// with our one foot in the grave //
“How bizarre.” Astaroth hums, drifting along beside the Maverick. The Outer Brambles this time of year shine far greener than he’d seen since arriving here, perhaps heralding the warmth of Longheat’s approach. Mention of Flora has his gaze remaining very focused on the trail ahead and the painted rocks that look like they’ve been molded to look like apples.
He nods, before he glances over at the blonde Ancient. “It is the least we could do.” He says with a soft sigh, only to have his nose immediately scrunch in distaste at the idea of getting stung. Rolling his eyes a touch affectionately, the butcher nudges the Maverick with his elbow. “Sorry— What makes you assume that I shall be the one to get stung?” He asks, flashing that too sharp smile, not repeating the sentiment (he would do the same) but solely to be a bit of a brat about it.
He nods, before he glances over at the blonde Ancient. “It is the least we could do.” He says with a soft sigh, only to have his nose immediately scrunch in distaste at the idea of getting stung. Rolling his eyes a touch affectionately, the butcher nudges the Maverick with his elbow. “Sorry— What makes you assume that I shall be the one to get stung?” He asks, flashing that too sharp smile, not repeating the sentiment (he would do the same) but solely to be a bit of a brat about it.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
