reaching for a book of matches
strike a light and then you'll see the real mess that i am
strike a light and then you'll see the real mess that i am
A mixture of sedatives and painkillers has certainly helped the Butcher achieve the rest he needs, despite how he’d seemed to hide away until he felt as if he had the flexibility and movement to truly continue his work. Light Duty, was what he had called it, and with the sun of Flowerbirth having returned, the Dusklight wasn’t quite as rowdy as it had been over LongNight.
He supposes it makes sense, given people weren’t all so cooped up anymore.
Himself, though, door locked and the fire raging merrily, Astaroth has settled at a small table toward the back of the room, a piece of charcoal sketching little designs of the cane that’s sat across the table in front of him. There’s a multitude, one that could activate fire, one that’s pole is jagged and sharp, broken apart into a whip of blades fury, and a few others too smudged to actually tell what they are.
Himself, though, content with a glass of whiskey he’s been nursing, white sleeves rolled up and slightly wrinkled from where he’s hunched over, put together enough with an emerald vest with golden chains draping from the breast pocket. Content and comfortable, Astaroth continues his little designs, brushing back his dark hair around his horns, smudging a little black line against his cheek.
He supposes it makes sense, given people weren’t all so cooped up anymore.
Himself, though, door locked and the fire raging merrily, Astaroth has settled at a small table toward the back of the room, a piece of charcoal sketching little designs of the cane that’s sat across the table in front of him. There’s a multitude, one that could activate fire, one that’s pole is jagged and sharp, broken apart into a whip of blades fury, and a few others too smudged to actually tell what they are.
Himself, though, content with a glass of whiskey he’s been nursing, white sleeves rolled up and slightly wrinkled from where he’s hunched over, put together enough with an emerald vest with golden chains draping from the breast pocket. Content and comfortable, Astaroth continues his little designs, brushing back his dark hair around his horns, smudging a little black line against his cheek.
Astaroth
i swear it's nothing personal - i swear it's nothing personal //////
