// with our one foot in the grave //
He’s so exhausted. Mentally and physically that he thinks taking this shortcut through the barren land is a good idea. Or maybe it’s just his self destructive tendencies that wonder whether or not he’ll get struck by lightning on the way home. Maybe he’d be okay with that. It’s all selfish thoughts that draw him further in, the electricity causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise, and each time the storm comes barreling through Astaroth finds himself sidestepping, avoiding it, even if he isn’t sure why.
At least until he sees what he thinks to be a ghost, or his fractured imagination conjuring Danta standing there beneath a blackened tree like some kind of golden savior in the midst of absolute nothingness. He doesn’t even have time to think before his steps take him over toward the Maverick, all air and charm and gusto gone as he purposefully steps on a dry as a bone branch that has fallen to announce his presence if only to not get burned out of his clothes, and he bullies his way into a tight embrace with the Theocrat.
At least until he sees what he thinks to be a ghost, or his fractured imagination conjuring Danta standing there beneath a blackened tree like some kind of golden savior in the midst of absolute nothingness. He doesn’t even have time to think before his steps take him over toward the Maverick, all air and charm and gusto gone as he purposefully steps on a dry as a bone branch that has fallen to announce his presence if only to not get burned out of his clothes, and he bullies his way into a tight embrace with the Theocrat.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
