// Greed won't rest 'til he's crowned as a king //
It was meant as a quick trip – and one that would be quick and easy were it any other season but this one. The snow and the cold, for one, make it so the Ancient moves slower – reluctantly so, despite his best attempts to keep his joints warm and limber. Paired with the cold of the military barracks and the jails around it. It doesn’t help that he’s still recovering from the previous season, and by all intents and purposes he should have just stayed the fuck home.
But, the butcher didn’t. And despite his stubbornness, well, he’s certainly found out the hard way what acting as his usual self might come to with the worst preparedness the butcher has had in centuries. He’d anticipated the offender to be another Ancient, given that was the potential information he had – when it turns out they were nothing more than an attuned mimicking in the hopes that it would make their judgement and sentence lighter.
It hadn’t. And for that, the butcher with his withstanding deal with the guards, offers to take them off their hands, making it easier for the guards in the long run and he gets some enjoyment out of it as well. Only this time, things don’t quite go according to plan. Between the cold and the fact that the prisoner isn’t Ancient as he is, it’s a clear disadvantage for the butcher and one he notes quite quickly when they have very little to slow them down. But between the butcher’s haunt and fire magic and the threaded cane in its whip form, the scuffle lasts longer than he’d like, but it thankfully does end. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, trickling blood slowly, a scratch down his leg that absolutely tore the pants leg, a split lip that he can’t help but to fuck with as he uses his fire magic to keep himself limber enough to rid the evidence, and with immense success with that, the wax lined bag he carries with him feels incredibly heavy. Though it doesn’t help when he has the added weight to get back to the Dusklight.
His hair is a bit of a mess, a scarf covering his mouth that slowly soaks the blood into it alongside the hood blocking out the cold wind. He walks with the bag and cane heavily, leaning on it as though it were more of a crutch than a cane itself once it’s back in its usual cane-form. His steps are slow and the tip of his nose has gone grey by the time he pulls open the doors to the Dusklight. Welcomed immediately with those evading the cold just as he is, he keeps the hood up as he steps through with a mission toward Danta’s office. The bag looks like any other kind of hunt the butcher may have done – bags of bones or antlers or anything else from a bloodlust he hadn’t wanted to go to waste, but ultimately the Maverick would see it’s a celebratory meal. One they don’t get all that often that he’d planned on sharing and not coming home as fucked up as he is now, already sighing to himself behind the smile from his eyes he extends toward the bartenders as he slips by, tail weaving behind him close so that nobody accidentally bumps into it or accidentally grabs it.
Only when he knocks on the door of the office does he finally start to become less gray and more himself, though he still leans heavily on the cane in the process as he opens the door with little fanfare, slipping inside to set the bag down. Pivoting from there, he knows already that Danta will have scented the blood – his own intermingled with the person’s in the bag. So there’s little use in hiding it as he turns to his fiance’s desk, slipping his hood down and unwinding the red stained scarf from his lips, leaning against the cane with both hands as he shoots Danta a smile. “How has it been today, darling?” He asks, because there was very little use in trying to hide his injuries when he’s fairly certain Danta has a flask of healing wine in the desk drawer for situations similar to this.
But, the butcher didn’t. And despite his stubbornness, well, he’s certainly found out the hard way what acting as his usual self might come to with the worst preparedness the butcher has had in centuries. He’d anticipated the offender to be another Ancient, given that was the potential information he had – when it turns out they were nothing more than an attuned mimicking in the hopes that it would make their judgement and sentence lighter.
It hadn’t. And for that, the butcher with his withstanding deal with the guards, offers to take them off their hands, making it easier for the guards in the long run and he gets some enjoyment out of it as well. Only this time, things don’t quite go according to plan. Between the cold and the fact that the prisoner isn’t Ancient as he is, it’s a clear disadvantage for the butcher and one he notes quite quickly when they have very little to slow them down. But between the butcher’s haunt and fire magic and the threaded cane in its whip form, the scuffle lasts longer than he’d like, but it thankfully does end. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, trickling blood slowly, a scratch down his leg that absolutely tore the pants leg, a split lip that he can’t help but to fuck with as he uses his fire magic to keep himself limber enough to rid the evidence, and with immense success with that, the wax lined bag he carries with him feels incredibly heavy. Though it doesn’t help when he has the added weight to get back to the Dusklight.
His hair is a bit of a mess, a scarf covering his mouth that slowly soaks the blood into it alongside the hood blocking out the cold wind. He walks with the bag and cane heavily, leaning on it as though it were more of a crutch than a cane itself once it’s back in its usual cane-form. His steps are slow and the tip of his nose has gone grey by the time he pulls open the doors to the Dusklight. Welcomed immediately with those evading the cold just as he is, he keeps the hood up as he steps through with a mission toward Danta’s office. The bag looks like any other kind of hunt the butcher may have done – bags of bones or antlers or anything else from a bloodlust he hadn’t wanted to go to waste, but ultimately the Maverick would see it’s a celebratory meal. One they don’t get all that often that he’d planned on sharing and not coming home as fucked up as he is now, already sighing to himself behind the smile from his eyes he extends toward the bartenders as he slips by, tail weaving behind him close so that nobody accidentally bumps into it or accidentally grabs it.
Only when he knocks on the door of the office does he finally start to become less gray and more himself, though he still leans heavily on the cane in the process as he opens the door with little fanfare, slipping inside to set the bag down. Pivoting from there, he knows already that Danta will have scented the blood – his own intermingled with the person’s in the bag. So there’s little use in hiding it as he turns to his fiance’s desk, slipping his hood down and unwinding the red stained scarf from his lips, leaning against the cane with both hands as he shoots Danta a smile. “How has it been today, darling?” He asks, because there was very little use in trying to hide his injuries when he’s fairly certain Danta has a flask of healing wine in the desk drawer for situations similar to this.
Astaroth
// From the land to the sea, he'll take all that he needs //
