// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //
“As it stands, I cannot return.” Even if he wanted to, but some memories were best left to the House of Midnight’s interpretation. Either way, the smile he slants Iskra’s way is one that’s a touch sharper than normal even if his amusement is palpable. “I was changed, yes. Dygra saved my life. And the Halo you likely know would be completely unrecognizable to me.” Centuries of shifting plates would do that for an environment, after all.
But then he hands the stick over to Iskra with amusement and knowing glinting in the dark shadows of his gaze, grinning wider when Iskra’s delight reaches his ears. And so, despite the season, the butcher’s quite pleased to know that he can still manage to be a gentleman. “I am quite fond of them, yes.” He answers as he watches the husky bound out the doors of the temple in pursuit of the stick, all while Asta’s tail waves behind him not unlike a canine himself when he turns to guide Iskra toward the shrine.
Stepping into the space, the butcher’s arm extends out into the beautiful chaos of the room. Leading up to the room, everything appears prim and proper – organized with a place for every mismatched item in their presence. Until it begins to shift, the extension closer to the shrine suddenly ripped up with earth and stones beneath it, as if the shrine itself were a meteor or a perfect contradiction. Ruby clusters sprout against the shrine, half of it pristine and flat and glisteningly beautiful while the other is carved in a macabre manner, leaving it rugged and sharp.
“Hello my darling Dygra.” The butcher hums, stepping over to the shrine and placing his hand against the smooth surface briefly before he glances over his shoulder. “I have brought someone who wishes to pay his respects.” Informing her whether or not she’s listening, the butcher fully half turns back toward Iskra now as he pulls up a sleeve. “Dygra has a preference for blood in her offerings.” Nodding to Iskra’s toys, the butcher then proceeds to show the wood carver just what he means. Reaching over to slice part of his palm on the sharp edge of a ruby, blood beads to the surface swiftly and as he lowers his hand it begins to drip to his fingertips. Here, he draws a little design in the top of the shrine with his own blood, seemingly uncaring whether or not his palm continues to bleed. After all, Iskra might need some of his to make the toys more Dygra centered.
But then he hands the stick over to Iskra with amusement and knowing glinting in the dark shadows of his gaze, grinning wider when Iskra’s delight reaches his ears. And so, despite the season, the butcher’s quite pleased to know that he can still manage to be a gentleman. “I am quite fond of them, yes.” He answers as he watches the husky bound out the doors of the temple in pursuit of the stick, all while Asta’s tail waves behind him not unlike a canine himself when he turns to guide Iskra toward the shrine.
Stepping into the space, the butcher’s arm extends out into the beautiful chaos of the room. Leading up to the room, everything appears prim and proper – organized with a place for every mismatched item in their presence. Until it begins to shift, the extension closer to the shrine suddenly ripped up with earth and stones beneath it, as if the shrine itself were a meteor or a perfect contradiction. Ruby clusters sprout against the shrine, half of it pristine and flat and glisteningly beautiful while the other is carved in a macabre manner, leaving it rugged and sharp.
“Hello my darling Dygra.” The butcher hums, stepping over to the shrine and placing his hand against the smooth surface briefly before he glances over his shoulder. “I have brought someone who wishes to pay his respects.” Informing her whether or not she’s listening, the butcher fully half turns back toward Iskra now as he pulls up a sleeve. “Dygra has a preference for blood in her offerings.” Nodding to Iskra’s toys, the butcher then proceeds to show the wood carver just what he means. Reaching over to slice part of his palm on the sharp edge of a ruby, blood beads to the surface swiftly and as he lowers his hand it begins to drip to his fingertips. Here, he draws a little design in the top of the shrine with his own blood, seemingly uncaring whether or not his palm continues to bleed. After all, Iskra might need some of his to make the toys more Dygra centered.
Astaroth
// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //
