// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //
These days, it feels as though the visitors to the Temple are mostly Ancient. Either that, or they have some Ancient relative they’re praying to Dygra for or offering respects for her to take care of them more. Not that Dygra was particularly that type of goddess. In between the chaos and debauchery, there was a beauty in the way that she let you figure it out, and if you required help then she’d be more than willing to help. He’d never felt as though it was transactional, that his personal results were because of how devoted he was to her.
After all, his chaos was buried deep. He wasn’t like Charlie or Danta that wore it on their sleeves. He preferred the fine, tailored clothing, the organization that came with ensuring everything was in its place. His chaos was far more of a bloodier, dangerous nature, and perhaps that’s why Dygra took to him so well.
Whatever it is, the butcher finds himself drifting into the Temple, a touch on edge as always this season but dressed down a touch. Rather than the full finery of suits and vests, polos and ironed pants, the butcher’s clothing is looser. A nice button up long sleeve, unbuttoned for the top three buttons down, leaving the wild patchwork of scars on his chest out for the world to see - something he often preferred to hide.
Either way, he’s got a small little satchel with him, held in the hand that doesn’t harbor the bladed cane that clicks beside him as he walks, stepping up confidently beside the stranger hesitating outside of the Temple with a canine in tow. A nod is offered to Goose silently, before the butcher’s shark-tooth grin is offered toward Iskra. “I am afraid this Temple no longer harbors the shrines of the rest of the Old Gods, presuming that is what you are looking for.” The butcher hums, his head tilting as his dark gaze scans the shorter man. Asta, himself, looks like the picture perfect Ancient at this moment. The tool harp smile, the horns that are far more than his regular self would boast — helped out by the Haunt in his blood. The fire obsidian antlers are extended, boasting four tines on each, like a cradle of spider legs pointing up toward the sky, keeping his brushed back dark hair neatly tucked in beneath them.
After all, his chaos was buried deep. He wasn’t like Charlie or Danta that wore it on their sleeves. He preferred the fine, tailored clothing, the organization that came with ensuring everything was in its place. His chaos was far more of a bloodier, dangerous nature, and perhaps that’s why Dygra took to him so well.
Whatever it is, the butcher finds himself drifting into the Temple, a touch on edge as always this season but dressed down a touch. Rather than the full finery of suits and vests, polos and ironed pants, the butcher’s clothing is looser. A nice button up long sleeve, unbuttoned for the top three buttons down, leaving the wild patchwork of scars on his chest out for the world to see - something he often preferred to hide.
Either way, he’s got a small little satchel with him, held in the hand that doesn’t harbor the bladed cane that clicks beside him as he walks, stepping up confidently beside the stranger hesitating outside of the Temple with a canine in tow. A nod is offered to Goose silently, before the butcher’s shark-tooth grin is offered toward Iskra. “I am afraid this Temple no longer harbors the shrines of the rest of the Old Gods, presuming that is what you are looking for.” The butcher hums, his head tilting as his dark gaze scans the shorter man. Asta, himself, looks like the picture perfect Ancient at this moment. The tool harp smile, the horns that are far more than his regular self would boast — helped out by the Haunt in his blood. The fire obsidian antlers are extended, boasting four tines on each, like a cradle of spider legs pointing up toward the sky, keeping his brushed back dark hair neatly tucked in beneath them.
Astaroth
// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //
