// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //
“I am sure.” Asta hums with amusement, glancing over at the time the pop of a cork erupts the crowd by the bar. His gaze lingers a touch longer, affectionate toward the blond int eh middle of the chaos that would surely ensue. Perhaps it is a good time for them to depart before the antics get a touch too crazy. At least, for Niki’s standards, that is.
Standing and collecting his cane, his shadow trails with him, smiling and staring at a few customers purely out of curiosity, but Niki might notice the way they grow a touch tense under the eye of the shade. “Ah yes, I have that particular piece still.” He hums, trying to catch Danta’s gaze in the distance at the bar to tell him he’ll be back – silently, as they often were able to do.
Then, he’s guiding Niki toward the hallway, pausing by a particular door that’s closed and signified with a particular dark shadow of a swipe of paint across the front of it toward the top – as though it was a blood smear for some kind of biblical prevention of the plague. It isn’t, and the skeleton key he slips into it unlocks it easily as he cradles his drink in his other hand, the cane hanging limply from his forearm.
Once the door opens, though, he ignites the fireplace within – the room warming merrily and free of any dust. A table sits at the back, slew with a variety of bones (and very few of them animal), there’s a bed decked out in red with a sheer curtain of a canopy, and shelves that harbor the large variety of trinkets made from the bones in question.
Particularly one that’s got a rack of very familiar antlers, set atop a wolf skull, feathers from varying corvids crafting wings of a sort that rise from the edges in a unique kind of halo – pale string hangs each piece perfectly – it’s a wind chime, after all – but the string themselves have a particular look of spider’s webbing. “This is what I made with those antlers.” The butcher says, paying by the wind chime with a vibrant and too sharp grin.
Standing and collecting his cane, his shadow trails with him, smiling and staring at a few customers purely out of curiosity, but Niki might notice the way they grow a touch tense under the eye of the shade. “Ah yes, I have that particular piece still.” He hums, trying to catch Danta’s gaze in the distance at the bar to tell him he’ll be back – silently, as they often were able to do.
Then, he’s guiding Niki toward the hallway, pausing by a particular door that’s closed and signified with a particular dark shadow of a swipe of paint across the front of it toward the top – as though it was a blood smear for some kind of biblical prevention of the plague. It isn’t, and the skeleton key he slips into it unlocks it easily as he cradles his drink in his other hand, the cane hanging limply from his forearm.
Once the door opens, though, he ignites the fireplace within – the room warming merrily and free of any dust. A table sits at the back, slew with a variety of bones (and very few of them animal), there’s a bed decked out in red with a sheer curtain of a canopy, and shelves that harbor the large variety of trinkets made from the bones in question.
Particularly one that’s got a rack of very familiar antlers, set atop a wolf skull, feathers from varying corvids crafting wings of a sort that rise from the edges in a unique kind of halo – pale string hangs each piece perfectly – it’s a wind chime, after all – but the string themselves have a particular look of spider’s webbing. “This is what I made with those antlers.” The butcher says, paying by the wind chime with a vibrant and too sharp grin.
Astaroth
// and i'll paint it red //
