// he's nice, polite, he'll catch you by surprise //
It’s a lot, surprising the butcher. They’d had their bloody battles before, but there’s something different about this blade as opposed to what they’d had at their disposal back in the Climb. And if he were back to who he was back then, you’d bet he’d have already gone full haunt rather than let the puncture of all the serrated edges of the blade sink in like teeth, leaving his skin raw and broken, pouring blood like it’s trying to make its own variant of the crimson cataract.
At least he manages to get Danta down, though, even if it isn’t without its own battle. His hand torn up just as much as Danta’s is, cuts streaking up his jaw and cleaving his beard, and with so much blood between them on the ground it’s nearly impossible for Asta to stand in the time it takes Danta to get the whip back into its cane form, struck up at him. He twists in time for it to carve up his shoulder, slicing off a decent portion of his dark hair that’s become wild from their fight, dripping with blood.
He hisses a curse, one that feels far too puffy and swollen in his throat for it to be anything good, and waits for the moment that Danta’s arms are above him from the force of the slice with the cane. He surges onto him, trying to pin his hands down despite the pain that shoots and radiates up his elbow and arm, heaving breaths where his throat continues to leak blood down from the collar that had been around his neck.
“Yield.” He says, before he tries to swallow and correct himself. “I yield.”
At least he manages to get Danta down, though, even if it isn’t without its own battle. His hand torn up just as much as Danta’s is, cuts streaking up his jaw and cleaving his beard, and with so much blood between them on the ground it’s nearly impossible for Asta to stand in the time it takes Danta to get the whip back into its cane form, struck up at him. He twists in time for it to carve up his shoulder, slicing off a decent portion of his dark hair that’s become wild from their fight, dripping with blood.
He hisses a curse, one that feels far too puffy and swollen in his throat for it to be anything good, and waits for the moment that Danta’s arms are above him from the force of the slice with the cane. He surges onto him, trying to pin his hands down despite the pain that shoots and radiates up his elbow and arm, heaving breaths where his throat continues to leak blood down from the collar that had been around his neck.
“Yield.” He says, before he tries to swallow and correct himself. “I yield.”
Astaroth
// a smile so bright, you'd never bat an eye //
