Astaroth
i think i'm the devil in disguise, here's my state of mind
It is his birthday. A day that the butcher would just as soon forget than be reminded that he’s turning forty this year (give or take a few centuries, of course). In the grand scheme of things, though, the butcher realizes he’s only ever made it this far simply because he’d become Ancient when he did. If he hadn’t been found, well, the butcher would’ve perished long ago.
But he had been found, and while the times had changed, one thing remained the same. He never celebrated his birthday. In fact, it had only slipped out during one of the times he’d balanced between who he’s become and who he’d used to be – drawling like teenager who really doesn’t want to partake in growing old, that Danta had learned of his birthday.
And as such, he should have assumed that the Maverick would go over the top. He doesn’t realize it yet, though, the day having been rather mundane – drifting from their room early in the morning, making the typical rounds, pausing momentarily before the tea shop to decide whether or not he should treat himself or not simply because it was his birthday…
But he doesn’t. Instead, the butcher finishes the rounds, drawing back and away from the snow despite being quite bundled up to fight it off, only to round back at the Dusklight and what looks like a relatively slow day – if the outside and not so revolving doors have anything to say about it. That’s all to say that he isn’t expecting it in the slightest, such that when he opens the door and drifts in, he’s already taking the deep plum scarf off of his neck, horned head angled down to slip it off and drape it over his healing arm where his sharp, bladed cane already waits within that hand. The rest of him is dressed accordingly, the dark drench coat removed to reveal a beautiful waistcoat adorned with silver trinkets, a dark red with silver thread throughout it to give it a bit of shine, but also to match the new earrings Danta had so thoughtfully gotten for him previously.
It’s then that he realizes it’s suspiciously quiet, and as he lifts his head and runs a gloved hand through his dark hair to brush it back out of his face, he notices the banner first – and a variety of very familiar faces all sprinkled throughout a beautiful Dusklight, with dancing lights of varying hues of fire throughout the fireplaces and the beautiful spread of food and drinks laid out, that he really can’t be all that upset.
“What is all this?” He asks, playing the fool with his too sharp grin, the crease of mischief in the dark honey of his eyes – because he knows, certainly, that Danta has thrown him a party – though why he isn’t sure. He certainly didn't ask for it. But, it isn’t often that the butcher manages to get surprised, and he’s momentarily at a loss for words as he takes more of it in, drifting further and subconsciously toward Danta before he can get swarmed by the party goers.
But he had been found, and while the times had changed, one thing remained the same. He never celebrated his birthday. In fact, it had only slipped out during one of the times he’d balanced between who he’s become and who he’d used to be – drawling like teenager who really doesn’t want to partake in growing old, that Danta had learned of his birthday.
And as such, he should have assumed that the Maverick would go over the top. He doesn’t realize it yet, though, the day having been rather mundane – drifting from their room early in the morning, making the typical rounds, pausing momentarily before the tea shop to decide whether or not he should treat himself or not simply because it was his birthday…
But he doesn’t. Instead, the butcher finishes the rounds, drawing back and away from the snow despite being quite bundled up to fight it off, only to round back at the Dusklight and what looks like a relatively slow day – if the outside and not so revolving doors have anything to say about it. That’s all to say that he isn’t expecting it in the slightest, such that when he opens the door and drifts in, he’s already taking the deep plum scarf off of his neck, horned head angled down to slip it off and drape it over his healing arm where his sharp, bladed cane already waits within that hand. The rest of him is dressed accordingly, the dark drench coat removed to reveal a beautiful waistcoat adorned with silver trinkets, a dark red with silver thread throughout it to give it a bit of shine, but also to match the new earrings Danta had so thoughtfully gotten for him previously.
It’s then that he realizes it’s suspiciously quiet, and as he lifts his head and runs a gloved hand through his dark hair to brush it back out of his face, he notices the banner first – and a variety of very familiar faces all sprinkled throughout a beautiful Dusklight, with dancing lights of varying hues of fire throughout the fireplaces and the beautiful spread of food and drinks laid out, that he really can’t be all that upset.
“What is all this?” He asks, playing the fool with his too sharp grin, the crease of mischief in the dark honey of his eyes – because he knows, certainly, that Danta has thrown him a party – though why he isn’t sure. He certainly didn't ask for it. But, it isn’t often that the butcher manages to get surprised, and he’s momentarily at a loss for words as he takes more of it in, drifting further and subconsciously toward Danta before he can get swarmed by the party goers.
give me destruction, tell me i'm scrumptious
i'm a fucking delight
i'm a fucking delight
