i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
He can chastise him later if he wants to. Right now the butcher doesn’t want to worry him more than he has, and with a pain tolerance to the extent that Asta does, it’s clear that any of this would absolutely destroy someone far less comfortable with the gore and hurt. So rather than focus on the line of fire that races up and down his arm in such a way that has his tail tip still whipping in jerky motions, he latches onto Danta’s voice and his presence.
At least until it gets a bit worse before it will hopefully get better. “Good.” He breathes as Danta’s hands fall to his collar, as the scent of smoke burning through water and blood heavy clothes, revealing a body smattered with bruising. The ones from their Climb trip were nearly healed — a yellowish hue to them that’s stark against the deep blossoming purple along the rest of his body.
He gives his limp arm to Danta to inspect, even if the motion has him huffing a sharp sound through his nose to try and calm any alarm. His eyes shut, focusing again as his smile falls and mask slips into place. “It is bad.” You can look if you want to, even if it hurts. He agrees through a voice carefully trying to hide the pain, lilted high enough to make it sound like a quiet dramatic whine rather than the sharp needles it sparks.
The fire burns the shirt away into nothing, trailing down his arm and snagging on the cloth in the process, cutting through it and smoldering at the knots as the carved marks are revealed. Skin butchered to the point of needing stitches or glue to piece it together unless someone arrives with healing magic. “Fixable, I presume?” He hopes. It had to be. If Dygra could fix his mangled form before, surely she could be his Hail Mary if he’s too broken to fix right here and right now.
At least until it gets a bit worse before it will hopefully get better. “Good.” He breathes as Danta’s hands fall to his collar, as the scent of smoke burning through water and blood heavy clothes, revealing a body smattered with bruising. The ones from their Climb trip were nearly healed — a yellowish hue to them that’s stark against the deep blossoming purple along the rest of his body.
He gives his limp arm to Danta to inspect, even if the motion has him huffing a sharp sound through his nose to try and calm any alarm. His eyes shut, focusing again as his smile falls and mask slips into place. “It is bad.” You can look if you want to, even if it hurts. He agrees through a voice carefully trying to hide the pain, lilted high enough to make it sound like a quiet dramatic whine rather than the sharp needles it sparks.
The fire burns the shirt away into nothing, trailing down his arm and snagging on the cloth in the process, cutting through it and smoldering at the knots as the carved marks are revealed. Skin butchered to the point of needing stitches or glue to piece it together unless someone arrives with healing magic. “Fixable, I presume?” He hopes. It had to be. If Dygra could fix his mangled form before, surely she could be his Hail Mary if he’s too broken to fix right here and right now.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
