steal a moment of your time

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Leaning into the fire, the pull of blood and water against her hair and clothes makes her look smaller than usual. Asta might recognize the shift similar to when she'd worn her glamour, younger, softer. She flashes her fangs in a humorless smile as she looks to him, some of her bravado shining through. "It's hard not to when we look nearly identical, and everything seems to line up." The timeline, her name, her call the ocean, her singing. The facts are too glaring to ignore. 

As for why she still hesitates? Thal sighs, long and deep. "It's just impossible to imagine me as this girl she describes. Someone so full of 'happiness' and 'love' like some naive brat who got hit one too many times with a hug." Her lip comes up in a sneer, the words like venom on her tongue. She rips into another bite of the allogator, but it tastes like ash, and she has difficulty swallowing it around the childish sentiments. 

Tossing the piece aside, Thal hugs her leg a little closer, for comfort or warmth, who knows. But her next words are softer, the struggle evident as if she were walking upstream. "She also kept calling me 'Lassie.'" Just saying the name sends a chilling shiver down her spine, like someone walked over her grave, trampling the fire blossoms along the way. "I'm not sure I want to know more about someone who doesn't exist anymore." Because she isn't the same person that Athena had spoken of, so full of life and willing to bare her heart for all to see. She'd been a fool. She'd been tricked. She wasn't someone Thal could be anymore.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

He scans her face as it grows softer in the firelight, though he knows better. Beneath the occasional soft exterior is sharp teeth and blades, ready to strike and slay — not unlike himself, beneath the confines of beautifully tailored outfits. The flame licks up stronger against the rain, offering more warmth to her as the hum of his accented voice leaves him. “Mm, that would be hard, yes.” He agrees, distracted as he tries to imagine it.

But she continues, and fuck if he doesn’t relate, like she’s painting a picture of the younger version of himself. It’s that warring between one another that the butcher still struggles with, so much so that he can’t help but to relate. And since he’s already revealed one of his largest secrets and found Thal to be flippant over the issue.. where’s the harm?

He shifts as she speaks again, well aware of his tendency to not prefer to be touched, but he initiates it in the act of sitting closer to her so his shoulder presses against hers while he straightens up and stares at the ball of flame that dances and hisses. “You do not scream Lassie to me.” He murmurs with a soft laugh, shaking his head as droplets drip down his neck. “But I do relate, somewhat..” He pauses, inclining his head back toward her with a soft smile.

“Astaroth is not the name I was born with. And the man I grew up as died the day I became Ancient. I do recall the memories of it, yet…” The shoulder that doesn’t touch Thal’s shrugs a little. “I was an accepted who did not speak the common tongue, who lived in a home built of snow, whale bones, and human bones. I did not know how to read books or letters, but I could read the stars. I did not know how to speak easily. It worked for when I was scouting, but not when I fled my crumbling village.” Hence the whole not knowing the societal norms, of not being able to accurately explain himself, of being dragged to the Climb to suffer for his crime.

Glancing at her curiously, he pauses as the firelight flickers across their faces, painting them in a light that makes them seem a lot younger than they are.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Thal feels him lean a little closer, intimate in a way that would usually make her chafe, her body tensing on instinct. She may not dislike physical touch, but intimacy is something that scares the shit out of her, something that reminds her of everything she could lose, of all the ways someone so close could hurt her. But with Asta... it doesn't claw against her the same way. There's a solidarity in their shared moments, in the way he makes her feel accepted, safe. 

Her body slowly adjusts to the sensation, relaxing into the proximity as he laughs softly in the firelight. She gives him a bitter smile, trying not to flinch again at the name, dry sarcasm coating her tongue. "That's a relief." If 'Lassie' still fit her, Thal might have to change her name entirely.

Listening quietly, she tries to imagine Asta as someone in such a different world, without his waistcoats, eloquent words, and refined manners. It's like trying to mix oil and water or fit a cube in the eye of a needle. She stops trying after a moment, her words soft with sincerity as she says, "I like this you better." As much as she hated everything about him when they'd first met (specifically being called 'darling'), she wouldn't change anything about him now. Except... "Although I wouldn't mind hearing the accent more." Her voice is playful, a reassurance that she accepts him as he is, that she likes these small things about him, even if she really likes hearing the thick rolls of his Rs when he's drunk. The smile on her face says as much, while it holds a deeper note of appreciation, of the weight of shared secrets. 

Leaning her head against the allogator, she asks, "Where did 'Astaroth' come from?" And they're back to the tell me to shut it when I go too far.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

It’s growth in their relationship, the fact that they can be this close to one another without burning or snapping at the other, sharing these deep secrets with the comfort that it wouldn’t slip out again past their lips. It was nice in the way that Asta hasn’t had for some time, at least not with someone who hadn’t been around to see the transformation as Danta had been (partially).

She’s tense when he first moves, but he can feel the ripples of her relaxing, his shoulder offering a bit of a personal warmth through the wet fabric that helps with the blooming orb he’s conjured that continues to warp and spin around in front of them, drying their clothes somewhat.

Flashing her an amused yet soft smile, toothy enough to glint the fangs in his mouth, he nods. “That is the consensus.” He’s realized lately, between her and Danta, even if it was an indicator that he wasn’t fully right with how easily he slipped into it when inebriated or slipping back into old ways because it was easier to compartmentalize the overwhelm if he wasn’t always his uptight self.

The smile breaks into a dramatic roll of his eyes as a deep chuckle escapes him. “Yeah?” His voice drips with the accent this time, finding it amusing for the moment to unleash it as she asks her question and leans her head against the allogator as Astaroth sinks down a little to do the same (and silently curses his too long torso). “It’s the name my founders gave me. I couldn’t speak when they took me to see Dygra, so.” A free hand lifts to rub at his chest that hides bark like scar tissue. “They picked a name and when She saved me, I was more than happy to leave the old me behind.” He murmurs.

The hand on his chest flattens for a moment as he thinks, eventually turning a bit toward her to extend his hand between them for a handshake and an amused smile on his face as he lets his accent fully drip. “Nice to meet you Lassie. I’m Ferox.” Comes the playful tease, the charming wink, his voice rough and thick and dripping with that Whitebrim tone that seems more akin to rocks scraping together than the eloquent purr of his usual tone, but with a very clear glint of playfulness that she could push him away or smack him if she wanted to.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Sometimes she forgets how tall Asta is, watching as he tries to find comfort on the forest floor, whereas she's cradled comfortably, her legs folded close. She tries not to laugh, especially as he flips dramatically into his accent, her eyes flashing with delight. Her tone is equally teasing despite the serious topic, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Well, you're lucky they picked a good one." He could have ended up with a name like Eugene Fitzherbert, or Dick.

Thal watches as he offers out his hand, that annoying nickname on his lips again. If they weren't having such a nice moment, she might try to reenact their first meeting - throwing a dagger at him. Maybe telling him the dumb pet name was a mistake, becoming the new 'darling' in their relationship, something she'd have to beat out of him. However, as much as it scrapes against her ears, she senses that the reveal of his original name is a big deal, that she should treat it as this momentous occasion. 

So, if only to humor him, her glamour settles into place, as if it's the only way she could ever be comparable to the person she'd once been, features softening to someone younger, ignorant of the harsh realities of the world. Even her wicked smile looks more charming than deadly despite the threatening gleam in her eyes - the ones that look like gentle waves lapping the shore rather than the crashing depths of the currents beneath a storm. She takes his hand, more delicate and slender than before. "Hi Ferox. I'm Lassie." It lingers for a moment, two people from different world - different lives - meeting in the firelight of the forest, converging like the flash of lightning above them, never to strike the same place twice. 

Releasing his hand, Thal pulls back, letting her glamour fall away as her nose scrunches into a disgusted expression. She shakes out her hand like it's coated in someone's snot, a shiver running down her spine. "Let's never do that again."

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

“Gods, I really am.” He agrees with a snort, his accent thicker and dragging on the r a little longer than he otherwise might before he’s twisting toward her with all the air of amusement for something that likely is just as corny and horrible as he thinks it is – but at least it would improve the damper of the mood.

He’s hoping so, anyway.

Extending his hand, the butcher watches as her glamour fades away, leaving her in what he imagines to be quite the gentle wave of a mermaid – if you didn’t count the smudges of blood still under her chin, not washed away by the rain. So he meets her halfway, his own glamour falling away to let his wet hair splay a little differently across his face, making him appear almost scruffier as her slender hand slips into his calloused one, shaking once for the motion but lingering in spite of it – words and centuries apart and yet… So similarly the opposite of what they’ve become.

Hearing his name from her lips is as abrasive as it is when he hears Danta say it. As abrasive as he imagines it is (or was) each time he spoke Danta’s full name. As abrasive as sandpaper against skin, leaving it raw and chafing.

Her hand releases his and she looks like she might throw up, shaking out her hand and Astaroth leans back against the allogator and the wet ground with a booming bark of a laugh before his hands find his face to rub at the blood and rain, covering his eyes while his glamour still remains in place. “That was disgusting.” He agrees through the ripple of laughter, his hands falling from his face backwards to rest in the wet dark strands of his hair and against the cooling corpse of the allogator.

“A new deal, hm? I’ll never call you by your old name if you never call me by mine?” Tilting his head toward her, there’s a kind of innocent gleam in his gaze perfected by the lack of his horns and tail even as he flashes her his too sharp grin, like children confiding in a secret never to be shared again.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Seeing his glamour unsettles her every time, and the discomfort tingling down her spine doubles in strength. She almost holds her breath against the sight, like it might keep her face from looking like she'd smelled something rancid. It just doesn't look like Asta, only the thick rumble of his accent soothing her urge to recoil from whoever it is. 

Yet his barking laughter is infectious, and Thal can't help the way she almost loses it at the absurdity of it all, her own laughter chiming through his. Different names and different people, like ghosts living under their skin. She has to rub her own eyes to stop from chuckling at his lack of horns as she leans in close, her fangs catching a flash of lightning above them. "'Deal.' 'Trade.' 'Threat.' Whatever you want to call it, I'm in." And if there's a hint of a plea in there, Thal will absolutely deny it, even as the names still echo in her ears like an obnoxious buzz. 

Whether it's the taste of dead names on her tongue or the cold, the hair on her arms raises, a shiver threatening to start at the base of her spine. She pulls the fire closer, laughing through the rising discomfort. "Maybe we should go look at getting some dry clothes on. I think we might be bordering on hysterics." Not that she particularly expects to have anything the size of a baby giant, but they'll figure it out.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

She doesn’t have to worry about his lack of a glamour for too much longer as her laughter joins his. He’ll wonder later if the forest thinks there were a few rogue hyenas wandering about, but for now he’s quite content with how this evening had gone and its evident in the gleam in his gaze as she leans in close and rubs at her own eyes as they make their new deal or trade or threat. “Why not go with ‘all of the above?’” He flashes her another sharp grin, one that’s bright yet grows far more menacing as he drops his glamour and his horns unfurl and his tail whips around with his amusement beside him.

The fire is closer, though, and if he allows himself a moment to indulge, he certainly clings to the heat – reaching out to drag his greying fingers through the flame to warm them up, still snickering off and on as he thinks about the insanity of the past few minutes. “Yeah.” He agrees, still leaving his accent in full display for a little while longer as he shifts to stand and collect his cane, offering his hand for her to uncurl herself to stand while he expands the fire to warm their heads and their backs, creating an inferno of a blanket to keep the rain from getting through to them.

As they begin to walk, lightning continues to crack and groan across the sky, but the butcher pays it little mind. “Sit in front of the fire with a bit more of that bourbon, yes?” He asks as he inclines his head down toward her with a raise of his brow, the mischief glittering in his gaze once more.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Her head nods in agreement, relief flowing through her to see him with his characteristic horns again, his smile sharpening to something she recognizes. She figures it goes without saying that their sharing of secrets includes a strict Non-Disclosure Agreement, but it's still nice to know she shouldn't be expecting to hear that name again anytime soon. 

Thal accepts his hand, unfolding herself from the ground with a tiny twinge of stiffness settling in her limbs. Luckily, Asta is already on the move, his flames falling around their forms like a cloak of protection from the cold. Still a little high on laughter, it bubbles up again in a low chuckle that sounds almost like a giggle. "You're such a gentleman." Whether it's a compliment or a teasing insult is anyone's guess, her smile playfully sharp, but she doesn't complain about the fire at her back, soaking in the warmth as she twists her own flame between her fingers. The rain sizzles around them, and she almost laughs again at how not stealthy they are - a glowing blanket of fire crunching and steaming through the forest. If they hadn't scared off all the prey with their laughter, they were certainly gone now. 

Walking next to him, she has to glance up at his words, another short burst of laughter coming easily. "'In front'? I might sit in the fire." Because although she isn't getting any colder, there's a chill in her bones that will take a minute to defrost. Although she won't actually subject Asta to that strange positioning of conversation, even if her mischievous smile suggests otherwise. "But the bourbon is a given."

Despite the damp cold, Thal is relaxed, continuing to poke and tease as her apartment becomes visible in the distance. "Whose idea was it to come out here again?" Her eyes look to him in her peripheral, shining with an unfiltered humor that flows without hesitation. There's no sign of the caution or calculations that usually line the sharpness of her gaze, just a casual banter that pulls at her lips.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

Maybe they are at the point of delirium, because Astaroth finds himself snickering like a teenager as Thal makes her joke, unable to keep the grin from remaining on his face, deepening his smile lines in the reflected light of the fire. “The Gentleman Butcher, hm?” He chuckles deeply as they walk and pluck their path back toward her home.

He doesn’t care about the need to be stealthy. They were satisfied in their bloodlust. But as she looks at him, Asta meets her gaze and chuckles further to hear she might sit in the fire, and he lets all of his dramatics show in his face. The widening of his eyes, the playful gasp. “But darling, your clothes!” He laments as his voice pours over the words playfully, snickering with more banter as her home becomes visible.

“I will take the fall on that.” Stepping up to the entrance of her home, he waits patiently for her to slip in first — being the gentleman and all that — before he slips in after her and dispels the fire completely. “It was worth it, though.” He tacks on in a sing-song voice, beaming a grin toward her before he succumbs to trying to dry off.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Another laugh comes to flow around 'The Gentleman Butcher' as she flashes him a playful smile. "It has a lovely ring to it." If anything, it's suspiciously ominous, an oxymoron in the delicate destruction it suggests. She can imagine the fear and confusion it might spread. 

His dramatic gasp only makes her grin sharpen, a twinkle brightening her eyes. "Who said anything about 'clothes'?" He works at a brothel for gods' sake, she'd think he's seen enough women naked not to care, and it's not like she's shy; however, it doesn't seem like something 'friends' would do, and Thal shrugs her shoulders. "Don't worry. I'll make the fire so thick that it doesn't compromise your gentleman status." Although her words are sarcastic enough to assure him that she won't actually sit in the fire, just very close to it.

Thal dips her head 'graciously' at his politeness, rolling her eyes as she steps through the door. As for it being 'worth it,' she chuckles, flaring the flames in the fireplace as she makes her way to a chest at the foot of her bed. "I'll have to agree with you on that." Because even though her clothes are caked in cold blood and drying rainwater, her heart and stomach are full of warmth, a smile lingering on her features longer than it had in years. 

She pulls some fresh clothes out of the chest for herself, but nothing will fit the behemoth of a man and she mumbles loudly under her breath, "No one needs to be that tall... Head in the clouds... Absurd half-giant tree..." When she finally finds the thick blanket buried in the bottom, she turns to face Asta, pasting a cheeky grin on her face. "This should fit." Offering it forward, she shoots him a wink.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

It’s one of his monikers, and has been for quite some time if the stories have anything to say about it. But after having dumped a fair amount of story onto her about what’s happened in his most recent portion of his life, the butcher leaves those stories for another time, only to chuckle playfully to hear her comment of clothes. “I truthfully do not mind either way, darling. I was more concerned for your clothes than you.” Teasing enough to stick his tongue out at her as she passes by him to enter her home while he holds the door open, the butcher nicks his tongue in the process and promptly sticks it back in to suck away the iron that’s appeared.

Appreciative of the warmth, his attempts to dry off are mostly running a flare of fire through his dripping hair and along his horns, dismissing it quickly to start unbuttoning the waistcoat, unhooking the chain that ties it together and slipping it into his pocket. All the while he’s busy with that, she’s rummaging through the box at the end of her bed for something that might fit, even if he hardly has qualms of undressing before the captain. “The weather is quite lovely up here, before you ask.” He teases her with a wink, gratefully accepting the blanket as he sets it over the back of a chair as he slips out of the waistcoat, draping it over the next one before unbuttoning and shedding his shirt.

It's probably the first time she gets the full view of his scars and not just the open shirt he’d had when she’d been cursed with the lisp. As he peels the pale shirt from his skin, it reveals long arcs of bark-like scar tissue spanning across his chest and his back, drifting down the top portion of his arms, as if he’d truly been flayed alive. The edges aren’t as bad as the center of his chest and back, as if they’d carved their hole and had dug from there, the stretches of scar tissue like a starburst in the center that radiates out for smaller damage, but still plenty.

And if she looks closely as he replaces the blanket on the back of the chair with the shirt in question, she’d spot the way there’s softer scars, discolored against his golden skin, where binds had sat centuries ago. “Much better, thank you.” He hums softly, wrapping the blanket around himself high enough to act as if a turtleneck that he tucks his head into for a brief moment as he warms up before it drops low enough to see the arcs of scar tissue once again.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

His words send a mock look of having 'been caught' across her face, like she hadn't meant for him to hear all of her teasing insults. Her eyes wide with 'worry' that she might have offended him, Thal raises a hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you could hear me from all the way up there." And with another coy wink, she turns to her own collection of dry clothes. They're much the same as her previous outfit, although her pants aren't quite as tight. 

She doesn't turn away or hide as she changes, her pale skin and ample curves on full display as she strips, wraps herself in flames to dry off, then redresses. Her eyes brush briefly over Asta, taking note of how severe his injuries must have been, but she doesn't stare, already familiar enough not to find it worth lingering over. 

As her loose black shirt slips over her head, she gives him a playful smile. "Glad to hear it. I'd hate for you to freeze when I was just starting to find you interesting." She sticks her tongue out at him in retaliation for earlier, making her way to the cushioned chairs near the fire. When she passes the table, she snags the bottle of bourbon along with their glasses before plopping down in the chair sideways, offering Asta his newly filled drink as she stretches her toes towards the fire.

Thalassa

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

Her wink sparks a rumble of a laugh from him, a roll of his eyes. “Words are naught much more than hot air, and you know what hot air does? It rises.” It’s a very prolonged comeback, but the butcher seems satisfied with his answer as he steps away to peel the rest of the wet clothes from his scarred torso, giving her a precursory glance as he’s sure she does the same for him. Finding nothing amiss, no injuries or wounds, he wraps himself in the blanket easily drawing comfort from its soft fibers and the way it radiates heat to his cool and still slightly damp torso.

“Only just?! You wound me, darling.” Comes the dramatic whine, settling into the other chair and crossing a leg over the other, letting the fire warm and dry his pants first while his torso remains wrapped up comfortably, with only a hand available outside of it to snag the glass as Thalassa brings it toward them. Gladly accepting the new liquor in his glass, he sinks back into the chair and takes a long slow sip, relishing the sweet burn on his tongue.

He's quiet for a moment before he pipes up again, a soft chuckle the start of the next statement as he watches the fire dance in the fireplace. “I would hope that if I were to turn to stone in your presence that you would free me, even if I know I would make quite the handsome coat rack.” Sliding his honey dark gaze toward her, there’s amusement in the reflection of the flame that turns them a deep hue of ruddy clay. “Or at least have Danta be my savior once more.” His lips quirk into an amused grin, enough to show the sharper fang amongst the rest of the sharp points.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart