now i am the violence, i am the sickness
won't accept your silence
won't accept your silence
Heat blooms through the air, sizzling in the blood on the obsidian altar and Astaroth straightens up quite contently and excitedly, practically beaming a grin into the warm voice that greets him. “It was a unique learning experience.” Because he’d had help from the local blacksmith, but he’d done it himself – put in the sweat and hard work to make the multicolored blades of varying materials. One that when put together would look sharp and brilliant, he’s sure.
Not that it takes too long to find out as Astaroth – despite not having a feline shift – becomes very much cat like in the phantom caress against his face and body (because when it comes down to it, Dygra was the first one to truly heal and forge the butcher’s body, and for her he is always reciprocative). Dark eyes are bright with the warmth of the candleflame as he watches the metal rise into the air, as something dark and beautiful weaves in between the pieces, testing its flexibility in glimmering reflections of the bladed portions, reflecting the light across the room of the shrine before it snaps together and hovers for him to take.
And he very gladly does, reaching up to take it as he bows his head in a touch of awe – never once has the butcher had such a finely crafted cane. And he fully intends to covet it as his most prized possession. “It is more than I could have ever fathomed.” He begins, gratitude pouring into his accented tone, his shark toothed grin aimed toward the all-encompassing presence of his goddess. “Thank you.” He takes a moment to lower the cane toward himself, inspecting the bladed portion fitted so neatly together that it’s smooth and slick when he runs the pad of a finger across the flat portion, before he’s setting it down to test it as a cane. Sturdy and sharp, equally threatening as it is stunning, the butcher seeks out the button to press it and feel as it shifts – becoming a tool of a different kind. It grows slack and scrapes against the floor like a snake, his wrist flicking in a practiced movement that has it slithering through, the bladed portions clinking against each other sharply and menacingly as he watches each portion stretch then come together, glinting darkly in the light.
A low chuckle leaves him of pure, dark delight. “Yes, this is exquisite.”
Not that it takes too long to find out as Astaroth – despite not having a feline shift – becomes very much cat like in the phantom caress against his face and body (because when it comes down to it, Dygra was the first one to truly heal and forge the butcher’s body, and for her he is always reciprocative). Dark eyes are bright with the warmth of the candleflame as he watches the metal rise into the air, as something dark and beautiful weaves in between the pieces, testing its flexibility in glimmering reflections of the bladed portions, reflecting the light across the room of the shrine before it snaps together and hovers for him to take.
And he very gladly does, reaching up to take it as he bows his head in a touch of awe – never once has the butcher had such a finely crafted cane. And he fully intends to covet it as his most prized possession. “It is more than I could have ever fathomed.” He begins, gratitude pouring into his accented tone, his shark toothed grin aimed toward the all-encompassing presence of his goddess. “Thank you.” He takes a moment to lower the cane toward himself, inspecting the bladed portion fitted so neatly together that it’s smooth and slick when he runs the pad of a finger across the flat portion, before he’s setting it down to test it as a cane. Sturdy and sharp, equally threatening as it is stunning, the butcher seeks out the button to press it and feel as it shifts – becoming a tool of a different kind. It grows slack and scrapes against the floor like a snake, his wrist flicking in a practiced movement that has it slithering through, the bladed portions clinking against each other sharply and menacingly as he watches each portion stretch then come together, glinting darkly in the light.
A low chuckle leaves him of pure, dark delight. “Yes, this is exquisite.”
Astaroth
beg me for forgiveness
