faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

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[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

WHO: Astarion, Loki, Emet-Selch, Dante, possibly others etc
WHAT: catch all for doing some Good for the Cause
WHEN: somewhere around the week following Satinalia party 2.0
WHERE: various
NOTES: violence, brief gore (noted in the specific subject line)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

There's a cacophony of activity spiraling around them in the dark, dead bodies possessed by demons descending on them was enough to deal with without throwing a demon who could dart in and out of his line of vision into the mix. Between throwing corpses off of him and defending himself with his fists and well-aimed kicks and dodging blades and arrows in the process, he could barely make out the scuffle taking place elsewhere. Still, Astarion managed to catch his eye and now that Dante knew his location, he could fight his way in that direction, shouldering off corpses, ignoring their weapons to the best of his own ability when it came to pain.

He managed to pull himself away from the discordant bramble of limbs growling and screeching at them just in time to catch the Sparda and for one brief moment his mind returned to a different fight. One of similar circumstances, where a woman with his mother's face threw this same sword to him before she was swallowed up...and Dante hadn't been able to do a damned thing to save her from Urizen, from Vergil. Snapping back to the present moment it was Astarion's face he was seeing and determined not to relive that same miserable moment he decided to access his Devil Trigger, regardless of the consequences.

It wrapped Dante in a swirl of light that was both fire and the void, an entirely different creature assimilating him and emerging and it was difficult to tell if this new beast was some brand of demon or dragon or both or neither. His inky black skin was protected by an armor of scales, with bursts of molten red coruscating beneath the cracks, like the flow of basaltic lava. His hands and feet ended in claws, and even his face was unrecognizable with blazing eyes gazing out of it and bared teeth now two rows of fangs, not the same playful impishness that was Dante.

Spreading his wings aggressively Dante threw back the remaining corpses still trying to clamor for his attention. This was followed by a a swift swing from the Sparda, now eliciting flames, and when the fire ignited one corpse it seemed to hop to the next. Dante didn't pay it much attention, it was the best thing for them really, and he had more important things to worry about.

While he couldn't technically use his wings to fly, Dante could glide and hover, plus they gave him the leverage he needed to launch himself between the demon and corpses looming over Astarion before they could start tearing into him. Pulling his companion up from the mud he wrapped his left arm and a leathery armored wing around him. It was the safest place Dante could think of right now especially given the limit he had on using this power. Beneath the ferocity of this form, the chainmail of scales, there was a strong scent of blood and a sese that this new form was actually hurting the man underneath it.

It was. So, with the speed granted to him by this place he put several yards between themselves, the demon, and the corpses wanting only to draw out the demon--something that would be easier to dispatch and would deal with their overall problem.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, not looking down at Astarion, but addressing him while keeping his eyes peeled for the telltale signs of green that meant the demon was about to strike. The voice that came out of him wasn't even recognizable, it was something harder, mechanical, it lacked much of the warmth Dante usually spoke with.

There he is at last.

The scent Astarion had picked up before when they'd first met. The strange ripple of a visual flicker present in low firelight, now fully bared beneath him where he clings to the unexpected pattern of jagged scaling rather than skin, or cloth, or—

Anything recognizable, really.

But it’s him, all the same.

“Not to worry, I wasn’t about to let something so unforgivably hideous do me in.” It slips free as something near to a breathy chuckle in the shadow of that wing's curling span, barring the worst of the battle from his own field of view. “Though I’ll be honest, playing the handsome hero is normally my role.”

On the heels of Astarion's voice comes yet another faint bloom of preemptive green, crawling towards Dante's inhuman silhouette. One second of warning. One moment to react before they'll no doubt face a reprise of all earlier chaos.

"Atta boy," Dante responded in kind, glad to hear that Astarion's indomitable spirit was alive and well and not crushed by their current circumstances. A clawed hand came to rest on his head briefly, a gesture of appreciation for that spirit before freeing it up for the attack that was certainly forthcoming, "you'll get to be the handsome hero the next time we play this game, I promise."

That voice that was so far from anything human, that sounded like words being growled instead of spoken belied the humor that was clearly intended for Astarion's sake. As much humor as he could muster given their current state of affairs. For the most part his gaze was fixed, all of his senses seemed to be attuned for where the creature might approach from. Judging by its behavior patterns and its strategy for thinning the heard, separating Astarion from his side, Dante wasn't taken by surprise when the sickly green light of the Fade betrayed its position.

Beneath them.

The hand on Astarion's head curled around his waist as he quickly sidestepped the attack, coming face-to-face with the demon when it sprung up from beneath their feet. The Sparda in hand quickly shifted from blade to spear and ha rammed it right into the maw of the demon, the bony spines gripping the creature, holding it in place while allowing the spear to shift once more into a sword. Splitting the demon's head in half was the goal, but Dante didn't stop there, he swung the sword downward, splitting it in half and with a few more strikes bisected it across the middle and diagonally. There was little time to make any kind of sport of it and he wanted to make sure the creature was dead.

At least he hoped the creature would die, they would be truly out of their depth if it could survive this.

Thankfully for everyone present, despite being a particularly tenacious terror demon, it's no fear demon. No pristinely manifested form of festering, calcified fright made real. And close as they are to one another, it's more than easy to blot out any attempts the creature's presence might make to draw upon old memories— all of it blotted out by the weight of a clawed hand pressed tight against his side.

The sword splinters gnarled, twisted flesh as it slams to muddied earth, boring in for all the force expended. Within moments, their once-adversary burns away like ash, unravelling as though the Fade's magic is entirely spent and done. The air is clearer, the shambling undead— either unshackled or simply having sunk back into menial hibernation in the muck— are so thinned as to be nonexistent in the wake of Dante's prior attack. Even the rain's stopped, though to be fair, it'd stopped hours ago; Astarion's just keenly aware of it now.

"Well." He exhales, catching his own breath by way of it now that everything seems to be coming down. "That's one way to wake up."

Not the best way, but certainly one way.

A wave of relief washed over Dante as the horde of undead seemed to melt back into the earth as though they'd never been. So, the demon was the epicenter of the disruption and taking it out had been the right call after all. Good, because he couldn't maintain his Devil Trigger much longer and feeling somewhat reassured at this point, he dropped the transformation.

He'd only used his Devil Trigger in distant, isolated training just to see what he could do here and it was a punishing experience. He was fighting for his own footing now doing his level best not to put his weight down on Astarion, but finding it unavoidable not to lean on him a little bit. Once he'd relinquished his power, he felt his entire body sag, he couldn't see it but his skin was ashen, the color drained from the amount of blood required to fuel the ability.

That was new.

There were unprovoked cuts all over his body and each one percolating with his blood, power in exchange for pain. Power for a price.

Vergil would hate it...granted Dante wasn't having much fun to be entirely fair. He was also dealing with an arrowhead lodged in his shoulder and anticipating the good time he'd have digging that out unless he could sweettalk Astarion into doing it for him. Something to sort out later. Immediate-to-soon, or before he passed out completely.

"Yeah?" Dante said, the lingering visteges of humor on the edge of his voice as he looked at Astarion the a curtain of silver hair matted to his face, "I love a good wake-up bitch slap, it's kinky."

Jutting contours melt away into battered skin and tacky fabric, and where Dante tries to keep from dropping his weight entirely against Astarion, Astarion himself is more than content to reach high and drag the wearied man forward, using that shift as a means to wrap his arm beneath Dante's own around the curvature of his back, shouldering the whole of his exhaustion.

He is, if nothing else, shockingly strong.

Their footsteps back inside are slow, Astarion's voice uniquely light.

"I somehow doubt that demon shared your affinity. A shame." Mild, almost distractingly so— which might very well be the point, given the care shown when he helps Dante ease down onto the bedroll he'd abandoned earlier.

"You two might've made a cute couple."

When drawn in to use Astarion as a crutch, Dante didn't fight it, it was foreign to be the one leaning on someone else and it's been a long time since he's had to rely on anyone in this way. Going with it He curls an arm around Astarion's shoulders as they hobble their way back to the shanty and while he doesn't deliberately bear down on his companion, he's still surprised that Astarion could shoulder him all the way...but thinking back on it he'd picked up the Sparda and lobbed it in Dante's direction and he hld his own in close combat for an impressive amount of time.

Astarion was deceptively strong, and Dante was, decidedly, impressed.

"My disappointment is immeasurable, and my day is ruined. First the mop, then ass-face, my love life is cursed," Dante attempted to match the tone of the conversation but his voice was strained, and every gesture took monumental effort, even though he was being guided. Laying down, however, was something he did easily enough finally releasing his sword and letting it fall to the floor with a thud.

Now that he was still the injuries were more vibrant to him than they were when his adrenaline was still pumping through him and he was more concerned about their survival, but it brough him back to the arrow. His transformation had snapped the body of it off and left the head inside of his shoulder. It wouldn't heal effectively if left alone, "ah...speaking of kinky, I need to ask a favor...well guess there's no way to gracefully ask someone to go digging around their injuries to pull out an arrowhead. Do you mind?"

He's so graceful.

"Well. Since you asked nicely." Astarion gently huffs, a breathy noise only vaguely related to something of a laugh. He's busy looking over those injuries with his eyes as much as his own hands, noting the deepest, the most likely to fester before they have a chance to mend naturally by way of Dante's own regeneration, or a visit to a healer.

At last he settles on the gash in Dante's shoulder, studying it for a lengthy, drawn-out beat.

And then he pulls out one of his own glassy daggers, tucking it between sharp teeth while plucking up the alcohol from the night before, still half-laid on its side by cooling embers: the blade's washed first, bathed in a splash of spirits until its edge is clear and slick. The fact that he opts to straddle Dante is a practical choice, despite— well, despite Astarion being precisely who he is.

Without a roaring fire, the house is dark, even to Astarion's hawkish eyes. The more leverage he has, the more access to the wound, the clearer his line of sight, the better this will go.

More importantly, the less painful it will be overall.

The blade hovers in midair as Astarion leans in, voice almost thready when he asks, "Should I get you something to bite down on, darling?"

Dante watched Astarion set about working a mixture of curiosity and appreciation etched into a face that clearly wanted little more than to fall asleep knowing there was still work to be done. He knew Astarion wasn't a healer, but he seemed to have some idea of what he was doing, more than Dante anyway who simply would have gone ham with a knife until he managed to dig the thing out. If the injury had been in a better place, somewhere he could actually see what he was doing, he might have done it. Probably best all-around that this was a shoulder wound, and it was Astarion's clever fingers doing the work rather than his own shovel hands.

When Astarion straddles him, Dante didn't think anything of it, who he is or what that entailed has very little bearing on the favor that's being done for the half-demon currently. It might not be a big deal but taking someone's help especially when he's injured is a huge ask for Dante and while the view is nothing to complain about the service being granted to him is worthy of the respect it is owed.

When the subject of biting down on something came up, Dante considered that for a moment, it was probably a good idea, better than potentially biting down on his tongue...always a possibility.

"Pretty please?" Hey, he's asking nicely, but he's also looking around for something that would be suitable his eyes dropping to his waist. Belt, he has one of those, it's not currently buckled so he moves with his uninjured side to attempt to yank it free, "this should work, right?"

“So long as you don’t somehow have the natural jaw strength of a dire tiger.” Astarion murmurs absently, not bothering to look as Dante does what he has to for the sake of precaution; he’s still studying the injury, relieved it hasn’t begun closing yet.

It’d only make this worse, after all.

Blade flat against the outer edge of the wound, Astarion uses it as a guideline to sink the flattened tip of his dagger in deep, waiting until he feels harsh weight scrape along its side when shifting it, rather than the open give of flesh. Blood wells, strong enough to dilate his eyes on instinct—

But he doesn’t need it anymore. The lack of craving doing wonders to keep the whole of him focused on the task at hand.

His mind stays clear when he twists the knife, forcing an opening broad enough for his own fingertips to slip just inside, easily catching the brittle end of that arrow— and pulling it free with a single, fluid motion. Yanking against the grain to keep it from slipping.

He only exhales when it’s done. When he can set to work flushing the wound with a dash more alcohol, cloth quickly pressed down to stem any livid bleeding in the aftermath.

“There— it’s over. You’re all right.”

The way he says it, it isn’t teasing. Or joking. Just...low. Sincere, as much as it is hushed.

"Well, I like this belt so let's hope not," and because he liked it that Dante folded it with the interior of the belt taking the belt taking the damage should his bite become aggressive. It was pain, he's endured worse, but he's also not as durable as he once was, he felt closer to his humanity that way, but it did have its disadvantages.

Fortunately for the both of them this place was inconsistent when it came to his healing factor, small injuries Dante noticed could mend quite easily, multiple small injuries took longer to heal, and he suspected that the worse the injury was the longer it would take to heal. The shoulder injury compounded with other small injuries and the penalty of his Devil Trigger had taken its toll on Dante's ability to heal himself.

He would require more time than he had when they experimented with the knife in the tavern.

He inhaled, trying to keep his breathing even, telling himself he needed nothing more than to endure it, that it was pain and pain would pass, that there were worse things. That didn't stop him from throwing his head back and unleashing his displeasure in howl that was choked by the belt he was bearing down on. Blood quickly became mingled with sweat as the moments ticked down too slowly for Dante's liking even though he knew Astarion was doing his best. It took every ounce of what he had left not to move a single muscle even though raw nerves and exposed tissue were searing from the incision of the blade.

It was hardly more pleasant when Astarion's fingers penetrated his shoulder to retrieve the arrowhead eliciting another noise that was part shock and something very raw and guttural. There was a mild sensation of relief when it was over only to feel the shock of pain once again as the wound was cleaned with alcohol. If he'd been burned worse by anything else in his life, he had no memory of it but apparently, he was too exhausted from fighting, pain, and the struggle not to move a muscle that his only protestation was a tired groan while Astarion administered the final touches.

Finally, it's just breathing, slow breathing, body collapsed and muscles finally loosening now that he could move without causing more damage. He looked up at Astarion blinking owlishly as if trying to clear the fog brought on by the livewire of pain.

"Thank you," his voice is hoarse and brittle, but he manages enough strength to find it, and enough strength to reach up and smooth Astarion's hair out of his face before letting his hand drop back to his side, "and if I forget to tell you later, you're first-class."

He's punch-drunk for sure, but he can manage the compliment before unconsciousness overwhelms him, Astarion's earned that much.

Rough fingers brush the curls from his face, pressing them aside with care, and Astarion in turn...freezes. Goes utterly still in the seconds between its start and Dante's own withdrawal, red eyes gone slightly wide, as though waiting for something to sour. Or sharpen. Or—

Funny, that for all his wicked games when it comes to touch and teasing, it's those genuine offerings that overwhelm.

But once refocused, binding the wound is a tedious process, particularly with the supplies they have on hand. Sparing, to say the least; the mission was meant to be far simpler a thing in theory than in practice, and once Dante slips away into slumber, Astarion finishes the lengthier process of wrapping it— alongside any other deeper injuries— before rising to (first) retrieve Dante’s battered jacket from where he’d been forced to shed it in the fight, pressing on in search of that lost cargo.

When he finds it, he wastes no time in sinking it deep into the mire by force, rescuing only a few scraps of recognizably patterned cloth beforehand (and ensuring they’re dirtied enough to be rendered nigh unusable).

It doesn’t feel as satisfying as he’d hoped, his sabotage. And not because it comes easily. Just—

He doesn’t know.

It can’t be guilt, but maybe— maybe just a touch of something bordering on thinking it a shame that Dante had fought so hard for something he’s now decisively undone. But the world is cruel, and life is unfair, and if nothing else they’ve slain the demon plaguing this stretch, acquiring proof of effort in the process. It’s not as if they’ll be going home empty-handed, after all.

When he returns, he tucks the ruined fabric within their pack, and lays Dante’s coat overtop of him. A stand in for a blanket when they have none.

Like so much else, it’s not the worst substitute.

The disbelief on his companion's face is the last thing etched into mind before Dante slips into unconsciousness. He's out before Astarion even begins dressing his wounds, his body slipping into full recovery mode, sleep being the greatest healer but also the most time consuming. For Astarion that was likely a blessing in disguise, it would give him all the time he needed to sink the cargo and then some.

Blissfully unaware, he wouldn't know what to mage of the sabotage if it was a factor in his mind, considering they'd come all this way for it together. Sticking it to the man? Upset that their lives had been endangered because of some paltry items they'd only be getting scraps off of? The reality was that Dante could sympathize with the sentiment and a part of him ached at Astarion being out here so close to getting hurt because of his own stubborn and competitive nature. Dante's self-awareness was the reason he often worked alone, he didn't even like the thought of bringing Trish or Lady with him on missions and they were the most badass women he knew.

He cared too much, and he'd lost to much in front of his own eyes to put himself through it.

Fortunately, his thoughts were plagued by nothing, just emptiness a black void of nothing for an extended period of time that the half-demon couldn't even begin to wonder at. It was probably the best kind of healing sleep, within hours the smaller injuries had closed, stitching themselves back together as though they'd never been there. Like perfectly polished alabaster, impervious and untouchable. The deeper wounds took much longer to heal, was he there for a day, was he there longer, he didn't know, but when he finally opened his eyes those injuries, while not completely healed, were raw and pink and still ached.

It was enough to move, to stretch his arms and scrub his face and finally roll himself up into a sitting position. He wasn't fully aware of where he was, if he was alone or not, he was aware of the weight of his jacket falling into his lap, the heavy, well-worn material as faithful to him as it had ever been, "damn...how long have I been out..."

Spoken mostly to himself.

“Long enough that I had to check to make sure you weren’t dead on more than one occasion.” Astarion hums with a mellow sort of cheer. The kind that chases an exceedingly long day— or in this case, a particularly long stretch of them.

From where he’s settled at Dante’s side, Astarion lifts one hand to pat gently along the midpoint of that coat where it rests across his ribs. Good morning.

Well. Good morning despite the hour, which— between a lit fire and the dismal blanketing of pitch-dark rain outside, seems to indicate it’s the dead of night.

“Feeling better?”

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cw: gross injury stuff

cw: we love to see it!

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