am i still waiting like a lamb to the slaughter
He’s returned – mostly because he hadn’t gotten much of the deer he’d intended to devour, given that Danta had taken care of that quite quickly. And he figures, perhaps, having a chance of taking down another creature right before the entrance of the Spire would give him the comfort of hiding it away within the crumbling tower, to prevent any stupid avians from interrupting the process.
It’s something that he’s also considered about with the note left for Danta to hear about first thing when he gets up. An invitation to hunt together, provided no gore crows make an appearance. And Astaroth, himself, prevents himself from using his fyrhund shift. He wants to feel the cool breeze on his skin and the warm sweet stickiness of blood from indulging.
He’s dressed down this time as he waits, clothes specifically made for this, rolled up to his forearms, scars hidden away aside from the tips you can see on his forearm as he listens to the rustling of the surrounding area. A bag sits beside him, carefully wrapped up like a present where the contents are hidden within, and more formal clothes folded neatly beside it. He looks surprisingly at ease, lounging against the black obsidian, a material exactly the same as the one sprouting from his head (only his harbor a bright rainbow affect when the stream of sunlight breaks through the leafchange cloud cover).
Astaroth waits and he listens, calculating each and every ground creature that makes its presence known.
It’s something that he’s also considered about with the note left for Danta to hear about first thing when he gets up. An invitation to hunt together, provided no gore crows make an appearance. And Astaroth, himself, prevents himself from using his fyrhund shift. He wants to feel the cool breeze on his skin and the warm sweet stickiness of blood from indulging.
He’s dressed down this time as he waits, clothes specifically made for this, rolled up to his forearms, scars hidden away aside from the tips you can see on his forearm as he listens to the rustling of the surrounding area. A bag sits beside him, carefully wrapped up like a present where the contents are hidden within, and more formal clothes folded neatly beside it. He looks surprisingly at ease, lounging against the black obsidian, a material exactly the same as the one sprouting from his head (only his harbor a bright rainbow affect when the stream of sunlight breaks through the leafchange cloud cover).
Astaroth waits and he listens, calculating each and every ground creature that makes its presence known.
Astaroth
does your god believe in you?
