faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

It's the coat that does it, prompting a bewildered snort of amusement as heavy leather settles just across his shoulders, attention flicking low as though attempting to process precisely what part of the joke this is meant to be— before conceding his own loss.

Because really, it's wet, it's cold, it's damp barring the barrier of one substantial leather coat: the sooner they move on, the better.

So there's no ceremony to the way Astarion fits his arms around Dante's shoulders, looped just beneath his throat. To how he sets his chin to one side, squinting against the flow of heavy rain, undone curls stuck to his skin where they're slung low in front of his eyes.

"Or..." He starts, eventually deciding to tip his face down against the occasional gust of wind. "We could just do that now, call it come morning, and tell Riftwatch we did our very best to no avail."

Once Astarion has hopped on his back Dante curled both arms underneath him to make sure his seating is secured and continued his hike. The rain was a bit debilitating forcing him to higher ground, they probably would do better to find shelter before they were both soaked through. If the rain calmed down, they could probably get fresh start in the morning with more light to work with.

Although Astarion had different ideas.

"If we quit, we'll be the B-team. I guess we could get by as the team with incredible good looks...but the B-team Astarion," Dante's such a competitive asshole Astarion, he almost bristles at someone else finding this cargo before they do, "just keep that reward in your head and be my big, brave boy for a little while longer."

He'd give him a pat on the cheek if his hands weren't otherwise occupied.

"Besides, you're with me, you have nothing to worry about."

“A brave little— I ought to bite you for that.” Indignant and sharp, his chasing huff of a breath. A warning only in the way a cat pins its ears back or flicks its tail: not a prelude to harm unless pressed.

And Astarion is a petulant creature at heart, inclined to sulk as much as strike. Indolent and idle as often as irate.

His fingertips cinch a few degrees tighter.

“You can’t possibly imagine I’m afraid of a few listless undead. For Gods’ sake, I’m a vampire. The very pinnacle of what an undead aspires to be— they ought to be fearing me.”

"Ah-ah, victory bites are for after the victory. You can make a meal of me then," and how does one respond to a cat with its ears pinned back? By rolling it onto its belly and aggressively petting it until said cat sinks his claws in.

Astarion's ranting earns some soft snickering on Dante's end, because he can't possibly help himself.

"Alright, lord of the undead, so what I'm hearing is that Team-B is kicking rocks and Team-A, the big, the burly, the most handsome team is back in the saddle," Dante leaned forward a bit as the incline he was walking on became a little steeper, but hopefully the higher ground would give them a better vantage point.

There's so much he could say in response. So much he's considering saying, in fact, let alone doing— they're far enough out that Astarion knows full well he could easily get away with biting the man beneath him (one capable of mending himself, as already proven by the first injury he'd inflicted a few weeks ago, now), and no one would witness the cruelty of it until it's done and healed without so much as a trace.

Consequence free, in essence.

Instead he jolts forward only slightly, attempting to lean with Dante rather than against him. The weather and muck is miserable enough without the both of them toppling over in the next overbearing gust that buffets the side of the hill they're presently traversing, stone sculptures high and leaning like shadowing forest around them, yet doing nothing to stay either rain or wind.

"Careful," he hisses, shrinking down into his shoulders. "The last thing I need is for Team A to break his damned neck and leave me stranded alone in this wretched mire."

Whether Dante's aware of the effect his words have or not is entirely clear, he knows that he's teasing in response. It's really his default response to any sort of bantering or back and forth, unless the threat or conversation is severe enough for him to consider otherwise. He's cavalier with his words at times, but often makes up for it with his actions.

He can sense Astarion's discomfort though and he knows this weather has him miserable enough. Now that he's being piggy backed by Dante the control he has over his own footing is gone and it's down to Dante's own surefootedness to keep them upright. There were pros and cons to being carried around.

"Don't worry I wouldn't do that to you," Dante said glancing over his shoulder to see Astarion huddling down before focusing on the steep incline. If he had any particular feelings about the weather he didn't say, he was soaked through and he was aware of the cold and the wind, but he left his companion in charge of speaking on it while his attention was focused elsewhere.

And fortunately for the both of them he made it to the top without incident, they did have a better view of the mire from here, rain notwithstanding. A quick glance around and found that the Fallow Mire was ensconced by plateaus, large stone structures, and abandoned homes even up here.

"You need a break?" says the man doing the lifting, "we can dry off and get some rest if you want."

“Gods above, I’d slay a man in cold blood for a reprieve from this mess.”

Much as he’d joked, it is homely to his own mind: the cold, the dark, the damp, the stench of rot— everything he’d known oh so intimately for two hundred years. What a miserable choice for a job to have plucked up.

And he has only himself to blame.

“Get me out of all this rain and I’ll make sure it isn’t you.”

"Okay, okay...breaktime it is," said with a modicum of humor in his voice, but he was already scouting for a decent place to settle until the rain eased off and they had more daylight to work with.

The best he could find was a shanty that was abandoned and in disrepair, the bright side? The construction, however crude, was built against the lee of the surrounding plateaus and the remains of a fireplace.

Toeing the door open he poked his head inside just to make sure it was abandoned, though the Door being left ajar and swinging in the breeze had already given him that impression there could be other visitors. Much like everywhere else in the Fallow Mire it was abandoned and whoever had been the resident had long since disappeared.

He carefully eased Astarion off of his back and on to his feet, gauging what he had to work with. Leaks in the roof and broken bits of furniture. Not much, but more than they had before so he'd make due.

"Home sweet home," Dante said stretching his arms in front of him instead of over his head, there wasn't enough room for that and had he been taller he'd probably have to crouch to prevent his head from hitting the ceiling.

Leaning his sword against the wall Dante shrugged off his rucksack he began digging through it emptying the bag of all of its contents. There were two oilskin tarps for tents, he roped on across the cieling to take care of the few leaks and spread the other across the floor of the shanty. He strung the remaining rope across the hearth in a makeshift clothes line where their things could dry.

Next, he broke up the few bits of furniture they had and with flint and a flat piece of steel he managed to strike up a small fire. For now, it was the best he could do, but it did take care of some of Astarion's complaints: the cold, the wet, and the dark. Nothing much he could do about the smells and the damp was dependent on Astarion himself.

"Well? Do I get to live another day?" Dante joked as he began peeling off his outer layers to hang on the line, they'd be wet again soon enough, but in the meantime, they could dry out in front of the fire and so could he.

"Mmhm."

The man’s surprisingly competent, all things considered. Astarion, lacking survival skills of his own that don’t hinge entirely on predatorial instinct (hunting will always come easily, stalking or catching a trail just as much), finds his expectations more than raised once those tarps are fitted in place against the storm outside.

It helps that the place is small. Easily bolstered, easily warmed: Dante finds his way to shrugging off waterlogged clothing and Astarion— taking his time in winding closer to the fire— watches for a tentative, possibly measuring beat before beginning to do the same. Borrowed coat hung, gloves pulled away to finally reveal his own anchor-shard, shirt last, pulled over his head and wrung out, the myriad scars at his back shown only when he turns to hang the lot.

It isn’t something he’s shy about per se, but there’s enough weight to the gesture of letting them be seen that he isn’t all humor when he takes to settling down.

In the end, the expression he wears is relaxed once he’s warming himself. Slow to blink, like an animal sunning itself across stone.

“I have to admit, I thought you’d be worse at this.”

Dante glanced up as Astarion decides to follow suite, just curious, not rude. While he notices the circumference of scars, he doesn't gawk at them for long, just long enough to notice that they could be words, he didn't know what kind of words, but he'd seen runes or seals that had patterns like that. He shifted his gaze back to the fire holding his hands out, his own shard green and glowing as he warmed his palms.

He'd eventually remove the rest of his clothing to climb into a bedroll, not wanting to sleep in soggy pants, but for now he'd keep himself politely covered. Settling back on his arms once his hands are sufficiently warm, he opens up the space making it as welcoming as possible to companionship.

"I've had to survive on my own since I was eleven...it taught me some rudimentary skills like how to hide this," Dante said ruffling his own hair, "how to change my identity, how to steal, light a fire, find shelter, and disappear. You learn or you become breakfast."

Dante's tone was conversational and pleasant, as if he were just explaining simple fact, and he was. It didn't really hurt to talk about his life or his past, he wasn't bitter about it, he wasn't there anymore and it was his reality. All those things made him who he was.

Once they were both settle Dante dragged the rucksack to his side and rifled through it not that there was much left. He removed the bedrolls and what was left was dried food goods, waterskins, and a flask of some kind of alcohol he took for whiskey. It had the same burn and that's what he pulled out of the bag next, removing the stopper long enough to take a sip, make a face, and then tip it at Astarion in offering.

"It's not the best I've ever had, but it does the job," he was a Jack Daniels kind of guy himself, but suspected that wasn't a brand he'd find here.

“Difficult to imagine even a fledgling cambion becoming something else’s meal,” he starts, head tilting to one side where he sits in idle observation, watching Dante scuff his fingers through his own hair. “But stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

The bottle’s taken in short order, sipped from as though it were wine instead of something less pretentiously distilled.

“Speaking of strange: how are you liking Thedas so far?”

Asked over the sound of a leaking roof, the fainter chill of frigid winds. “Lovely as it is in perpetuity...”

"Not where humans are concerned, but demons? With my bloodline? I was always a target, some things I could hide, but most Demons could recognize me by the scent of my blood," if he could avoid demons as a youth then he would given that survival was a priority over everything else, "once I was old enough and strong enough to start fighting back, things changed, instead of being hunted I became the hunter."

And really, what better feeling was there than turning the tables, but Dante had motivation for it aside from living in fear. He had enough anger in him to look for nothing but revenge.

When asked of what he thought of Thedas so far Dante fixed his gaze on the fire.

"Mmm...Thedas is a reminder that people can be capable of some nasty shit, but still possess the ability to feel compassion and empathy if you're looking for it," he was aware enough that people had both good and bad in them, but they also had complex feelings and Dante embraced that part, "it could do with a few things. Strawberry milkshakes, pizza, better alcohol, and Devil May Cry...I miss being a businessman."

Especially because he had the talent for his specific brand of business.

"What about you," Dante offered tilting his head in Astarion's direction, "Thedas everything you hoped for, or could it use a few homey touches?"

“I’m not sure.”

It’s an honest confession, and one brought on by something other than alcohol, company or atmosphere.

He tips the bottle slightly before taking one last sip, passing it back without formality.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice in coming here— much like yourself,” Astarion confesses, lifting a hand to show off the anchor-shard fully. The first time it’s been uncovered since they met. “What I’d hoped for was freedom. And I found it.

Alongside alienages, war, prevailing campaigns that involve demons and blood magic, a wretched monstrosity declaring itself a god with a noticeable contempt for anything decidedly not human. Oh, and Circles— which we might, as rifters, be thrown into if we manage to succeed in saving the world without dying. A little bonus gift from a Chantry filled with just as much a need for control as purity of heart or a devotion to mercy....however present perspective defines it.”

His smile is thin, acidic in the most obvious sense. He’d thought this place heaven at first.

Half a year later, the cracks are all starting to show.

“Still,” Astarion adds, almost cheerfully, “it's better than what I left behind. So cheers to that.”

"Ah the sliding scale of privilege," Dante observed taking a deep drought from the flask once Astarion passed it back to him, "I've been to the alienage, I didn't stay very long though. My presence wasn't exactly a comfortable one and...I can see why."

It occurred to him relatively quickly that in order to be a success in this reality one had to look a certain way. It wasn't beyond his notice that the people who held the most power in Thedas were humans. His own presence seemed to inspire a bit of intimidation, fear, he didn't like it. It also didn't escape his notice every night that the alienage was walled off from everything else.

Dante glanced Astarion's way curiously when he spoke of Rifters being rounded up into Circles. He wasn't entirely clear on what the purpose was, but he knew a few things: that they'd kept mages in the circles and depending on your point of view they were prisons.

"I hope for their sake that's not the plan, if it is they can take their religion and shove it right up their ass," Dante said passing the flask from hand to hand, he seemed a little bit agitated, but it had nothing to do with is current companion, "even though it hinges on a maybe, if it turns out to be true then they can fight their own war and I'll fuck in the direction of off."

It wasn't Dante's problem after all, he was more than happy to protect people from a looming threat that would destroy everything, but if his reward was to have his freedom removed then he could be impartial as well.

"What do you think?" Dante said offering a half grin, "Sound like a good idea?"

Going AWOL? Dante wasn't a soldier he didn't know the penalties for such things and he didn't really care.

"If this is better than what you left behind then I'd hate to see what you left behind."

The look he gives is sharp. Reflexive out of the corner of his eyes.

Like an animal once beaten, he can’t mask the look of mistrust that rises in an otherwise placid expression, body stiffened through his shoulders, already leaning back by degrees.

It’s not a whimpering thing. Not softness. Were body posture clear in its translation, he’d seem more inclined to strike than run. Figuratively bared teeth, poised to sink in deep for no discernible reason.

A snake, rattling its tail.

“You wouldn't want to see it, you're right about that.”

The words low and careful, easing down alongside his own hackles.

“Rifters that run don’t get far.” For pain and weakness. Separation from other shard-bearers— from Kirkwall itself, for some reason— builds until it bursts. Until they grow too pitiful in their unraveled state to even defend themselves as they should.

“And you’d be mad to try, given that Tevinter is deeply obsessed with kidnapping anyone with an anchor-shard to spare. The Venatori won’t hesitate to overwhelm, and if they get their hands on you...well. I’d imagine the theoretical Circle might seem more akin to bliss in comparison.”

He doesn’t say it in condescension, only warning. Sharp and clear. The unmistakable defining of what borders exist in terms of difficulty and disaster.

Dante will learn in his own time. But for now, this is all Astarion can give.

“Corypheus wants an army of our kind. I don’t assume he’d fail in it, if he somehow got the chance.”

Dante found himself listening, just gazing into the fire absorbing the information Astarion was feeding him. Dante knew just how dangerous he would be in the hands of someone else if the goal of their enemy was to capture them for that purpose. It's part of the reason why he didn't fight people nor did he get much enjoyment out of it, but also why he isolated himself intentionally.

Looking down at the glowing green shard on the palm of his hand Dante pondered it, they called it an anchor for a reason he supposed. Well, if running wasn't an option, and kidnapping was a possibility, inevitable imprisonment a suggestion then there was really only one thing he could do. The thing that he always did, and that was to fight back. It took him a moment to realize that the instinct to fight was triggering something else that it probably shouldn't. He had control over it for the most part, but in instances where the instinct to defend himself was strong a gleam of red could be seen in his eyes, spots of inky darkness could be seen creeping over his skin, outlined by molten light, a trick of the fire maybe.

Realizing the fight or flight reaction was subconsciously creeping over him he snapped out of it as if nothing had happened and tossed a grin at Astarion. This was descending into darker territory than intended, at least on his end, and he'd rather not be so inside of himself.

"Well...whatever happens it's a problem for a future Dante to deal with," the chirpiness returned to his voice as he stood up and stretched his arms out in front of him, "for now I'm gonna get some rest, we still have a mission to complete."

His eyes are too sharp to miss it, that flicker of a shift across Dante’s features. Fortunately, Astarion doesn’t share the local point of view when it comes to demons. He didn’t grow up here, after all. And neither did Dante.

Monsters always know how to look out for themselves.

“You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

This place is already wretched enough without letting spirits, demons or any of the like come creeping in— beyond the lone figure now stretching out across from Astarion, drawing a purposefully direct stare from the pale elf, whose hands still rest lax across his knees.

“Wouldn’t want something getting the jump on us in the dead of night.”

"Don't wear yourself too thin Astarion, if you need to swap then wake me up...or...if the fire needs stoked or something," Dante gave Astarion a companionable pat on the shoulder, there was something verging on relief in being able to let his guard down just a bit around someone else. That Astarion wasn't alarmed by him nor was he prepared to raise the alarms against him was refreshing. Dante was still hesitant to reveal himself completely over whatever lingering sense of fears and rejections normal people leveled at his kind.

Stripping out of the rest of his damp things he hung them with the rest of his clothes and then focused on laying out his bedroll closest to the point of entry before settling in. His sword was close at hand just in case something did try to get the jump on them, he'd be prepared for it, not that he was a particularly heavy sleeper anyway. It took him a while just to settle down and close his eyes, but that had been most nights in Thedas, surrounded by the unfamiliar and no dirty literature to lull him into a stupor.

He snorts there, mouth twisting into an easier grin, albeit still tempered at the corner from all prior conversation. Something of a half-step between amusement and exhaustion— and drawn away from both by the benefit of a good view.

"Sweet of you, but I'm a vampire, darling. We thrive at night."

Never mind that Astarion's been so long in Thedas now he can't imagine returning to fuller darkness compared to basking in the warm afternoon sun. His chin settles in his palm when Dante finally beds down, attention drifting from his own companion, to the fire, to the fluttering sound of wind and rain outside.

"Cross my heart, you won't have a thing to worry about."

He wakes hours later to dimmer surroundings.

Instead of the slow, liquid patter of drizzling rain, there's a clawing against wood, scraping harsh from outside. Not just from the door, or the windows, either. If his own sharp ears are right, it's almost everywhere.

"—shit."

You won't have a thing to worry about.

Famous last words before Dante closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep, not that he could blame Astarion for nodding off, he couldn't. The shack was comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he could make it, warm, dry, and the rain had a nice lulling effect. Even Dante was able to drift off after some time.

It wasn't the scratching at their walls that woke him though, it was Astarion's distress, the soft shit whispered into the night that alerted him letting him know something wasn't right. This caused his eyes to snap open and after taking in his surroundings briefly he rolled out of his bedding with the Sparda blade to Astarion's side, making to grab his pants off the line first.

"Hey you're okay...it's okay..." punctuated with a pat to the top of Astarion's head, reassurance that whatever was going on out there wasn't going to find his way in here if they had their way. Working his pants on his levered himself from the floor slowly like an animal coming out of a crouch looking through the patchwork of holes in the door for his best vantage point.

He found himself at eye-level with a corpse and if he could see it, it could see him...more or less. That was fine.

Raising his sword out to his side, the organic pieces began to reconstruct, the spinelike feature straightening its curve until it took on more of a spear shape. Without hesitating he jabbed it through the hole in the door and right into the creature's eye.

The screech let him know he hit his target and with that he whipped the spear back and rammed the door knocking the injured undead back as he slipped outside. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but corpses crawling up the hill like ants to converge on them was a surprise.

All right, so he fell asleep at the worst possible time. At least it—

Mm, no. Better not say it could be worse.

And while a pat on the head might normally be infuriating, something about the fact that this mess is entirely Astarion’s own misstep (coupled with the possible sincerity in Dante’s response) has him entirely tame under the gesture itself.

That, and his hair’s already ruined, anyway.

Strange and fascinating as it is to watch that sword shift, Astarion is far more invested in what comes next— the splintering of battered wood, the howling shriek from outside, instantly clueing Astarion in on precisely what sort of trouble they now face. Which, already hurriedly throwing his own shirt over his head (chasing it with that heavy coat, the daggers snapped up from warm flooring by the fire), is met in short order when he slides out into the frigid air, fitted close to Dante’s back.

It isn’t for fear.

Because the first moment one of the gathering flock thinks to come stumbling in towards Dante from a more peripheral angle, it’s Astarion that moves to intercept— twin blades bared as surely as his own fangs.

“Must’ve been the heat or the light that drew them,” Astarion concludes curtly as he twists one glassy blade beneath the span of a brittle undead jaw, twisting as it splinters to pieces from pressure. “Either that, or someone out here has it in for us.”

By default, Dante is hyper aware of his surroundings and knowing where Astarion is at all times is calculated into his spatial awareness. The fact that his battle partner is at his back makes it easier to keep it in his mind where he is, it also helps that Astarion doesn't shamble about like a puppet ready to fall to pieces.

"Why would anyone have it out for us..." Dante growled skewering a few corpses like a kebab on his spear before slamming them back and forth against their undead brethren. Their lifeless bodies went flying into the side of the plateau or rolling down the hill taking out a few that were hobbling up the incline, "...didn't anyone tell them we're good people..."

He punctuated by kicking the flailing bodies off his spear and letting it revert back into a sword. All the better to lob off heads, head lobbing was pretty effective, but there were so many of them and while Dante could keep up this momentum for a while, he was concerned about Astarion. He was protecting his back, but he also had to get in closer to attack.

"...what do you think the odds are that we're the most...alive creatures within pissing distance?"

Was what Dante wanted to think anyway, undead drawn to warmth and life didn't seem too far to reach.

"You holding up?" Dante said kicking a handful of corpses back so he could hack at them one at a time as they lunged for them.

“A necromancer? An apostate in need of a few new— bodies—” He grunts, busy with his own (substantially less flashy) work: plucking up stragglers, keeping distance with the occasional retreat towards Dante's flank any time pressing out too far proved more risky than fortuitous.

Over half a year in Thedas, and he isn't the fledgling killer he'd been before on arrival, stumbling through the Fade in desperate need of protection, practically adhered to Fenris' side for everything he himself lacked (and everything that marked elf possessed in spades). His dagger sinks in deep between calcified ribs, ichor pouring down its length. It does the favor of distracting him from the resentment of remembering a muted expression of pride etched across an otherwise dour face.

Something they'd drank to, after surviving the wastes.

Bone snaps beneath his hands.

“Maybe someone possessed. Or an ancient, utterly resentful spirit.” Those, at least, this world seems to have in spades. “And besides, didn’t anyone ever tell you? Good people always die first.”

Still, this is exhausting work. Possibly divine payback for his opting to abstain from Riftwatch's most recent attack. The herd is thinning, the bodies dredging themselves up from nearby bog beds lessening, but he's only a vampire spawn. Barely even that, anymore. After cutting down his own share, he's shifted more to a defensive position; branching out far less overall.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, panting through his teeth by the thinnest amount before adding all too quickly, “there, at the edge of the water— a demon— ”

Gesture offhanded quite literally, as he's forced to drag one of his twin blades loose from the nearest clawing corpse to motion towards the muddied mire where a sickly green glow is only just visible against the brush, no doubt fully submerged beneath the surface.

And besides, didn’t anyone ever tell you? Good people always die first.

"Maybe," Dante said, the shrug could be heard in the sound of his voice in lieu of his ability to gesture. He was otherwise preoccupied with putting as many of the undead back into the dirt as he could manage before they could be overwhelmed, "but not today!"

Even though it felt like they were making progress he could sense Astarion was wearing thin retreating closer to Dante who moved to bat some incoming corpses away from him. He wasn't entirely sure if there was a touch of resentment there, he understood it having experimented enough to know what coming here had taken from him. How it had leased and minimized his own abilities and how it created consequences for the use of his power.

To someone who'd been able to fight freely and with all of his skill for most of his life, considering the consequences was a hard pill to swallow. Not being able to do more when he was used to doing things that were impossible slapped harder than he thought it would. He was a doer and a loner, waiting and following leads was never his specialty and not being able to have a go at their primary enemy was certainly a frustration the boiled in the pit of his stomach somewhere.

He kept it in check, but that didn't mean he couldn't understand the frustration.

Having the demon pointed out to him Dante refocused his attention to the edge of the water where he could see what Astarion was talking about. What leapt out of the green glow was a spindly, disjointed creature, its face distorted by large mandibles, a whiplike tail lashing about it, its mouth appeared to be a gaping hole stretching to its neck, and from here Dante could not count the creature's eyes.

On the face of it the demon was quite terrifying and Dante could only assume that this demon was the source of their current situation, "the sake's head, huh?"

The momentary distraction had cost him and he felt the sting of an arrow pierce his right shoulder, the timing was good, at least on behalf of the demon that promptly disappeared and then reappeared, springing up between himself and Astarion. It threw out of the way, disengaging him from his partner in the process, probably the purpose. Stunned for a moment Dante stretched his hand out realizing the Sparda Sword had also been separated from him in the attack.

That wasn't his immediate concern, however, when he could roll himself out of the mud, he took stock of their situation. A demon now in their midst was enough chaos to allow the Undead leverage over them, leverage they didn't have when Astarion was at his back.

"Astarion!"

Where the hell was he?

A blinding burst of nauseating green light and then—

Gone.

No shock of white hair visible amongst a miserable backdrop, no coy commentary amidst the groaning din. Sharp as Astarion’s senses are, he’d lost his footing in the initial, disorienting snap of that creature’s relocation, and sprawled out atop rain-slicked grass his eyeline is a mess of looming figures— all made worse by that emaciated, eye encrusted creature, twisting snakelike towards him. The whispering he hears isn’t Dante’s, but it does, so easily eclipse whatever call might otherwise catch his attention.

Fear is a wicked thing. Astarion might as well be perpetually poisoned with it for everything he’s kept from his own world. Everything he’s learned from this one—

But the remarkable thing about knowledge is that it makes even the most wretched nightmares thinner at the seams: he knows what this demon is. What it preys on. Recognizes its face from countless pressed pages back in the Gallows’ study. It isn’t a calming realization— it just gives him enough bitter animosity to willfully force those whispers aside the moment overgrown claws come crashing down.

He darts sideways. Rolls to his heels into what’s left of the gathered undead, the literal definition of dodging a rock to fit himself into an unforgivably hard place. There, at least, he can see Dante’s distinct weapon laid out in the muck. Somewhere beyond it, far over the thorny span of that monster’s shoulder, Dante himself.

His mind is made up by the time the undead take hold of him. It stays on that decisive path when he lunges forward, pulling against their hold to let the weighty leather of that borrowed coat slide off completely in the same breath, dislodging him entirely from an otherwise damning grasp. He has to be swift. Shapeless. And he is, springing ahead in a serpentine pattern that might stand as a testament to former vampiric prowess, not yet forgotten. Silent as death, toes over heels, even across clinging mud, until he’s snatched that sword up and—

strewth

Spindly claws have wound their way around his ankle like an anchor, yanking him back against his own momentum and leaving him flat against the earth, all the air lost from his lungs on impact alone: ungraceful, chest-first.

He levers himself up with gloved hands, pulling that sword back, and heaving it towards Dante with as much force as he can muster.

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