.

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

“Yes. Blood.” Asta hums in confirmation as he makes his demonstration, pausing only to look over at Iskra to see him lean away and cringe. Perhaps that was a touch surprising, given that Asta has zero qualms with it (and if the scars on his arms in their precise lines were of any indicator, he did it a lot). Though often with good reason – a bloodbane here and a bloodbane there.

As for his question, the butcher’s shark tooth smile is aimed back at the woodworker, inclining his head a touch toward the shrine with the pool of blood left along it in varying patterns and shapes. “Dygra is the Goddess of Entropy.” He begins the explanation, gesturing for Iskra to approach with the toys so that they might be able to coat them in the blood Asta’s already provided. “She is sensual, passionate, and chaotic. Something most Ancients tend to be, whether born as such or made.” Humming softly, he pauses before his dark gaze skates back over to the Abandoned.

“Us Ancients as a whole have been forged in fire and blood. We cannot burn from flame and now and then we must indulge in our blood lust. It is part of the chaos.” Unsure how much Iskra knew about Ancients, the answer was informative more than anything else.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

"But," Iskra stammers out, his confusion remaining. "Doesn't it hurt?" Perhaps Ludo's curse to make him shout for days hadn't been so bad after all, especially since this isn't even a curse. He can't fathom what Dygra must do when she's upset. A glance back towards the smiling predator and his flicking tail, his antlers, it's all a cool reminder that Iskra is standing somewhere where he's very out of place.

"So, blood is entropy?" He'd think spit or semen could be just as chaotic in the right applications, although he's certainly not vouching for jacking off on the shrine over this. Swallowing hard, Iskra steps forward as he is beckoned, his legs feeling like lead but somehow still managing to complete the motion of walking. His fingers fumble with the little bag of goodies, and her pulls out a small raven carving first, handing it over to Asta carefully.

Asta clarifies his question as he continues, stating it's bloodlust that must be fulfilled, a hold that Iskra has started to become familiar with in his own way. Just, he prefers taking the blood from villainous creatures rather than his own veins, but the risk is always there when cleaving life out of something fighting to survive. "What happens if you don't?" he asks out of curiosity, gaze drawn to the gleam of the uneven ruby projections. He reaches out, a tentative finger running of the edge, skin prickling against the sharp point he can feel there. Setting his teeth against one another, he presses in, just enough, until he feels the bite of it and sees his own red meet the ruby's. A humble offering compared to Asta's, but when in Rome...

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

“Of course it does.” The butcher hums, shrugging slightly as if it didn’t matter as much as Iskra was making it out to be. “But it is nothing compared to what I have gone through. A little bit of pain in order to praise and devote oneself to their maker seems quite easy. I cannot imagine what she went through in order to craft us.” He says idly, finding himself blabbering for a few moments such that he turns to Iskra with a small yet no less sharp apologetic smile.

Shaking his head to the question, though, he hums thoughtfully. “No, not the blood specifically. Entropy is.. Disorder. It is the lack of predictability.” So, he supposes if the lines were supposed to match, if the gods required pleasantries and all kinds of offerings, the predictability in it being blood seemed relatively opposite to what others might expect.

Either way, it’s clear he doesn’t mind one way or another, taking the small raven carving with a hum of admiration of the craftsmanship over it. Turning it over here and there in his clean hand to inspect it, the butcher’s smile is gentle as it is appreciative. Then, releasing the clench to his palm sets off the blood flow again, pouring into his hand in a way that he can drape the rivers of red into the wood, watching it stain it dark.

“She likely will not answer.” He hums, though he isn’t entirely sure. “I have never not done that, however.” Comes the admission and appreciation and admitted delight when he watches Iskra prick his finger enough to bring a bead of blood to the surface.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

Iskra can handle a bit of pain, and he's certainly self-inflicted plenty of it over the years, just none that have made him bleed, and none for the purpose of being devout. It's a different sort of mentality altogether, and he idly wonders what Elizabeth might have to say about the whole ordeal and what's exactly right or wrong. Nevermind the current of guilt that seems to be here, with Astaroth seeming to think he owes it to his god to be in pain, and Iskra can't help but feel like he's just waltzed into the den of a cult.

"Pain usually only begets more pain in my experience," Iskra says softly, suggesting that Asta's agony does nothing to relieve whatever Dygra had gone through. "My mother also went through a lot to make me, but she normally preferred when I was happy and safe." Then again his mother hadn't been a god, so maybe once you ascend into deity-dom you get a little weirder about your kids, if that's even what Ancients can be considered.

As for entropy, Iskra knows what it is, he meant why does blood equate to it? Perhaps the best symbol for life, the one truly unruly thing. On its own though, blood has its own order. Hell, even chaos could have order of a sort. The world likes patterns. "Maybe the blood has become too predicatable," Iskra offers, mildly in jest, if only because he's getting a little nervous. "Could be worth trying something else one day. If chaos is what she likes." Or maybe entropy is just code for blood and they don't want to be so gruesome as to say their god is a vampire.

Iskra holds up his strawberry candies as if to make a point, though he dabs each one with a bead of his blood before placing them on the rubies. He extends one to Asta first though, just in case the man is so inclined to sweets. "What are you most thankful for, that she's done?" Iskra wonders, trying to steer the conversation away from theoretical blasphemy to praise.

I can't see the wood for the trees

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

“Perhaps.” The butcher hums, as if not fully convinced over the thought that Iskra has. Pain for him was variable. He could take a good amount of physical pain in stride, easy and welcoming, worn like an old coat. Emotional pain, however, was another story. Something that the butcher was far more fragile than he ever lets on with, and it remains a little secret he keeps tied in.

When it comes to the blood being too predictable, the butcher hums a quiet laugh, staunching the blood again from his palm when he sees Iskra doing the offer himself with the blood that seeps from his finger. Withdrawing a handkerchief, the butcher slips it into his hand to ball it up, to get it to clot and quit bleeding now that they have enough on the table. “I may try that.” Is he being honest in that he might? Maybe. Maybe not. Only time would tell.

Instead, he leans a hip against the shrine to watch as Iskra places strawberry candies on the rubies, amusement flickering in his gaze as one of the strawberries is handed to him. A touch delighted at the result, he plucks the strawberry from his hand and inspects it briefly before flashing the woodworker a sharp smile. “She saved my life, as I told you before.” The butcher hums easily, looking to the shrine with fondness. "I was once left to the horrors of the Climb, sentenced to a slow and agonizing death when some other Ancients found me and brought me to her. She is why I am here today."

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

Iskra

this heartwood was cut too damn deep

"Right," Iskra murmurs, recalling that Asta had said as much, but wondering what else she's accomplished in her time since. Especially to court such devotion, laid down in a temple that is impressive by all accounts. It'd seem Asta puts a lot of weight in his second birth, which Iskra can understand to a degree. Maybe he's not been born again amid fire and blood, chaos and entropy, but he has been saved a time or two. "I can recognize the weight of gratitude for something like that," he hums, thoughtful for a moment as his gaze lingers against the rough edges of the rubies. Maybe he can't agree with every aspect of this, but it sounds like Dygra's worship is well earned at the very least. It's one thing to save someone that needs it, it's another entirely to free them from torture.

"I appreciate your tour and your time, Astaroth, thank you. I should go check on Goose though and head on my way," Iskra offers the Ancient a smile. "I'll have to consider Dygra with my prayers from time to time." Maybe any time he gets a wound on his own accord he could send some her way. Turning to leave, Iskra waits a breath to see if Astaroth will walk back with him or linger in the halls of his god, and then he sets off back towards the large doors and the silly dog with his gifted stick.

[FIN]

I can't see the wood for the trees