They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
She does to an extent, have her hand on the reins. Because he’s a gentleman despite the season that would prove otherwise. And he adores her so much that he wouldn’t want to prolong the torment if he doesn’t have to. He’d gotten what he wanted - a grand fight - even if he bleeds like a little pincushion full of liquid each time she withdraws her blades.
Her murmur and dark smirk bright a cacophony of distorted laughter, both from him and his shadows before he has a deigns to let it fall. “And it shall continue to not stop me, do not worry.” He murmurs back with confidence, voices whispered and off kilter, meshing against one another in rough vibrations meant to drive one’s senses into confusion and terror. It may stop him for the moment, but Astaroth has always been a lose a few battles to win the war type of man. She parts his shadows and sharp smiles, the teeth that vibrate and shift in ways that aren’t physically possible but manage to move just perfectly in spite of it as she finds his sternum. The fabric slick with blood that she presses against.
He’s in a holding pattern, stilled enough to let her continue given that he thinks the spar is over — or at least, coming to a close. And rather than the spark of pain he half expects to feel against his already sore and bleeding chest, it’s her healing that washes over him with a bout of relief. The illusion begins to drop, slowly at first then all at once, leaving him standing there with blood soaking his clothes and his too sharp smile far too close to her. “How very kind of you.” He purrs, dipping his chin down toward her.
Her murmur and dark smirk bright a cacophony of distorted laughter, both from him and his shadows before he has a deigns to let it fall. “And it shall continue to not stop me, do not worry.” He murmurs back with confidence, voices whispered and off kilter, meshing against one another in rough vibrations meant to drive one’s senses into confusion and terror. It may stop him for the moment, but Astaroth has always been a lose a few battles to win the war type of man. She parts his shadows and sharp smiles, the teeth that vibrate and shift in ways that aren’t physically possible but manage to move just perfectly in spite of it as she finds his sternum. The fabric slick with blood that she presses against.
He’s in a holding pattern, stilled enough to let her continue given that he thinks the spar is over — or at least, coming to a close. And rather than the spark of pain he half expects to feel against his already sore and bleeding chest, it’s her healing that washes over him with a bout of relief. The illusion begins to drop, slowly at first then all at once, leaving him standing there with blood soaking his clothes and his too sharp smile far too close to her. “How very kind of you.” He purrs, dipping his chin down toward her.
Astaroth
Don't you look back, every bone in my body's bad
