am i the wolf or the savior?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
Now, when it comes to sating one’s bloodlust (because the butcher has surprisingly gone a touch too long without it), there’s something to be said about Leafchange and the Oasis in the outer brambles. Far enough away to completely let loose, even if it were rare to stumble across a rogue traveler. He’s been good. He’s devoured deer after deer when the Clinic had ran low. But gods, it wasn’t the same.
Today, though, there’s two reasons at the very least for his focus. The butcher is a bit on edge, and given that each night so far he’s had to ensure he fell asleep with the muzzle on if only to make sure he doesn’t sink his teeth into Danta’s neck in the middle of the night, he also needs blood to drench the pieces of the bladed edges he’d crafted for the whip.
Two birds and one stone and all that.
“I recall the last time we were here, you shoved me into the water.” Astaroth hums, casting an only slightly amused gaze back toward the Maverick. The butcher is dressed down, clearly ready to bathe not only the pieces of the blade, but himself too. The satchel hangs from his hip, adorned in a white shirt who’s sleeves are rolled up, the top two buttons of it unbuttoned, and pants that are still fine but not of the utmost quality, a stark black against the rest of him. “Perhaps this time we will not scare away the wildlife.” It’s idle conversation to try and keep the tension from being seen in his shoulders despite how he twists his neck a little, letting the pop be heard as he scans the area for any creatures out and about, seeking out the Glade as their water source.
Today, though, there’s two reasons at the very least for his focus. The butcher is a bit on edge, and given that each night so far he’s had to ensure he fell asleep with the muzzle on if only to make sure he doesn’t sink his teeth into Danta’s neck in the middle of the night, he also needs blood to drench the pieces of the bladed edges he’d crafted for the whip.
Two birds and one stone and all that.
“I recall the last time we were here, you shoved me into the water.” Astaroth hums, casting an only slightly amused gaze back toward the Maverick. The butcher is dressed down, clearly ready to bathe not only the pieces of the blade, but himself too. The satchel hangs from his hip, adorned in a white shirt who’s sleeves are rolled up, the top two buttons of it unbuttoned, and pants that are still fine but not of the utmost quality, a stark black against the rest of him. “Perhaps this time we will not scare away the wildlife.” It’s idle conversation to try and keep the tension from being seen in his shoulders despite how he twists his neck a little, letting the pop be heard as he scans the area for any creatures out and about, seeking out the Glade as their water source.
Astaroth
come a little closer
