i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
It had taken everything in him to conserve what energy he could – cloth torn and wrapped around an arm that’s limp – fabric shredding from needing to use his teeth to tighten the bindings. The rest of him, though, bruised and battered from when the fucking thing had exploded upon its demise. It had rattled him, rocked him and left him reeling.
Luckily for him, however, he is a survivor. And the trek home had taken all of his survival instincts to come together to prevent himself from turning to stone or bleeding out on the trek home. But he’s managed it, even if everyone gives him a wide berth – not because they see the damage that’s written upon his body but because of the shadows that whip out and keep it well concealed. They writhe from him, licking up into the air like makeshift flames of their own, his steps a mixture of rain, mud, and the barest tinge of scarlet.
His sleeve is ravaged, blood staining the frayed edges in three separate places that drip with the rain that creeps in, soaking the binds he’d used to try and staunch the bleeding. But this arm is absolutely useless, limp despite how he tries to keep it near his heart. Rainwater pools and drips from his oil slick horns, his dark hair catching each drop, enough to travel down the length of his long dark hair, soaked and half in his face half tangled around his horns.
He reaches the Dusklight doors precisely at the time a group is leaving – flushed and content until they witness him latching onto the door. A few gasps escape them as they get out of his way to let him stumble in, sharp teeth grit as he carves the path toward the bar, shadows blotting out the majority of the damage even if those that know him best within the confines of the Dusklight would realize he’s in a lot of pain.
Reaching the clean and warm bartop, his shadows spiderweb out against it as if to drag it into his cocoon of darkness. It doesn't hide the sheen of red from dripping onto the counter, nor the very evident scent of fresh blood that surrounds him (even if that's a somewhat normal occurrence). The butcher slumps slightly against the surface with a flash of distress in the wince that he tries to hide.
Luckily for him, however, he is a survivor. And the trek home had taken all of his survival instincts to come together to prevent himself from turning to stone or bleeding out on the trek home. But he’s managed it, even if everyone gives him a wide berth – not because they see the damage that’s written upon his body but because of the shadows that whip out and keep it well concealed. They writhe from him, licking up into the air like makeshift flames of their own, his steps a mixture of rain, mud, and the barest tinge of scarlet.
His sleeve is ravaged, blood staining the frayed edges in three separate places that drip with the rain that creeps in, soaking the binds he’d used to try and staunch the bleeding. But this arm is absolutely useless, limp despite how he tries to keep it near his heart. Rainwater pools and drips from his oil slick horns, his dark hair catching each drop, enough to travel down the length of his long dark hair, soaked and half in his face half tangled around his horns.
He reaches the Dusklight doors precisely at the time a group is leaving – flushed and content until they witness him latching onto the door. A few gasps escape them as they get out of his way to let him stumble in, sharp teeth grit as he carves the path toward the bar, shadows blotting out the majority of the damage even if those that know him best within the confines of the Dusklight would realize he’s in a lot of pain.
Reaching the clean and warm bartop, his shadows spiderweb out against it as if to drag it into his cocoon of darkness. It doesn't hide the sheen of red from dripping onto the counter, nor the very evident scent of fresh blood that surrounds him (even if that's a somewhat normal occurrence). The butcher slumps slightly against the surface with a flash of distress in the wince that he tries to hide.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
