If you're standing in the cold out of fear your flaws will show
Well, luckily for them, the swamp is not angry. If anything, it seems quiet and without any of the lingering ghosts that the fog that creeps in might suggest are on its tail. Relatively silent aside from the Maverick’s hacking and the hum of their voices, the butcher’s scouting becomes clearly very distracted by the crimson splattering his lover’s face. It isn’t exactly blood, but the idea of it was good enough. Red was a beautiful color on his Theocrat, whether worn in cloth or splattering blood-like stains.
Distracted as he is by his appearance, the butcher’s answer comes belatedly and with a low hum of “That could be true.” No way of knowing, and certainly not willing to find out, the butcher gladly takes Danta’s hand when offered to rise back to his full height - but he drifts closer, looping his arms around the blonde’s middle and pulling him into a hug to press a gentle kiss to his temple.
Pulling away to drift closer and inspect the skulls lingering at the base, intermixed with the roots. “At least four.” He says, throwing a wink over his shoulder to his lover as he points to the pile of exactly four skulls. It’s perfect timing, though, as one begins to move.
Asta’s attention is immediately back on it with a huff of a laugh, watching the penolaeth slink back in further to the pile of bones, its eight black legs gleaming sharply as it aims to tuck them back in, quietly watchful for any interruptions. Luckily for it, though, the butcher doesn’t intend on stealing its skull shell, even if the urge flares under his skin. “Gods, even the creatures have adapted. That is incredible.” Which definitely meant more than four murders here, if an entire ecosystem has evolved to accommodate it. And, as if in response to that, the call of a few gore crows in the distance echo through the swamp.
Distracted as he is by his appearance, the butcher’s answer comes belatedly and with a low hum of “That could be true.” No way of knowing, and certainly not willing to find out, the butcher gladly takes Danta’s hand when offered to rise back to his full height - but he drifts closer, looping his arms around the blonde’s middle and pulling him into a hug to press a gentle kiss to his temple.
Pulling away to drift closer and inspect the skulls lingering at the base, intermixed with the roots. “At least four.” He says, throwing a wink over his shoulder to his lover as he points to the pile of exactly four skulls. It’s perfect timing, though, as one begins to move.
Asta’s attention is immediately back on it with a huff of a laugh, watching the penolaeth slink back in further to the pile of bones, its eight black legs gleaming sharply as it aims to tuck them back in, quietly watchful for any interruptions. Luckily for it, though, the butcher doesn’t intend on stealing its skull shell, even if the urge flares under his skin. “Gods, even the creatures have adapted. That is incredible.” Which definitely meant more than four murders here, if an entire ecosystem has evolved to accommodate it. And, as if in response to that, the call of a few gore crows in the distance echo through the swamp.
Astaroth
We can live out where the warmth is 'til our names are etched in stone
