// with our one foot in the grave //
Another deep chuckle leaves him as he inclined his head as if to say ‘yes, that is so,’ before conceding with that same sharp toothed grin he’s known for. “Perhaps so.” Though they both know it wouldn’t happen. Perhaps it could be a bedroom training exercise for Danta to try to escape out of, with Astaroth giving the exact pointers as to how he would have done it.
Either way. They start to step inside, the door cracked open from a rogue breeze such that it won’t close the entirety of the way as he inspects the tea set that Danta points out. His hand lifts as if to grab the ceramic cup, humming a soft little “this is quite lovely” as the flap of wings can be heard and faster than Danta has seen him move, Astaroth promptly ducks behind the shorter man, that one reaching hand now on his shoulder with an iron grip.
“Mother of Dygra, what the fuck.” He finally breathes a hint shakily, though not before suddenly inspecting the tear in his coat from the talons ironically precisely on his shoulder where Danta would know a similar scar sat.
Luckily for him, though, while he tries to regain composure and his breathing (the benefit of standard crows versus gore crows, being that they’re smaller and he doesn’t have to listen to the incessant chant of meat, eyes that still admittedly haunt him in his sleep), the shop keeper’s already got a broom swatting at it with a curse, to which Astaroth is all too high strung now and intent on watching as the broom smacks the crows shoulder in an attempt to corral it out.
Either way. They start to step inside, the door cracked open from a rogue breeze such that it won’t close the entirety of the way as he inspects the tea set that Danta points out. His hand lifts as if to grab the ceramic cup, humming a soft little “this is quite lovely” as the flap of wings can be heard and faster than Danta has seen him move, Astaroth promptly ducks behind the shorter man, that one reaching hand now on his shoulder with an iron grip.
“Mother of Dygra, what the fuck.” He finally breathes a hint shakily, though not before suddenly inspecting the tear in his coat from the talons ironically precisely on his shoulder where Danta would know a similar scar sat.
Luckily for him, though, while he tries to regain composure and his breathing (the benefit of standard crows versus gore crows, being that they’re smaller and he doesn’t have to listen to the incessant chant of meat, eyes that still admittedly haunt him in his sleep), the shop keeper’s already got a broom swatting at it with a curse, to which Astaroth is all too high strung now and intent on watching as the broom smacks the crows shoulder in an attempt to corral it out.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
