Dygra
The call comes in the dead of night, with all the immediacy of a hot poker pressed, sizzling, to bare flesh.
Astaroth's flesh does not sizzle, granted, but the urgency of it is the same, sparking a fire in his blood that will be impossible to ignore. Not the comfort of his bed, the warmth of his lover or even the biting cold of the world outside will be enough to keep him from where Dygra bids him come, and though the goddess of chaos and entropy is, by definition, a fickle mistress, on this occasion her patience is as deep as the veins of lava that thread beneath The Climb.
And it's to The Climb that Asta must go - out of the Dusklight, through the snow to the Everlasting Bonfire, and into the portal to heat and rock and the fiendish glow of magma. His feet will take him without needing his permission, weaving through the Burrows into the dark, hot glitter of Soulfire Reach.
It's here that Dygra waits in blood and gemstones, not as a whisper or a presence, but as real as the weight of the rock that presses down from above, as tangible as a kiss or hands around a throat. Milk-pale and cloaked in rough, dark stone, her golden hair is left sleek and swept out of her face, bloody eyes aglow in the darkness.
Astaroth's flesh does not sizzle, granted, but the urgency of it is the same, sparking a fire in his blood that will be impossible to ignore. Not the comfort of his bed, the warmth of his lover or even the biting cold of the world outside will be enough to keep him from where Dygra bids him come, and though the goddess of chaos and entropy is, by definition, a fickle mistress, on this occasion her patience is as deep as the veins of lava that thread beneath The Climb.
And it's to The Climb that Asta must go - out of the Dusklight, through the snow to the Everlasting Bonfire, and into the portal to heat and rock and the fiendish glow of magma. His feet will take him without needing his permission, weaving through the Burrows into the dark, hot glitter of Soulfire Reach.
It's here that Dygra waits in blood and gemstones, not as a whisper or a presence, but as real as the weight of the rock that presses down from above, as tangible as a kiss or hands around a throat. Milk-pale and cloaked in rough, dark stone, her golden hair is left sleek and swept out of her face, bloody eyes aglow in the darkness.
