They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
The outskirts of the Inner Quarter bring with it the sunset of colorful trees amongst a muted, cloudy sky. A chill in the air that breezes through, dropping maple leaves to coat the ground in their gilded, fiery glory. All things that won’t last when the season comes to an end, and he might have half a mind to think it a beautiful circle of life, if it weren’t for the unease that’s returned back into his chest.
This season has been hell so far, such a strange mix of feelings and sensations, almost feeling like he’s been spiraling out of control — and while having an answer of why he’s like this, it still doesn’t make it easier. At least he knows there’s an end point, that perhaps next year he will be better prepared.
But for now, it’s an attempt to tire himself out far enough away to not be too aggressive in prowling the Dusklight. He’s already nipped at someone once and forced to boast the muzzle once more as part of his attire. So out here, in the civilized wilderness, the butcher finds it easier to let loose the tension in his shoulders. Shoulders that aren't cooped up in the usual tightness of a waistcoat and fine fitting clothes. His shirt is looser and billowy, rolled up at the sleeves.
It’s here, in the clearing that leads up to the edge of the Inner Quarter that Astaroth is currently sending blasts of fire out at a poor little vampire gourd that didn’t know any better than to cross his path. It’s long gone, now, but the scent of roasted pumpkin blooms in the air as the butcher sits on a flat trunk of a long since fallen tree, tail whipping back and forth as he leans with his head tilted on a fist, playing with the fire that rises from the husk of the gourd.
This season has been hell so far, such a strange mix of feelings and sensations, almost feeling like he’s been spiraling out of control — and while having an answer of why he’s like this, it still doesn’t make it easier. At least he knows there’s an end point, that perhaps next year he will be better prepared.
But for now, it’s an attempt to tire himself out far enough away to not be too aggressive in prowling the Dusklight. He’s already nipped at someone once and forced to boast the muzzle once more as part of his attire. So out here, in the civilized wilderness, the butcher finds it easier to let loose the tension in his shoulders. Shoulders that aren't cooped up in the usual tightness of a waistcoat and fine fitting clothes. His shirt is looser and billowy, rolled up at the sleeves.
It’s here, in the clearing that leads up to the edge of the Inner Quarter that Astaroth is currently sending blasts of fire out at a poor little vampire gourd that didn’t know any better than to cross his path. It’s long gone, now, but the scent of roasted pumpkin blooms in the air as the butcher sits on a flat trunk of a long since fallen tree, tail whipping back and forth as he leans with his head tilted on a fist, playing with the fire that rises from the husk of the gourd.
Astaroth
Don't you look back, every bone in my body's bad
