white roses in the red dirt

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

“I find myself wishing for that quite often, darling.” Astaroth hums as he works, having imagined in the past the ability to partially shift to make his teeth even sharper or to have the ears of his fyrhund shift on his head amongst his horns if only to pin them back for added dramatic flare and emphasis. But alas, he has to make do with what they have, and for the most part the butcher thinks he succeeds.

Claws would make quick work of it, too, though. But his portion is supposed to be far more precise, and as the larger pieces fall away to reveal the mostly flat edge of the pedestal he’s intending to create, he swaps the larger chisel out for a smaller, flatter one, to get the curves down. “Do you recall the tea I told you about? I brought some and my tea set, I thought it might be nice to share a cup or two once we are done.” Glancing over the slab of obsidian toward Charlie, he pauses in his work to hear her response.

It takes some time to get the shape down, but when it does the butcher grabs a file from the bag and starts to smooth out the stone, polishing it shortly after until his side is completed.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine