Astaroth
// i ride the edge, my speed goes in the red //
Oh and he does it, over and over again. It takes about three times of getting slammed back into the ground before Astaroth’s limbs hurt too much to continue, the adrenaline wearing off in lieu of pain and upset. He’s still manic, still frenzied, but the last time the molten tiger slams him to the ground, he doesn’t get up again to launch himself. He lays there, panting and coughing up smoke and fire, until a few minutes pass and the butcher returns to himself, curled up and prone on the cold and wet ground.
His legs curl up against his stomach as he tries to catch his breath, arms curled in against his chest, face half pressed into a mess of ash and damp snow and leaves and twigs, the sharp prong of his horn carving a wide gash into the earth with each and every one of his movements. When he does speak, his voice sounds torn and rough, like it hurts to use his vocal chords, but he does so anyway, pushing through the pain with some semblance of feeling as though it's worth it. “Why did you follow me again?”
His legs curl up against his stomach as he tries to catch his breath, arms curled in against his chest, face half pressed into a mess of ash and damp snow and leaves and twigs, the sharp prong of his horn carving a wide gash into the earth with each and every one of his movements. When he does speak, his voice sounds torn and rough, like it hurts to use his vocal chords, but he does so anyway, pushing through the pain with some semblance of feeling as though it's worth it. “Why did you follow me again?”
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
