love, do you want love?
do you want lust? say you don't know
do you want lust? say you don't know
The butcher laughs a warm, deep sound wrapped in the velvet of the wine they’ve been sipping on, spinning the glass when she catches his gaze with that brilliant sparkle within them. It mirrors the warm onyx abyss of his own, silent for a moment as if debating whether or not he should really count them up to see what kind of gaudy, audacious thing he could cash in with the deal. “It is a good thing I have time to think on it, then.” His nose wrinkles a fraction with the affectionate shark tooth grin shot her way before he’s brandishing the variety of knives with the options he lists out.
Of course, if she did only have paper he could absolutely make it work. But if they wanted it to sparkle and shine they’d have to do a bit more work for it. And luckily for her, Torchline doesn’t lack in bone nor wood to be utilized for such endeavors. He plucks the sharper knife for the bone, reaching over to the small satchel sat beside them to withdraw a few long bones from it (as if he’d been hoping she’d agree to the more macabre things he got up to in his spare time), and looks over at her when the mirror shatters beneath the cloth.
Delighted for the small bit of chaos, the butcher’s laugh rumbles through him before he tries to take on a serious look toward her. “That is at least seven years of bad luck, I believe.” He murmurs in a quiet comment, plucking what appears to be femur from a canine — leaving three in the mix, as if he’d thought they’d make a perfect frame — and shaves off the shiny glint of the bone before he’s replacing the blade with a small, thin charcoal to mark the design in.
“Ooh, I see. So it is a mystery box of spirits, then?” At least it wouldn’t be boring, right? Never knowing which one you would get on the day to day. Looking up at Flora briefly, the way the lantern light flickers against the gold of her hair and the shine of her eyes, the butcher starts to mark in her silhouette in the center of an oval frame, like a cameo to be surrounded by a variety of her favorite things.
Of course, if she did only have paper he could absolutely make it work. But if they wanted it to sparkle and shine they’d have to do a bit more work for it. And luckily for her, Torchline doesn’t lack in bone nor wood to be utilized for such endeavors. He plucks the sharper knife for the bone, reaching over to the small satchel sat beside them to withdraw a few long bones from it (as if he’d been hoping she’d agree to the more macabre things he got up to in his spare time), and looks over at her when the mirror shatters beneath the cloth.
Delighted for the small bit of chaos, the butcher’s laugh rumbles through him before he tries to take on a serious look toward her. “That is at least seven years of bad luck, I believe.” He murmurs in a quiet comment, plucking what appears to be femur from a canine — leaving three in the mix, as if he’d thought they’d make a perfect frame — and shaves off the shiny glint of the bone before he’s replacing the blade with a small, thin charcoal to mark the design in.
“Ooh, I see. So it is a mystery box of spirits, then?” At least it wouldn’t be boring, right? Never knowing which one you would get on the day to day. Looking up at Flora briefly, the way the lantern light flickers against the gold of her hair and the shine of her eyes, the butcher starts to mark in her silhouette in the center of an oval frame, like a cameo to be surrounded by a variety of her favorite things.
Astaroth
maybe you just like the control
