// don't you fight my hold on you //
He’s been called worse, honestly. The creature/mud/thing is ugly and he’ll die on the hill that confirms it’s precisely as awful as he thinks it is. Just so long as he’s out of reach enough to avoid getting the mud in his outfit — one that may have been worn with the intention of getting dirty, but still not one he wants christened by Santa’s Saddest Snow-Mud Man.
“Oh, well, you should know they do not listen very well.” The butcher remarks about the mud creature’s listening skills (because if that were the case they might have made it out better from the mud dragon he’d fought weeks earlier). So he focuses on using fire and action to get it to heel, watching as portions break and flake off with its movement, letting the fire magic die in his hand as he watches Danta prod it with a stick.
It hobbles and leans heavily one way as its trajectory changes and Asta nods a short dip of his head to say that he probably can. “No, no. Not this way.” Comes the low hum, redirected with blasts of fire to keep it on course until it seems thoroughly annoyed with dealing with them and trundles off into a space far away from where they’re headed.
Turning back toward Danta, the butcher shoots him a shark tooth grin. “There. Any leads, darling?” Danta, in the time it took Asta to redirect the memory mud, will have found a small trail that probably pinpoints to the man — one of broken branches ran through in panic and relief at being “freed”, a piece of torn cloth hanging to one of the branches further in.
“Oh, well, you should know they do not listen very well.” The butcher remarks about the mud creature’s listening skills (because if that were the case they might have made it out better from the mud dragon he’d fought weeks earlier). So he focuses on using fire and action to get it to heel, watching as portions break and flake off with its movement, letting the fire magic die in his hand as he watches Danta prod it with a stick.
It hobbles and leans heavily one way as its trajectory changes and Asta nods a short dip of his head to say that he probably can. “No, no. Not this way.” Comes the low hum, redirected with blasts of fire to keep it on course until it seems thoroughly annoyed with dealing with them and trundles off into a space far away from where they’re headed.
Turning back toward Danta, the butcher shoots him a shark tooth grin. “There. Any leads, darling?” Danta, in the time it took Asta to redirect the memory mud, will have found a small trail that probably pinpoints to the man — one of broken branches ran through in panic and relief at being “freed”, a piece of torn cloth hanging to one of the branches further in.
Astaroth
// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //
