Astaroth
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
“I haven’t been talking about you, dear, but people do talk. It isn’t a secret. I also know that Kiada made the change.” The other Ancient woman’s name is strange on his tongue, and he fumbles with the pronunciation of it for a brief moment before he shakes his head, keeping his back toward her as he chuckles a deep sound. “He did not tell me that, nor that you had returned from the dead once before.” So it is her turn to slip up details about herself, it seems.
Humming a note under his breath as he turns toward her as she focuses her attention elsewhere, he dips the rag in the water again and cleans it out before placing it back, droplets of water that are tinged red start to fall from his shoulder down the raised scar tissue that makes up his torso. “Didn’t they fail you when they didn’t give you an option to return and you chose the…” He can’t think of the name, snapping his other fingers as if trying to get it to come to mind. “Acquired… mm no, Voice?”
He isn’t here to pick it apart, though, because she continues and he rests against the edge of the dark wood dresser, keeping that rag placed against his shoulder as he looks at the pale woman settled on his bed. “Chaos isn’t always pain and death. Would you prefer the stillness of a river to the chaos the fish makes as it swims through its peacefulness?” It breaks the status quo – it breaks the serenity of the still river with its movement for survival. “Death is not fun darling, it’s life. Things and people die for others to survive. Do you mourn the grass you step on day after day until a bald patch remains the same way you might mourn a creature that has given its life for you to keep yours?” His head tilts, pulling at the wound again until Astaroth’s mask falls and the smile fades, and a quiet cursed out (very much unlike him) “fucking hell” escapes him as he turns halfway from her, sure that she heard his little curse as he dips the rag again and more red starts to run.
Humming a note under his breath as he turns toward her as she focuses her attention elsewhere, he dips the rag in the water again and cleans it out before placing it back, droplets of water that are tinged red start to fall from his shoulder down the raised scar tissue that makes up his torso. “Didn’t they fail you when they didn’t give you an option to return and you chose the…” He can’t think of the name, snapping his other fingers as if trying to get it to come to mind. “Acquired… mm no, Voice?”
He isn’t here to pick it apart, though, because she continues and he rests against the edge of the dark wood dresser, keeping that rag placed against his shoulder as he looks at the pale woman settled on his bed. “Chaos isn’t always pain and death. Would you prefer the stillness of a river to the chaos the fish makes as it swims through its peacefulness?” It breaks the status quo – it breaks the serenity of the still river with its movement for survival. “Death is not fun darling, it’s life. Things and people die for others to survive. Do you mourn the grass you step on day after day until a bald patch remains the same way you might mourn a creature that has given its life for you to keep yours?” His head tilts, pulling at the wound again until Astaroth’s mask falls and the smile fades, and a quiet cursed out (very much unlike him) “fucking hell” escapes him as he turns halfway from her, sure that she heard his little curse as he dips the rag again and more red starts to run.
// dead eyes on a treacherous grin //
