// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
Nodding, the butcher ignores the way it bunches his hair against where his head is pressed into Danta’s shoulder. “It is.” He hums softly, snorting shortly after at the charlatan comment — and while otherwise, he might have agreed, but the abandoned magics were still something that Astaroth found inspiring — especially those that mastered their gifts.
Distracted from the terrible day by thoughts of Deimos and his utilization of his magic, Danta’s story takes him a touch by surprise, paired with the warm fingers that rake his dark hair back from his face and behind the pronged oil spilt antlers. “Which one?” He asks, scanning the group until he spots one person that looks like he could fit the bill and he points them out with a nod of his chin. “That one? He looks like the type.” The butcher says with a breathy laugh. “How’d he even fit ‘em back there?”
Distracted from the terrible day by thoughts of Deimos and his utilization of his magic, Danta’s story takes him a touch by surprise, paired with the warm fingers that rake his dark hair back from his face and behind the pronged oil spilt antlers. “Which one?” He asks, scanning the group until he spots one person that looks like he could fit the bill and he points them out with a nod of his chin. “That one? He looks like the type.” The butcher says with a breathy laugh. “How’d he even fit ‘em back there?”
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
