// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //
Whatever it is that Astaroth expects, this far surpasses it. Between the lingering feeling of Danta’s nip at his lower lip and the view of the Maverick turning into a beast he’s never seen before – no name to call it by, but delighted and awed all the same, he realizes he doesn’t need to block the door from letting the stag escape. Because there’s nowhere to run when the Maverick’s shape envelops most of the temple.
Iron paints the air, delightful bleats of pain and panic leave the stag’s throat in a bugle of destruction that’s music to the butcher’s ears, and he finds himself with his arms folded, leaning against the frame, in clear wonderment at the violence Danta shows. The flank tears out, sending the stag to the unearthed ground, and by the time Danta’s aiming for its throat, the butcher’s prowling forward.
Dark delight slips from his lips in a laugh as the throat is ripped out, and rather than shift into the fyrhund shift of his that he debates doing, he instead kneels on the other side of the stag, in Danta’s shadow, kneeling in the blood as his hands immediately spread along the stag’s torn hide, spreading bloody handprints along the creature’s skin, even as his deeply accented voice is aimed at the lyvern. “You are remarkable.” And vicious, and everything that sparks the chaotic tortured blackened soul that lingers in the butcher’s chest.
His dark honeyed gaze lifts to the lyvern, bold enough to assume that Danta won’t go for him despite where he’s knelt. It looks like worship, the way the blood sticks and clings to his hands, the way he snags the knife from his boot and holds it up with both hands, needing the strength required of neither of his shifts to stab the blade through the creature’s ribcage, letting the blood pool out amongst another weak cry of the stag, spreading further amongst the exposed earth. It’s nearly a sacrifice for the Maverick, bathed in blood and fire, smattering along the butcher’s face as he grins that too sharp grin up at Danta.
Now they can feast.
Iron paints the air, delightful bleats of pain and panic leave the stag’s throat in a bugle of destruction that’s music to the butcher’s ears, and he finds himself with his arms folded, leaning against the frame, in clear wonderment at the violence Danta shows. The flank tears out, sending the stag to the unearthed ground, and by the time Danta’s aiming for its throat, the butcher’s prowling forward.
Dark delight slips from his lips in a laugh as the throat is ripped out, and rather than shift into the fyrhund shift of his that he debates doing, he instead kneels on the other side of the stag, in Danta’s shadow, kneeling in the blood as his hands immediately spread along the stag’s torn hide, spreading bloody handprints along the creature’s skin, even as his deeply accented voice is aimed at the lyvern. “You are remarkable.” And vicious, and everything that sparks the chaotic tortured blackened soul that lingers in the butcher’s chest.
His dark honeyed gaze lifts to the lyvern, bold enough to assume that Danta won’t go for him despite where he’s knelt. It looks like worship, the way the blood sticks and clings to his hands, the way he snags the knife from his boot and holds it up with both hands, needing the strength required of neither of his shifts to stab the blade through the creature’s ribcage, letting the blood pool out amongst another weak cry of the stag, spreading further amongst the exposed earth. It’s nearly a sacrifice for the Maverick, bathed in blood and fire, smattering along the butcher’s face as he grins that too sharp grin up at Danta.
Now they can feast.
Astaroth
// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //
