// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //
This season has been challenging, but he can already feel the shifting winds that Leafchange often brought, changing the leaves from their usual greenery to the orange and yellow reflective of fire itself. Though, the steps that take him toward the Temple are littered with the debris of falling leaves, proof enough that the end of the season was growing closer and closer and selfishly the butcher cannot wait for this sensation to leave him.
For now, though, it’s here. And he doesn’t want to wait too much longer to complete his quest. So as his steps guide him up the stairs of the Temple and within it, the butcher is dressed down in a pair of pants that he can clean easily, a shirt that’s billowy but tight at the wrists that can be removed easily, and a glittering assortment of blades to join the cacophony in the rage room.
“Charlie, darling! If you can hear me and have the time, please meet me in the rage room.” He calls, his accented voice echoing down the halls, reflected with the flickering light of the oil lamps that dot the hallways. He makes his way toward the rage room, to the slab in the middle where he sets all of the blades out in a prim and proper place, straight and well practiced with each one’s edge gleaming to reveal impossibly sharp edges. And beside it? The haunting lace of the villi he’d swiped from his most recent quest.
For now, though, it’s here. And he doesn’t want to wait too much longer to complete his quest. So as his steps guide him up the stairs of the Temple and within it, the butcher is dressed down in a pair of pants that he can clean easily, a shirt that’s billowy but tight at the wrists that can be removed easily, and a glittering assortment of blades to join the cacophony in the rage room.
“Charlie, darling! If you can hear me and have the time, please meet me in the rage room.” He calls, his accented voice echoing down the halls, reflected with the flickering light of the oil lamps that dot the hallways. He makes his way toward the rage room, to the slab in the middle where he sets all of the blades out in a prim and proper place, straight and well practiced with each one’s edge gleaming to reveal impossibly sharp edges. And beside it? The haunting lace of the villi he’d swiped from his most recent quest.
Astaroth
// and i'll paint it red //
