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
They did have to, eventually. At least that’s what he hoped for, too, for the both of them. And he watches as his question has her stilling – as if she’s unsure whether or not to indulge him. She doesn’t have to, of course, but as her chair settles and she doesn’t meet his gaze, instead refilling her glass, the butcher can understand – even if he couldn’t relate. “That is fair.” He murmurs softly, encouragingly, half not expecting her to continue as she takes the large sip of her bourbon, and he takes the time to finish his own off.
Reaching for the bottle in turn to refill his glass, he listens, nodding silently – even if he doesn’t quite know what the ocean has to do with it yet. But that secret is revealed, seen as she leans back and holds her hand up to calm any response he might have. And while he doesn’t offer it verbally, giving her what she seeks without verbalizing it, he can’t help the way his gaze widens and his brows lift.
It was rare for the butcher to be well and truly surprised, but here he is – and Danta was correct when noting that the closer to him one got, the easier it was to see the thoughts that ran within his thick skull. “Is it?” He asks after taking a sip to wipe his face clean of its reaction, cocking his antlered head to the side as he regards her, carefully plucking his words as if it might collide and make sense. “If you.. mm, have the call to the ocean even still, perhaps a portion still lingers.” He murmurs softly – just as a portion of his own lingered with him, walked with him everywhere he went. A secret kept close to his chest that he only let out once to Maea – and well.. Look at how that turned out. “Perhaps you were of the siren kind?” He aims his jest, flashing a softer smile before he takes a slow and long inhale, hoping that perhaps his next little tidbit of himself doesn’t scare her away, but may relate.
“If that is what you meant by whether or not I miss Halo, then perhaps I misunderstood.” He picks his words carefully, like he’s got a shaken up box of scrabble letters, trying to piece them together in such a way that one might fuck with words on a refrigerator to make a cryptic poem. “There is a part of it that I carry with me every day.” Lifting his dark amber gaze, it’s with that same soft smile that for once hides the too sharp teeth hidden behind them. “I am from Halo, yes, but not the Halo you have likely heard. I am from Whitebrim.” The Whitebrim Cannibals, to be specific. And it lingers each and every day, from the grittier his accent becomes, to the bone chimes he makes, to the indulgence of devouring the worst of the worst as the utmost punishment.
Reaching for the bottle in turn to refill his glass, he listens, nodding silently – even if he doesn’t quite know what the ocean has to do with it yet. But that secret is revealed, seen as she leans back and holds her hand up to calm any response he might have. And while he doesn’t offer it verbally, giving her what she seeks without verbalizing it, he can’t help the way his gaze widens and his brows lift.
It was rare for the butcher to be well and truly surprised, but here he is – and Danta was correct when noting that the closer to him one got, the easier it was to see the thoughts that ran within his thick skull. “Is it?” He asks after taking a sip to wipe his face clean of its reaction, cocking his antlered head to the side as he regards her, carefully plucking his words as if it might collide and make sense. “If you.. mm, have the call to the ocean even still, perhaps a portion still lingers.” He murmurs softly – just as a portion of his own lingered with him, walked with him everywhere he went. A secret kept close to his chest that he only let out once to Maea – and well.. Look at how that turned out. “Perhaps you were of the siren kind?” He aims his jest, flashing a softer smile before he takes a slow and long inhale, hoping that perhaps his next little tidbit of himself doesn’t scare her away, but may relate.
“If that is what you meant by whether or not I miss Halo, then perhaps I misunderstood.” He picks his words carefully, like he’s got a shaken up box of scrabble letters, trying to piece them together in such a way that one might fuck with words on a refrigerator to make a cryptic poem. “There is a part of it that I carry with me every day.” Lifting his dark amber gaze, it’s with that same soft smile that for once hides the too sharp teeth hidden behind them. “I am from Halo, yes, but not the Halo you have likely heard. I am from Whitebrim.” The Whitebrim Cannibals, to be specific. And it lingers each and every day, from the grittier his accent becomes, to the bone chimes he makes, to the indulgence of devouring the worst of the worst as the utmost punishment.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
