Astaroth
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Humming a soft laugh to hear her mention that she’d been caught up with the outfits, the butcher can only incline his head toward her as he unfurls the rug and gets it all situated. “Work before play, I see.” It’s a playful chastise, one that he doesn’t fully mean (even if he does look forward to seeing what kind of outfits Charlie came up with for the two of them). “You can have friendly dates.” He reminds her, watching as she helps smooth out the edges of the carpet while his gaze slips toward Danta with his same shark toothed smile.
Well, it’s a smile that falters briefly before a deep chuckle escapes him. “You are a nightmare, Danta, darling.” He drawls affectionately, rolling his eyes to the beaming smile that greets him as he leans back against the table and folds his arms across his chest – his tail swaying at his heels as he listens for the next task. He pushes off of it and heads toward the crate, his curiosity getting the best of him as he peers inside it to withdraw a variety of blades.
His grin twists into a small smirk, withdrawing a few before glancing around the room. “These will do quite nicely.” The blades in his hand are much of the same size but varying shapes of the blades – some for flaying, some for slashing, and these he expertly sets in an organization amongst the table like a surgeon might before a procedure. The rest finds a home exactly where they would be more likely to be utilized, while the butcher fully puts his moniker to work.
After all, a butcher is nothing without his blades.
Asta picks the crate!
Well, it’s a smile that falters briefly before a deep chuckle escapes him. “You are a nightmare, Danta, darling.” He drawls affectionately, rolling his eyes to the beaming smile that greets him as he leans back against the table and folds his arms across his chest – his tail swaying at his heels as he listens for the next task. He pushes off of it and heads toward the crate, his curiosity getting the best of him as he peers inside it to withdraw a variety of blades.
His grin twists into a small smirk, withdrawing a few before glancing around the room. “These will do quite nicely.” The blades in his hand are much of the same size but varying shapes of the blades – some for flaying, some for slashing, and these he expertly sets in an organization amongst the table like a surgeon might before a procedure. The rest finds a home exactly where they would be more likely to be utilized, while the butcher fully puts his moniker to work.
After all, a butcher is nothing without his blades.
Asta picks the crate!
// dead eyes on a treacherous grin //
