you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
He probably will see the signs – the next time they meet after, whether or not she’s on a warpath, unable to trust anyone on the ship or if she’d find herself able to be landlocked a little longer than normal. At any rate, whispers and rumors aside, the butcher does hope it goes well. She deserves to be able to worry less about the capabilities of her rambunctious crew.
“I have never been, either.” The butcher confirms with a small smile, before he sips from the bourbon and huffs an airy laugh. “Though I have met the man that runs it.” Jealousy twists within Astaroth’s chest, a clear dislike of the Flood solely because of the connection between Danta and the other man, even if he hadn’t been around at the time. What can he say? Astaroth might as well have a dragon shift for how possessive he can be.
Shaking his head away from the memory of scars and tattoos that told a different story, the firelight glints against his ruby earring as he comes back from the dramatics of Halo and the shiver that’s ran down his spine, the ashen tip of his spaded tail freezing momentarily before it continues to flick. Her question is a good one, though, and has his dark gaze focusing on her for a moment before he leans back slightly to peer at the ceiling, an odd set to his bearded jaw. “I do at times. It was simpler.. However, overall? No. I did not fit in well, so I hardly spent much time at home anyway.” Shrugging, he angles his head back down to look at her with a curious gleam in his gaze. “I have come to believe that home is a feeling, rather than a true place.”
Home was the den with Dantalion and the furs of their bed and the human bone chimes the butcher made, dangling from the edges of the bed or still glowing luxere antlers. It was the scent of sage and citrus intermixed with smoke and fire and blood. It was the comfort of the cane at his side, whether it was made of metal and blades or wood. It was the feeling of the gore crow feather bracelet around his wrist as proof that iron wouldn't sit there again, that his nightmares could not be used against him maliciously. It was the warmth for bones that felt as if they'd never get warm enough. It was the sunset between whale bone and snow block houses, erupting the sky in watercolor so beautiful it reflected off the snow yet was so terribly unattainable to capture that it ached.
“I have never been, either.” The butcher confirms with a small smile, before he sips from the bourbon and huffs an airy laugh. “Though I have met the man that runs it.” Jealousy twists within Astaroth’s chest, a clear dislike of the Flood solely because of the connection between Danta and the other man, even if he hadn’t been around at the time. What can he say? Astaroth might as well have a dragon shift for how possessive he can be.
Shaking his head away from the memory of scars and tattoos that told a different story, the firelight glints against his ruby earring as he comes back from the dramatics of Halo and the shiver that’s ran down his spine, the ashen tip of his spaded tail freezing momentarily before it continues to flick. Her question is a good one, though, and has his dark gaze focusing on her for a moment before he leans back slightly to peer at the ceiling, an odd set to his bearded jaw. “I do at times. It was simpler.. However, overall? No. I did not fit in well, so I hardly spent much time at home anyway.” Shrugging, he angles his head back down to look at her with a curious gleam in his gaze. “I have come to believe that home is a feeling, rather than a true place.”
Home was the den with Dantalion and the furs of their bed and the human bone chimes the butcher made, dangling from the edges of the bed or still glowing luxere antlers. It was the scent of sage and citrus intermixed with smoke and fire and blood. It was the comfort of the cane at his side, whether it was made of metal and blades or wood. It was the feeling of the gore crow feather bracelet around his wrist as proof that iron wouldn't sit there again, that his nightmares could not be used against him maliciously. It was the warmth for bones that felt as if they'd never get warm enough. It was the sunset between whale bone and snow block houses, erupting the sky in watercolor so beautiful it reflected off the snow yet was so terribly unattainable to capture that it ached.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
