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
Confused over how it could have been Thalassa’s fault, he nevertheless doesn’t blame her for the hurt. He doesn’t blame her for being upset at the circumstances. “If it helps, it hurt me too when we had our falling out.” Perhaps they both succumbed to playing the fool when it came to the circus of Maea’s life.
The glimmer of humor has him snorting, plucking the glass from the table to take a slow and indulgent sip, letting the liquor burn nicely on his tongue. “I cannot begin to imagine.” He aims his jest back to her in turn — unable to imagine the young woman before him to be anything but the sharp edge she was.
But her tone grows detached and Asta listens dutifully, as a good friend does, especially over thoughts that have passed through his own once upon a time before it burned out like the last few pieces of coal in a fireplace. “I am unsure whether or not she will ever change. Viewing herself as the only moral compass will only get her so far.” He mutters, waving a hand in a tired gesture.
Hearing the brief blip over the issue, the butcher’s laugh is as amused as it is interested, and it’s an almost feral edge to his smile that he aims at her. “She left out the important fact that she was the girl.” He rectifies. “And once I had him apprehended, I got her settled in my room and told her I would be back. She then followed me and did not like what she saw.” His tone drifts back into the Whitebrim accent, grittier, sharper. “She did not like my answers, but he was a repeat offender.” Cutting himself off to take a sip of the bourbon again to try and alleviate the anger that bubbles up through him, it fails. “That was not even the worst part of our combined history.” In fact, he thinks very little about that encounter as he does the one that had truly cemented his threat against her.
The glimmer of humor has him snorting, plucking the glass from the table to take a slow and indulgent sip, letting the liquor burn nicely on his tongue. “I cannot begin to imagine.” He aims his jest back to her in turn — unable to imagine the young woman before him to be anything but the sharp edge she was.
But her tone grows detached and Asta listens dutifully, as a good friend does, especially over thoughts that have passed through his own once upon a time before it burned out like the last few pieces of coal in a fireplace. “I am unsure whether or not she will ever change. Viewing herself as the only moral compass will only get her so far.” He mutters, waving a hand in a tired gesture.
Hearing the brief blip over the issue, the butcher’s laugh is as amused as it is interested, and it’s an almost feral edge to his smile that he aims at her. “She left out the important fact that she was the girl.” He rectifies. “And once I had him apprehended, I got her settled in my room and told her I would be back. She then followed me and did not like what she saw.” His tone drifts back into the Whitebrim accent, grittier, sharper. “She did not like my answers, but he was a repeat offender.” Cutting himself off to take a sip of the bourbon again to try and alleviate the anger that bubbles up through him, it fails. “That was not even the worst part of our combined history.” In fact, he thinks very little about that encounter as he does the one that had truly cemented his threat against her.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
