// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //
“Of course it does.” The butcher hums, shrugging slightly as if it didn’t matter as much as Iskra was making it out to be. “But it is nothing compared to what I have gone through. A little bit of pain in order to praise and devote oneself to their maker seems quite easy. I cannot imagine what she went through in order to craft us.” He says idly, finding himself blabbering for a few moments such that he turns to Iskra with a small yet no less sharp apologetic smile.
Shaking his head to the question, though, he hums thoughtfully. “No, not the blood specifically. Entropy is.. Disorder. It is the lack of predictability.” So, he supposes if the lines were supposed to match, if the gods required pleasantries and all kinds of offerings, the predictability in it being blood seemed relatively opposite to what others might expect.
Either way, it’s clear he doesn’t mind one way or another, taking the small raven carving with a hum of admiration of the craftsmanship over it. Turning it over here and there in his clean hand to inspect it, the butcher’s smile is gentle as it is appreciative. Then, releasing the clench to his palm sets off the blood flow again, pouring into his hand in a way that he can drape the rivers of red into the wood, watching it stain it dark.
“She likely will not answer.” He hums, though he isn’t entirely sure. “I have never not done that, however.” Comes the admission and appreciation and admitted delight when he watches Iskra prick his finger enough to bring a bead of blood to the surface.
Shaking his head to the question, though, he hums thoughtfully. “No, not the blood specifically. Entropy is.. Disorder. It is the lack of predictability.” So, he supposes if the lines were supposed to match, if the gods required pleasantries and all kinds of offerings, the predictability in it being blood seemed relatively opposite to what others might expect.
Either way, it’s clear he doesn’t mind one way or another, taking the small raven carving with a hum of admiration of the craftsmanship over it. Turning it over here and there in his clean hand to inspect it, the butcher’s smile is gentle as it is appreciative. Then, releasing the clench to his palm sets off the blood flow again, pouring into his hand in a way that he can drape the rivers of red into the wood, watching it stain it dark.
“She likely will not answer.” He hums, though he isn’t entirely sure. “I have never not done that, however.” Comes the admission and appreciation and admitted delight when he watches Iskra prick his finger enough to bring a bead of blood to the surface.
Astaroth
// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //
