// day breaks sorrow //
“Ha ha, very funny.” He teases, though the mischief lingers in his gaze in answer. “There is a matching one out there.” He assures her, as if she was asking about it - but not unlike an older brother might poke and prod a sibling, the information was something Thal very much hadn’t asked for. So he busies himself with the platter of beef that’s set in front of them, slicing them easily as she picks up the fork and explains her own process.
Snorting, because everyone figured them out in their own ways, the butcher’s head tilts slightly with amusement. “Quite special.” He winks, half tempted to stick his tongue out at her if it weren’t for the call of meat that has them both snagging a bite. Her suggestion of trying it out here, though, seemed both good and bad.
He wouldn’t want to frighten any newcomers, but for those that are regulars, perhaps it would reinforce the fact that he was a force to be reckoned with. It’s what lingers in his mind as he swallows down the bite. “Many dreadful things could happen. This feels.. Better, than most. Like an old skin.” Which could honestly be great or fucking awful, knowing the things he was capable of before he’d been stuck in stone.
But he takes a deep breath, setting his fork down and takes a decent sip of whiskey to steady himself. Bracing his elbows on the table and readjusting his posture, the butcher focuses his dark gaze on Thalassa’s face. “Alright, let us see.” The second the words pass his lips, the change is immediate. His shark-toothed smile grows impossibly wide, teeth becoming sharp and pinpointed not unlike the needle-length of an angler fish - rows upon rows fill his mouth, his eyes turn completely black, sclera and all, and the dark horns that have been nestled into his hair so carefully grow into multiple points, a heavy and long rack of tines, shining and slick with blood.
That isn’t all, though, the longer Thalassa looks at him, his face changes and flickers, between a skull with hollowed eyes and those too sharp teeth, the hollowed black hole of where his nose would be, before it’s back to that needle sharp grin. His fingers, settled on the table, grow in length and sharpness - ivory bone-like blood tipped claws extend out toward her, enough to tap a little ringing sound against the ceramic of the platter. And his voice, when it leaves him should seem so mundane, but it’s layered with a discomforting dissonant that seems to command attention. “Ah, this is it.”
It's one side of the butcher. The easier to swallow side. But the Butcher of Whitebrim in the flesh, nonetheless. One version of him the stories often recalled.
Snorting, because everyone figured them out in their own ways, the butcher’s head tilts slightly with amusement. “Quite special.” He winks, half tempted to stick his tongue out at her if it weren’t for the call of meat that has them both snagging a bite. Her suggestion of trying it out here, though, seemed both good and bad.
He wouldn’t want to frighten any newcomers, but for those that are regulars, perhaps it would reinforce the fact that he was a force to be reckoned with. It’s what lingers in his mind as he swallows down the bite. “Many dreadful things could happen. This feels.. Better, than most. Like an old skin.” Which could honestly be great or fucking awful, knowing the things he was capable of before he’d been stuck in stone.
But he takes a deep breath, setting his fork down and takes a decent sip of whiskey to steady himself. Bracing his elbows on the table and readjusting his posture, the butcher focuses his dark gaze on Thalassa’s face. “Alright, let us see.” The second the words pass his lips, the change is immediate. His shark-toothed smile grows impossibly wide, teeth becoming sharp and pinpointed not unlike the needle-length of an angler fish - rows upon rows fill his mouth, his eyes turn completely black, sclera and all, and the dark horns that have been nestled into his hair so carefully grow into multiple points, a heavy and long rack of tines, shining and slick with blood.
That isn’t all, though, the longer Thalassa looks at him, his face changes and flickers, between a skull with hollowed eyes and those too sharp teeth, the hollowed black hole of where his nose would be, before it’s back to that needle sharp grin. His fingers, settled on the table, grow in length and sharpness - ivory bone-like blood tipped claws extend out toward her, enough to tap a little ringing sound against the ceramic of the platter. And his voice, when it leaves him should seem so mundane, but it’s layered with a discomforting dissonant that seems to command attention. “Ah, this is it.”
It's one side of the butcher. The easier to swallow side. But the Butcher of Whitebrim in the flesh, nonetheless. One version of him the stories often recalled.
Astaroth
// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //
