// once you're in my shining cathedral, heed the tolling bell //
“Exactly zero, my dear, but I have spent time in them.” Living and witnessing were two completely different things, of course, and if Danta hated Asta’s stuffiness and strict standards, well, mansions certainly wouldn’t suit him in the slightest.
He could be surprised, though.
As it stands, he nods an agreement to finding out just what the next festival may hold, content to find out for himself if it’s his cup of tea, but the sight of the lumbering purple thing coming into their vicinity certainly has distracted him enough from pursuing what Danta had experienced at the last blood moon festival.
A feral grin spreads on his face as he releases Danta, nodding as he hoists the bag up on his shoulder a bit higher, slipping his hand into his pocket for the gifted matchbook to get a source of fire going so they might be able to burn it to ash when he takes a step forward after the Maverick and sinks down to his knee within the tight and restrictive quicksand moss, the matchbook flying from his hands a short distance away as he goes down, a curse escaping his lips as he grits his teeth and is forced to to be shorter than the blonde Ancient — even if temporary.
Already fumbling and having zero balance as the moss starts to try and eat his leg, Astaroth scrambles to try and reach the matchbook he’s launched. “A little help, darling?” He’s rather not use the bloodbane and ruin his shirt, but fuck if it isn’t a bit embarrassing.
He could be surprised, though.
As it stands, he nods an agreement to finding out just what the next festival may hold, content to find out for himself if it’s his cup of tea, but the sight of the lumbering purple thing coming into their vicinity certainly has distracted him enough from pursuing what Danta had experienced at the last blood moon festival.
A feral grin spreads on his face as he releases Danta, nodding as he hoists the bag up on his shoulder a bit higher, slipping his hand into his pocket for the gifted matchbook to get a source of fire going so they might be able to burn it to ash when he takes a step forward after the Maverick and sinks down to his knee within the tight and restrictive quicksand moss, the matchbook flying from his hands a short distance away as he goes down, a curse escaping his lips as he grits his teeth and is forced to to be shorter than the blonde Ancient — even if temporary.
Already fumbling and having zero balance as the moss starts to try and eat his leg, Astaroth scrambles to try and reach the matchbook he’s launched. “A little help, darling?” He’s rather not use the bloodbane and ruin his shirt, but fuck if it isn’t a bit embarrassing.
Astaroth
// it's the final sound you hear as you descend to hell //
