/// i'm uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional
i'm visceral, reloadable
i'm visceral, reloadable
It’s late by the time Astaroth manages to find his way toward the Grounds, let alone from Skyport and figuring out all that new… Insane technology. It’s fine, though, he manages it (not without looking a little bit stupid along the way, but nothing a quick bite can’t solve for those that had bore witness to it).
He’s sated and arrives like a dark shadow, down in the depths of the Inner Quarter, precisely right where he imagines the only person he’s really here for to see might be. He’s greeted with a surprising amount of things, perfect for Ancients and their way of life, taking mental notes of the bonfire as his cane and boots click across the stone ground, drifting deeper and deeper until he reaches the Last Whisper, posture impeccable and a completely indifferent look along his face.
He's far more put together this time as well. His posture is perfected, the dark red coat sits snugly against his frame, flashy boots and pants with a faint pinstriping, hair slicked back. He looks every inch like the asshole from the past, only new and improved. Not a hair out of place or a speck of dust or blood clinging to his body or clothes, especially as he zeroes in on the Dusklight from across the way.
It screams Dantalion in a way that is mostly insufferable, but he decides to simply silently ruin the Maverick’s day by settling back, leaning against the wall, hands propped on the top of the cane as his dark gaze focuses on the building and nods politely to people milling in and around it.
And he waits.
He’s sated and arrives like a dark shadow, down in the depths of the Inner Quarter, precisely right where he imagines the only person he’s really here for to see might be. He’s greeted with a surprising amount of things, perfect for Ancients and their way of life, taking mental notes of the bonfire as his cane and boots click across the stone ground, drifting deeper and deeper until he reaches the Last Whisper, posture impeccable and a completely indifferent look along his face.
He's far more put together this time as well. His posture is perfected, the dark red coat sits snugly against his frame, flashy boots and pants with a faint pinstriping, hair slicked back. He looks every inch like the asshole from the past, only new and improved. Not a hair out of place or a speck of dust or blood clinging to his body or clothes, especially as he zeroes in on the Dusklight from across the way.
It screams Dantalion in a way that is mostly insufferable, but he decides to simply silently ruin the Maverick’s day by settling back, leaning against the wall, hands propped on the top of the cane as his dark gaze focuses on the building and nods politely to people milling in and around it.
And he waits.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy ///
everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
