you see right through the lies in my eyes, and it's all underneath
if you take the time to scratch the surface,
if you take the time to scratch the surface,
He doesn’t judge her. Just as she doesn’t judge him. She can be as fiery and as closed off as she wishes to be and he might playfully pry at the iron bars that surround her if only to join in her misery so that she isn’t alone. It’s what he often needed when his mind would run away with itself, reminded of nightmares and people’s utmost worst intentions. Relieved from it now with the bracelet on his wrist, he’s full and present with her in whatever state she happens to be in. Ready to leave should she want him to. Ready to pull her in should she want him to.
His half hug is accepted, at least. And when she leans into his chest, she’ll feel the bumps and ropes of hardened scar tissue, long past the point of healing smoothly, left like rough bark on a tree against his skin. He doesn’t mind it, though, curling toward her a touch to give her more of an even surface to press against, so that he might share some of the burden of pain she feels.
Thal will feel the soft rumble of a laugh that leaves him with Maea’s worry, the vibration shorter before his accented voice follows it. “Let them.” Comes the dark vow, the brief moment of a hiss, a deep rumble of conviction that says if he did (whether it was because of him or other reasons), that he’d not go down without a fight. “They will not get far.”
It’s a vow. It’s a promise.
Life would not move on if everyone was perfect. There would be no room to grow or advance, no will to learn more and improve, no variety or spice in life. As far as Astaroth is concerned, he’s here as a reminder. All is not what it seems, and yet? Life moves on. Improvements can be made. Sure, he could have stayed the illiterate boy from Halo, scarred and unable to communicate well. But he wasn’t okay with that, just as Maea wasn’t okay with staying dead.
And yet he isn’t campaigning a notion to change everyone into cannibalism. He isn’t trying to sway opinions. He has been good. He has stayed in his lane, made his deals, kept mostly quiet.
Ah, but then Thal says she isn’t sure if it was a friendship at all, and his heart yearns for her. For the pain that realization must have caused, like tossing salt into a wound that’s been torn open far too many times. Her voice cracks and his arm grows a bit tighter, his other arm shifting from his leg to pull her in a bit closer, the metal muzzle clinking against his rings in the process as the dragon soars above and roars its approach.
The butcher bares his too sharp smile up at it, before looking down to Thal. This close, he smells of whiskey, smoke, and the low underlying thrum of blood stained iron. “It does not sound like a friend at all.” He confirms her insecurities with a regretful sigh, his hand soft where it runs along her shoulder gently, a friendly and almost paternal touch. “You are not a monster.” He tacks on gently, his accent dripping a bit thicker.
If anything, he’s the monster, albeit for different reasons than Maea would think. “I can assure you of that.”
His half hug is accepted, at least. And when she leans into his chest, she’ll feel the bumps and ropes of hardened scar tissue, long past the point of healing smoothly, left like rough bark on a tree against his skin. He doesn’t mind it, though, curling toward her a touch to give her more of an even surface to press against, so that he might share some of the burden of pain she feels.
Thal will feel the soft rumble of a laugh that leaves him with Maea’s worry, the vibration shorter before his accented voice follows it. “Let them.” Comes the dark vow, the brief moment of a hiss, a deep rumble of conviction that says if he did (whether it was because of him or other reasons), that he’d not go down without a fight. “They will not get far.”
It’s a vow. It’s a promise.
Life would not move on if everyone was perfect. There would be no room to grow or advance, no will to learn more and improve, no variety or spice in life. As far as Astaroth is concerned, he’s here as a reminder. All is not what it seems, and yet? Life moves on. Improvements can be made. Sure, he could have stayed the illiterate boy from Halo, scarred and unable to communicate well. But he wasn’t okay with that, just as Maea wasn’t okay with staying dead.
And yet he isn’t campaigning a notion to change everyone into cannibalism. He isn’t trying to sway opinions. He has been good. He has stayed in his lane, made his deals, kept mostly quiet.
Ah, but then Thal says she isn’t sure if it was a friendship at all, and his heart yearns for her. For the pain that realization must have caused, like tossing salt into a wound that’s been torn open far too many times. Her voice cracks and his arm grows a bit tighter, his other arm shifting from his leg to pull her in a bit closer, the metal muzzle clinking against his rings in the process as the dragon soars above and roars its approach.
The butcher bares his too sharp smile up at it, before looking down to Thal. This close, he smells of whiskey, smoke, and the low underlying thrum of blood stained iron. “It does not sound like a friend at all.” He confirms her insecurities with a regretful sigh, his hand soft where it runs along her shoulder gently, a friendly and almost paternal touch. “You are not a monster.” He tacks on gently, his accent dripping a bit thicker.
If anything, he’s the monster, albeit for different reasons than Maea would think. “I can assure you of that.”
Astaroth
i'll show you where the hurt is
