// seven, six, five, four, three, two, one //
It’s precisely the show he hopes it would be, as Thalassa’s steps slow and she processes the very thing that’s dropped from his lips. The way she scans him to see if it’s true or he’s just fucking with her. Amusement is clear, as is the joy that radiates from him, and when she stops in the middle of the alley with the snow continuing to fall in lazy little drifts, pooling in the cooler corners where the cobblestones meet the buildings.
She grabs his arm and he gladly lets her, his grin somehow even brighter. “Incredibly serious, yes.” Shrugging breezily, the Butcher lets his own laugh slip from his throat, raising his brow toward her as she asks a bajillion questions he can’t quite answer just yet. But as she starts to settle with the squint toward the scar on his cheek, Asta nods his head and leans down a little toward her to let her inspect him more. “It is a new scar, yes. From Dygra herself.” Given how hard it was for Ancients to burn, let alone have something hot enough to brand a design. “To be honest? I feel weaker, but things are different and I will adapt and grow just as I had when Danta woke me.” As if for emphasis of how things have changed, he pulls his free hand in front of him toward her and lets the new wild fire magic spark to life between his fingers. Rather than the traditional hue of red and oranges, the fire that slips from his fingers is a ghoulish green, bright and intense. “I do feel quite a bit more important, however.” He bounces a brow toward her with another laugh, because obviously it was an incredible flex to his ego.
Then, as if to not be left out, there’s the skittering sound of a creature along the rooftop of the building they’re closest to, and if Thalassa looks up she’ll come face to face with a dragon made completely out of bones – the skeleton with pitless black eyes and black smoke leaking from the holes between her too sharp teeth, peering down curiously.
She grabs his arm and he gladly lets her, his grin somehow even brighter. “Incredibly serious, yes.” Shrugging breezily, the Butcher lets his own laugh slip from his throat, raising his brow toward her as she asks a bajillion questions he can’t quite answer just yet. But as she starts to settle with the squint toward the scar on his cheek, Asta nods his head and leans down a little toward her to let her inspect him more. “It is a new scar, yes. From Dygra herself.” Given how hard it was for Ancients to burn, let alone have something hot enough to brand a design. “To be honest? I feel weaker, but things are different and I will adapt and grow just as I had when Danta woke me.” As if for emphasis of how things have changed, he pulls his free hand in front of him toward her and lets the new wild fire magic spark to life between his fingers. Rather than the traditional hue of red and oranges, the fire that slips from his fingers is a ghoulish green, bright and intense. “I do feel quite a bit more important, however.” He bounces a brow toward her with another laugh, because obviously it was an incredible flex to his ego.
Then, as if to not be left out, there’s the skittering sound of a creature along the rooftop of the building they’re closest to, and if Thalassa looks up she’ll come face to face with a dragon made completely out of bones – the skeleton with pitless black eyes and black smoke leaking from the holes between her too sharp teeth, peering down curiously.
Astaroth
// everybody's got a name, everybody's got a number //
