// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
It had been a hellish day. And that’s saying something for the myriad of hellscapes the butcher had been in as of late. This one, while it might not have taken the cake of worst days, had certainly been up there, and the further and further he gets to the Dusklight, the more and more restless and uncomfortable he becomes. At least there’s no blood drenching his body, no new cuts from utilizing his bloodbane, nothing but a missing shirt and a wide open waistcoat and hair that’s completely loosened from sitting back behind his horns in a mess of dishevelment that even the butcher would have to be too far gone to be okay with.
Which, he is, as it turns out.
The Dusklight views him as a warning even without the fancy outfit Danta had made him, and without the mask to hide his somehow neutral expression, the butcher paves a warpath through the brothel toward the rooms. Flora had accompanied him back most of the way, and for it he hadn’t completely lost his mind, so for that he’s silently and eternally thankful. But it does not stop him from passing by Danta’s office, where a particularly rough bottle of Helovian whiskey sits that he snags and steals a large sip from, before haggardly making it toward Danta’s door, knocking first with too sharp of a knock before entering after a few seconds to give the Maverick enough time to shoo Moira away (he’s had enough crows today, thank you very much). As he snicks the door shut behind him with the bottle in hand, shirt missing, waistcoat open and an entirely uncomfortable air around him, the butcher presses back against the wood of the door with a heavy sigh. “It’s done.”
Which, he is, as it turns out.
The Dusklight views him as a warning even without the fancy outfit Danta had made him, and without the mask to hide his somehow neutral expression, the butcher paves a warpath through the brothel toward the rooms. Flora had accompanied him back most of the way, and for it he hadn’t completely lost his mind, so for that he’s silently and eternally thankful. But it does not stop him from passing by Danta’s office, where a particularly rough bottle of Helovian whiskey sits that he snags and steals a large sip from, before haggardly making it toward Danta’s door, knocking first with too sharp of a knock before entering after a few seconds to give the Maverick enough time to shoo Moira away (he’s had enough crows today, thank you very much). As he snicks the door shut behind him with the bottle in hand, shirt missing, waistcoat open and an entirely uncomfortable air around him, the butcher presses back against the wood of the door with a heavy sigh. “It’s done.”
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
