so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free
i can give you what you crave, just not for free
True irony is when Astaroth has zero idea that the bargain had been an actual date, while still treating it very much as one. He was the gentleman butcher, after all, and when it came to the fact that he was under the assumption that it was just a friendly get together, he’d still gone the extra mile of meeting Flora in Torchline, been perhaps a bit overtly excited she’d wanted to go to the Climb of all places to swim, to which he hadn’t exactly gotten the memo of and managed to snag a pair of shorts and a floral patterned shirt that screams more so like swimming or beach day attire.
So as far as the butcher is concerned, he’s dressed for the part, trailing after Flora’s head start through the caverns (mostly because the bag he carries, while not full of bottles or wine, has the rest of their items – towels, food, whatever else Flora deemed necessary, had gotten snagged on a wall with a rogue gemstone he hadn’t seen and it had kept him up apparently quite long), long enough to hear Flora’s call down the cavern of this tunnel they’d taken to Frey’s Breath, of which Astaroth had been fully preparing the extent of random knowledge he has of this particular location.
A favorite, you see, because it was far enough underground that there often weren’t any gore crows to ruin his day, and the heat of the springs soothed old bones and phantom pains.
So emerge from the tunnels, the butcher does, bag slung over his shoulder, a pair of quite fashionable sunglasses tilted up on the top of his head, nestled amongst dark slicked back hair and in front of horns that prong upwards – his dark gaze focused on Flora with a bright yet sharp grin. “Apologies, darling, evidently I had taken longer than anticipated.” As he’d realize even further upon his approach that she wasn’t alone, and looking past her has his sharp grin remaining, though without any of the mirth from before. Pasted on and sharp, it remains, less intimidating than he imagines with how the attire he wears is the most dressed down he’s gotten in some time – the floral shirt (in red, of course, with white lotus like flowers sprinkled amongst in varying patterns) unbuttoned not one, but two buttons down to reveal the brief edges of lines of scar tissue and faint, barely there bruises.
Maea seems frozen, however, and truly Astaroth cares little about whatever reaction his presence has to the loreseeker, not as he drifts up beside Flora and offers his arm as any gentleman would, fake smile still plastered on his face even as his tail gives him away with how the spaded tip of it thrashes back and forth behind him. He leans down toward her, horned head angled by her ear, accented voice soft if not a touch venomous when he says “I see you have found a stray.” Because Maea had, in his mind, isolated herself with the choices she'd made and the actions she'd taken.
So as far as the butcher is concerned, he’s dressed for the part, trailing after Flora’s head start through the caverns (mostly because the bag he carries, while not full of bottles or wine, has the rest of their items – towels, food, whatever else Flora deemed necessary, had gotten snagged on a wall with a rogue gemstone he hadn’t seen and it had kept him up apparently quite long), long enough to hear Flora’s call down the cavern of this tunnel they’d taken to Frey’s Breath, of which Astaroth had been fully preparing the extent of random knowledge he has of this particular location.
A favorite, you see, because it was far enough underground that there often weren’t any gore crows to ruin his day, and the heat of the springs soothed old bones and phantom pains.
So emerge from the tunnels, the butcher does, bag slung over his shoulder, a pair of quite fashionable sunglasses tilted up on the top of his head, nestled amongst dark slicked back hair and in front of horns that prong upwards – his dark gaze focused on Flora with a bright yet sharp grin. “Apologies, darling, evidently I had taken longer than anticipated.” As he’d realize even further upon his approach that she wasn’t alone, and looking past her has his sharp grin remaining, though without any of the mirth from before. Pasted on and sharp, it remains, less intimidating than he imagines with how the attire he wears is the most dressed down he’s gotten in some time – the floral shirt (in red, of course, with white lotus like flowers sprinkled amongst in varying patterns) unbuttoned not one, but two buttons down to reveal the brief edges of lines of scar tissue and faint, barely there bruises.
Maea seems frozen, however, and truly Astaroth cares little about whatever reaction his presence has to the loreseeker, not as he drifts up beside Flora and offers his arm as any gentleman would, fake smile still plastered on his face even as his tail gives him away with how the spaded tip of it thrashes back and forth behind him. He leans down toward her, horned head angled by her ear, accented voice soft if not a touch venomous when he says “I see you have found a stray.” Because Maea had, in his mind, isolated herself with the choices she'd made and the actions she'd taken.
Astaroth
you know what's on the line
