i tried to start caring like you and like them
when you said that i was killing myself
when you said that i was killing myself
He doesn’t expect to be summoned – and he has half a mind to bark to the poor soul that comes to find him that they should mind their own fucking business. At least, until they mention all the signs that Thalassa was downstairs. And as it turns out, not much gets him out of bed or the confines of his lover’s embrace in a state such as this except something he deems to be important. So, to the Captain he goes.
It's an honor, really.
His hair isn’t slicked back or held back by much more than the way it curves around his horns, the shirt pulled on may or may not be his – in a strange shift of character, he can’t very well get into his fine clothes with a broken shoulder he can’t move. So it’s a large shirt he’s sure he’s seen Danta wear similarly to a cloak, but it leaves him open and exposed. One arm is through the armhole, the other bound to his chest and in a sling, the very same bandages roping up along his collarbone and radiating dark, nasty bruising along his skin, broken up only by the very rough and very deep scars on his chest that are now visible – ones of an indicator that he hadn’t lied when he’d said Dygra had saved him.
“I’m afraid I’m not really myself today, but..” Comes the low drawl, his accent less manicured and postured and perfect and far more gravelly and sharp sounding – his thicker whitebrim tone out on the surface. But he slinks into the space in front of her beside the bartender that refills her bourbon, and his eyes are dark as they are tired, but he is pleased to see her. “I make exceptions for my favorite captain.” Gesturing with the one arm that actually does work, he nods to an empty booth in the dark corner, wondering if she’d prefer privacy over the formality of everyone else getting into their business.
It's an honor, really.
His hair isn’t slicked back or held back by much more than the way it curves around his horns, the shirt pulled on may or may not be his – in a strange shift of character, he can’t very well get into his fine clothes with a broken shoulder he can’t move. So it’s a large shirt he’s sure he’s seen Danta wear similarly to a cloak, but it leaves him open and exposed. One arm is through the armhole, the other bound to his chest and in a sling, the very same bandages roping up along his collarbone and radiating dark, nasty bruising along his skin, broken up only by the very rough and very deep scars on his chest that are now visible – ones of an indicator that he hadn’t lied when he’d said Dygra had saved him.
“I’m afraid I’m not really myself today, but..” Comes the low drawl, his accent less manicured and postured and perfect and far more gravelly and sharp sounding – his thicker whitebrim tone out on the surface. But he slinks into the space in front of her beside the bartender that refills her bourbon, and his eyes are dark as they are tired, but he is pleased to see her. “I make exceptions for my favorite captain.” Gesturing with the one arm that actually does work, he nods to an empty booth in the dark corner, wondering if she’d prefer privacy over the formality of everyone else getting into their business.
Astaroth
healed everything but my shame
