// day breaks sorrow //
“I have them memorized, darling.” The butcher hums, heaving a soft little sigh that passes through the cool metal of the muzzle, fitted neatly beneath the ivory, bone-like mask that honestly only adds a certain kind of macabre to the whole ordeal. Not that he’s complaining, he does know that it’s for the best, but it takes a surprising amount of effort from him in order to keep himself good. To the point that he very nearly feels nostalgia and reflection from before he’d become Ancient, finding himself in that village so many centuries ago. The domino that had fallen to get him to where he is now.
Anyway, the butcher runs through them like a little mantra in his head, giving Dantalion’s hand a squeeze as they enter the clearing – a first for the both of them to be so easily touchy, but a requirement this season he hadn’t quite been willing to give up. Be good. Be good. Reverberates back and forth in his mind like an echo chamber, pausing only as they pass by the white chocolate covered cherries that very nearly distract him completely.
Swiveling his head back to his lover, the shark-tooth smile is sharp beneath the edge of the metal muzzle. “Mm? Ah, yes, I shall try not to set it aflame.” He drawls like it’s a very real possibility he could just burst into flame without warning. It isn’t like he has to worry about his outfit too much – adorned with far less than what the butcher ever ventured out to these gatherings with. The muzzle and mask are in place and beneath them he sports a cloaked ‘rag’ made of thin chain-link pieces, falling against his skin in cooling temperatures but see through enough to see the bulk of his chest, the scar tissue on full display. It’s centered along his sternum and between his shoulder blades at his back, with spiderwebbing lines raised and etching out toward his neck and his stomach on his front, on his back they reach with grotesque fingers to the small of his back and along his shoulders like carved wings. Black pants, complete with a leather belt make up the rest of the outfit, his red spaded tail flicking with a touch of frustration that he tries to tamper down. “She looks divine.” The butcher hums, catching Flora across the way with none other than the butcher’s favorite necromancer, lighting his mood some to see the younger man, able to pick him out easily amongst the crowd.
Asta made his costume here: [SE] refugee from stone and sand
Anyway, the butcher runs through them like a little mantra in his head, giving Dantalion’s hand a squeeze as they enter the clearing – a first for the both of them to be so easily touchy, but a requirement this season he hadn’t quite been willing to give up. Be good. Be good. Reverberates back and forth in his mind like an echo chamber, pausing only as they pass by the white chocolate covered cherries that very nearly distract him completely.
Swiveling his head back to his lover, the shark-tooth smile is sharp beneath the edge of the metal muzzle. “Mm? Ah, yes, I shall try not to set it aflame.” He drawls like it’s a very real possibility he could just burst into flame without warning. It isn’t like he has to worry about his outfit too much – adorned with far less than what the butcher ever ventured out to these gatherings with. The muzzle and mask are in place and beneath them he sports a cloaked ‘rag’ made of thin chain-link pieces, falling against his skin in cooling temperatures but see through enough to see the bulk of his chest, the scar tissue on full display. It’s centered along his sternum and between his shoulder blades at his back, with spiderwebbing lines raised and etching out toward his neck and his stomach on his front, on his back they reach with grotesque fingers to the small of his back and along his shoulders like carved wings. Black pants, complete with a leather belt make up the rest of the outfit, his red spaded tail flicking with a touch of frustration that he tries to tamper down. “She looks divine.” The butcher hums, catching Flora across the way with none other than the butcher’s favorite necromancer, lighting his mood some to see the younger man, able to pick him out easily amongst the crowd.
Asta made his costume here: [SE] refugee from stone and sand
Astaroth
// and i still feel the edge of this cold knife //
