They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
If Asta had nepotism, he might have managed to thrive longer in Whitebrim. As it stood, he’d fled as quickly as possible, leaving the rest of his clan to succumb to all kinds of brutalities they had brought upon themselves. He’d harbored no part in it, even if a part of him thinks he would have succeeded and came out on top. He would have become a king of nothing, though, and he’s found he far preferred being a creature of stone and blood in Dygra’s favor than anything the barren snowy wasteland Halo had been back then.
Either way, the butcher has always been one that preferred the hunt rather than ruling. And it’s no exception here as he lets instinct take over. He works the wolf with precision, partially from experience of being in possession of a canine shift, but also from the multitudes of times he’d spent hunting them. Take away the escape and it leaves them as a sitting duck, and proudly the butcher’s arrogance and ego takes him the rest of the way. It’s no match for him.
His hand sits by the wolf’s ribs as it gasps in sharp breaths, blood making his hand slick and hot as he waits, as he feels Flora sink beside him on her knees, the other dagger handed over easily. He catches his breath as he waits, watching her from a space of control over his bloodlust. Her voice reaches him before any of the sounds the wolf makes when she presses her hand to its muzzle, the whisper harboring more than just one meaning. And even in the state that he’s in – eyes made wholly black by the fight and the bloodlust, he can read it.
Before he can find a way to answer, to add his own tidbits, she’s slicing the throat of the wolf. Blood pours out in a red wave, a shuddering breath from the canine as it starts to succumb with a gurgled whimper. And with it, the butcher surges forward in the space Flora had just been, diving into the wolf’s throat to chomp down. Sharp teeth pierce through flesh and organs within the large wound Flora had created, and with it the butcher’s shoulders sink down as if in relief.
When he withdraws, his lips drip with deep ruby, his horned head bowed with his eyes shut, splattered everywhere with blood. His hands drop from the wolf and it looks as if he’s meditating, measuring his breaths, soothing a racing, originally unchaseable high of his pulse. “And, you need not be alone.” Comes the thick accent, heavy enough to bring in the grit of Halo into spaces he’d often hidden like a coat. “You aren’t alone, Flora.” You have me, you have Danta.
He opens his eyes then, looking over at Flora with a glimpse in his gaze that is perhaps the most open and raw the butcher has ever been with her. Understanding, because while he hadn't been killed, he had also been tortured and left to die. Alone, until he wasn't anymore.
Either way, the butcher has always been one that preferred the hunt rather than ruling. And it’s no exception here as he lets instinct take over. He works the wolf with precision, partially from experience of being in possession of a canine shift, but also from the multitudes of times he’d spent hunting them. Take away the escape and it leaves them as a sitting duck, and proudly the butcher’s arrogance and ego takes him the rest of the way. It’s no match for him.
His hand sits by the wolf’s ribs as it gasps in sharp breaths, blood making his hand slick and hot as he waits, as he feels Flora sink beside him on her knees, the other dagger handed over easily. He catches his breath as he waits, watching her from a space of control over his bloodlust. Her voice reaches him before any of the sounds the wolf makes when she presses her hand to its muzzle, the whisper harboring more than just one meaning. And even in the state that he’s in – eyes made wholly black by the fight and the bloodlust, he can read it.
Before he can find a way to answer, to add his own tidbits, she’s slicing the throat of the wolf. Blood pours out in a red wave, a shuddering breath from the canine as it starts to succumb with a gurgled whimper. And with it, the butcher surges forward in the space Flora had just been, diving into the wolf’s throat to chomp down. Sharp teeth pierce through flesh and organs within the large wound Flora had created, and with it the butcher’s shoulders sink down as if in relief.
When he withdraws, his lips drip with deep ruby, his horned head bowed with his eyes shut, splattered everywhere with blood. His hands drop from the wolf and it looks as if he’s meditating, measuring his breaths, soothing a racing, originally unchaseable high of his pulse. “And, you need not be alone.” Comes the thick accent, heavy enough to bring in the grit of Halo into spaces he’d often hidden like a coat. “You aren’t alone, Flora.” You have me, you have Danta.
He opens his eyes then, looking over at Flora with a glimpse in his gaze that is perhaps the most open and raw the butcher has ever been with her. Understanding, because while he hadn't been killed, he had also been tortured and left to die. Alone, until he wasn't anymore.
Astaroth
Don't you look back, every bone in my body's bad
