// with our one foot in the grave //
It happens simultaneously too fast and so slow, a stress building within him that is certainly not caused by the bruises on his body with the first movement from Danta – capturing his wrist that he gives over into immediately, stilling, and when the words leave and the blue of the Theocrat’s eyes look anywhere but his face, the butcher is quite certain he’s misread the entire situation. “Oh.” Comes the blunt answer, nothing else on his tongue, no eloquence, no charm, no taunting or teasing.
Instead, just an awkward sensation he doesn’t know how to place. So, like with most things, the dark haired Ancient withdraws, especially when Danta continues to speak. And even if it hurts to move and the soreness is evident in the stiff movements he harbors, the butcher fights through it to pull his hand back, to utilize the fact that he’s currently settled onto Danta’s lap by the edge of the bed, trying to make it look like his blunder was on purpose.
He stands, bruised back to Danta as he tightens his jaw, keeping the amount of sheer pain he’s in from being visible even if his tail gives him away with its quiet anxious flicking, winding around his leg. He moves to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle with one arm crossed over his chest while he lets the other dangle in the flames, letting the wisps of fire curl against his fingertips in just as fleeting moments as that misread admission was.
So he clears his throat, the butcher trying to return to that arrogant, charming bastard that the Climb had known (the Mighty Astaroth) – closing himself off. “The issue is that it could be seen as me utilizing our friendship and your position within the region to enact my… Personal problems.” His nose wrinkles, tail still flicking before he takes his fire hot hand and rakes it through his hair, finger combing it back (subconsciously chasing the lost sensation of Danta’s fingers threading through).
“I am the Butcher of Whitebrim.” I am a nightmare, a scary story told to children to make them behave. “Centuries in stone have made me forget myself.” I have become too soft. “They have forgotten, too.”
The hand drops from his hair to coax a stream of fire up to his chest, spreading and flattening it out against the heaviest parts of the bruises. "They will soon be reminded." If Maea thought he was bad now, well.
He's been worse.
Instead, just an awkward sensation he doesn’t know how to place. So, like with most things, the dark haired Ancient withdraws, especially when Danta continues to speak. And even if it hurts to move and the soreness is evident in the stiff movements he harbors, the butcher fights through it to pull his hand back, to utilize the fact that he’s currently settled onto Danta’s lap by the edge of the bed, trying to make it look like his blunder was on purpose.
He stands, bruised back to Danta as he tightens his jaw, keeping the amount of sheer pain he’s in from being visible even if his tail gives him away with its quiet anxious flicking, winding around his leg. He moves to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle with one arm crossed over his chest while he lets the other dangle in the flames, letting the wisps of fire curl against his fingertips in just as fleeting moments as that misread admission was.
So he clears his throat, the butcher trying to return to that arrogant, charming bastard that the Climb had known (the Mighty Astaroth) – closing himself off. “The issue is that it could be seen as me utilizing our friendship and your position within the region to enact my… Personal problems.” His nose wrinkles, tail still flicking before he takes his fire hot hand and rakes it through his hair, finger combing it back (subconsciously chasing the lost sensation of Danta’s fingers threading through).
“I am the Butcher of Whitebrim.” I am a nightmare, a scary story told to children to make them behave. “Centuries in stone have made me forget myself.” I have become too soft. “They have forgotten, too.”
The hand drops from his hair to coax a stream of fire up to his chest, spreading and flattening it out against the heaviest parts of the bruises. "They will soon be reminded." If Maea thought he was bad now, well.
He's been worse.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
