Astaroth
// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //
He’d agreed to do this what felt like ages ago – not that Asta is opposed to doing it now, don’t get him wrong – but it has given him plenty of time to imagine this author. Danta’s gone to fetch him, but Asta remains in the room, trying to ignore the brief undercurrent of cowbells from a room further down, adorned by the cacophony of moans and slaps of leather. It’s a better back drop than the annoying and occasional clang, and the Butcher busies himself with ensuring everything is where it should be.
Healing wine from their fountain is within arms reach – plenty of it, too, just in case. Asta knows without his haunt he’ll have to put on quite the show and had been silently charmed by the white his fiancé had departed the room with. Smoke filters in the room, creating a brief haze of cloudiness where there’s a small beam of light that filters in from up above. A light behind a box of stained glass descends the room in multiple hues, though nothing too sharp to drown out the variety of colors.
The room itself is quiet and the Butcher leans against the post of the bed, adorned in a similar fit to Danta but one that certainly screams more dark and dangerous than Danta’s own. Instead of suspenders, the Butcher wears a dark green waistcoat, paired with a cream silken shirt above it. The sleeves are carefully rolled up his arms and is left unbuttoned a fair amount to show the few long fingers of scar tissue that reach his neck and the top half of his chest. Dark pants accompany it, alongside boots, and while the Butcher doesn’t have any knives currently on his person it will become clear the second the author enters that Asta doesn’t need them with the shark tooth grin he aims their way.
It’s a touch closer to dangerous than friendly, however, and from where he leans against the post, the Butcher’s also got a cigarette, though it’s half smoked and held between two fingers, letting the smoke curl around his dark hair that’s slicked back and kept out of the way, wound around the tined antlers that sprout from his skull. The door opens, capturing his attention, a glimmer of affection lingering as he scans Danta, before it turns somewhat sharper and calculating as he regards Quentin. “Welcome in, darling.” The Butcher purrs this initial greeting as warmly as he can, though the grin he shoots the author’s way is one a touch too sharp.
Healing wine from their fountain is within arms reach – plenty of it, too, just in case. Asta knows without his haunt he’ll have to put on quite the show and had been silently charmed by the white his fiancé had departed the room with. Smoke filters in the room, creating a brief haze of cloudiness where there’s a small beam of light that filters in from up above. A light behind a box of stained glass descends the room in multiple hues, though nothing too sharp to drown out the variety of colors.
The room itself is quiet and the Butcher leans against the post of the bed, adorned in a similar fit to Danta but one that certainly screams more dark and dangerous than Danta’s own. Instead of suspenders, the Butcher wears a dark green waistcoat, paired with a cream silken shirt above it. The sleeves are carefully rolled up his arms and is left unbuttoned a fair amount to show the few long fingers of scar tissue that reach his neck and the top half of his chest. Dark pants accompany it, alongside boots, and while the Butcher doesn’t have any knives currently on his person it will become clear the second the author enters that Asta doesn’t need them with the shark tooth grin he aims their way.
It’s a touch closer to dangerous than friendly, however, and from where he leans against the post, the Butcher’s also got a cigarette, though it’s half smoked and held between two fingers, letting the smoke curl around his dark hair that’s slicked back and kept out of the way, wound around the tined antlers that sprout from his skull. The door opens, capturing his attention, a glimmer of affection lingering as he scans Danta, before it turns somewhat sharper and calculating as he regards Quentin. “Welcome in, darling.” The Butcher purrs this initial greeting as warmly as he can, though the grin he shoots the author’s way is one a touch too sharp.
// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //
