[SE] its denser now than ever

// don't you fight my hold on you //

Prepped and ready for the day, the butcher seems almost a bit too excited to get it underway. After the events of the season had sent him in what was essentially a recovery mode, Asta was lucky that his plan hadn’t been interrupted too terribly long. After all, it wasn’t like the prisoner was going to go anywhere unless he said so.

With everything in motion, it’s to the Outer Brambles, over the variety of bone bridges illuminated by the dawn and caked in mud that still seemed to be everywhere. Today is better already, though, with the sun fending off the fog of the morning, bleeding it away slowly as Asta guides Danta to the starting spot. Everything is kept hidden, but this particular spot of the Brambles was more tangled and knotted than the rest of it and most certainly not known by the prisoner on how to get out.

And the butcher himself is absolutely full of a frenzy with it – the way his tail flicks back and forth eagerly, shooting a sharp and bright grin over toward Danta as he reaches out so they stop precisely where he wants them to. “Alright, darling.” He interrupts their idle chatter about the chill in the morning or the somewhat long walk from where they’d taken a wagon from the Inner Quarter to here. “This is all for you, so have fun and destroy whatever it is you would like.” Asta will only judge if he doesn’t get to be a part of it.

His hand lifts to cup and caress his cheek, leaning in to steal a warm and long kiss with a lick of flame from his mouth, when he pulls away and flashes an old traditionally cheshire grin. “We are hunting a prisoner. One found guilty of theft and the attempted murder of a child.” His dark brows rise, leaning back on his heels to release the Maverick as his tail wags with even more excitement. “Now, he has been released just before we got here, which means he has got a head start. And, as we both know, that means little compared to the likes of you and your capabilities.” A bit of old-fashioned blood lust helps, too, he’s sure. Just as his own seems to be chomping at the bit, especially with the idea of finally indulging in something that wasn’t traditional food-meats. “So, what do you say?”

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

Danta isn't not excited, don't get him wrong - it's just been a very early start for something that Asta has been calling a birthday gift, and he'd spent the majority of the wagon ride out here dozing into the other man's shoulder. The walk has certainly helped though, and the Maverick is watching the eerie roll of the fog as it flees the rays of the sun when his lover speaks up in a way that suggests something is about to happen. And so, turning to lend him his full attention, his gaze sharpens into focus as the words have fun and destroy filter through, a fiendish little smile tugging at his lips.

Asta kisses him on the mouth before he can even consider a response, not that Danta minds one bit, and his smile has turned a bit hazy when the other man pulls away at last, the Maverick's hand lingering warmly against his chest. "I say," he begins, fully intending to purr his indulgent agreement back at the butcher, before something really weird catches his eye over the butcher's shoulder.

"I say what the fuck is that?" Scoffing out a quiet laugh, he gestures for Asta to look as well; across the undergrowth - and quite a feat it is, considering how dense and tangled up it all is out here - what looks like an old snowman is sludging towards them. Only it's made entirely of mud, its little coal eyes partially dripping off its face, the sticks of its arms lopsided and sad-looking.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

He’d known it was a devilishly good plan the second he set his sights onto it, and when Danta’s little smile tugs at his lips, it only solidifies it in his mind. It’s a sensation he presses into the kiss, withdrawing before he gets carried away, parting to let him answer what he thinks about the gift when it’s horribly interrupted by one of the least favorite things the butcher’s dealt with this season.

Turning to look at it, his tail flicks in annoyance, raising a dark brow as he takes in the mud-man and its sagging goal eyes. It looks sad, but after the events of the Greatwood and their mud monsters, the butcher doesn’t take much in terms of chances. His hands wreathe in flame and he glances over at Danta, willing to let him strike first. “Shall we put it out of its misery?” He asks, inclining his head toward Danta.

Letting Danta take the first strike, the butcher sweeps in behind him with fire licking at his hands and fingertips, swelling around him with eagerness to burn the mud monster into nothing but hardened dirt so that they can hopefully crumble it to its demise so that they can get on with the real fun of the day.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Awww, but lookit him," Danta says through a laugh, watching the mud-man slorp its way across the nettles and sharp scrub and leaning against the butcher as if to share his warmth and quiet the sudden lashing of his tail. "But you're right, I suppose. This is a distraction from all your very hard work for the day." Sighing and stepping away from Asta, Danta gives the mud-man a quirky little bow of apology. "Sorry to ruin your day," he says, before he's also stepping forward with fire twisting between his fingers.

With a heated strike of his hand he sends the mud-man's head tumbling away, the Maverick watching with satisfaction as it lands with a splat! in the grass nearby. Even as Asta sweeps in behind him, though, the memory mud is already trying to put itself back together; Danta is forced to hop out of the way so he doesn't interrupt the pathway of head back to body, scoffing out another laugh as he raises his eyebrows towards his lover.

"I think it's really keen to keep being whatever it was when it was snow, y'know."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

“He is ugly.” Asta responds swiftly on the heels of Danta’s aww, his nose wrinkling with distaste despite the smile that remains on his face. It’s got a sharper edge, more of a flare of anticipation for the fire that clings to them even as Danta steps in to smooth out the lashing of his tail, leaving it bumping against his leg in shorter whipping motions. “What?” Asta says, turning his attention immediately to Danta with the cheeky bow, a snort leaving him. “You did not ruin my day.” It was Danta’s day, after all.

It doesn’t seem to matter much, though, because as he turns back around, he’s lashing out with fire toward the creature, immediately snapping its head from its body and the butcher watches with bright admiration before he’s sweeping in with a blast of fire that he pours into the main body of the creature, drying it out slowly but surely in furls of yellow, gold, and orange.

Nodding as he catches Danta’s gaze, he laughs softly. “You know, I imagine it would have been more appealing if it had stayed a snowman.” Instead of turning into mud completely, to slump and slorp all over the place. That, or Asta’s still not quite over the giant dragon-esque mud monster that had exploded on him (because he’s certainly keeping some distance).

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"How cruel," Danta tuts, though it's true that the mud-man is nothing particularly exciting to look at. "And I was talking to the mud," he informs him - of both the bow and the apology for that matter, since he's quite certain they've ruined the creature's day. (Does it even count as a creature? Thoughts for another time). "I imagine so as well," he says, tilting his head as the memory mud recombines and tries to continue on its way.

"You've got to give credit to its perseverence," he remarks, smirking and opting to grab a suitable looking branch instead, trying to prod the mostly-dried out mess into changing direction, at least, so it can go, er, wherever it's going in a direction that's away from where they're trying to have their fun. "Think you can persuade it to keep on that way? I'm gonna try and get a sense of our friend and his headstart..."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

He’s been called worse, honestly. The creature/mud/thing is ugly and he’ll die on the hill that confirms it’s precisely as awful as he thinks it is. Just so long as he’s out of reach enough to avoid getting the mud in his outfit — one that may have been worn with the intention of getting dirty, but still not one he wants christened by Santa’s Saddest Snow-Mud Man.

“Oh, well, you should know they do not listen very well.” The butcher remarks about the mud creature’s listening skills (because if that were the case they might have made it out better from the mud dragon he’d fought weeks earlier). So he focuses on using fire and action to get it to heel, watching as portions break and flake off with its movement, letting the fire magic die in his hand as he watches Danta prod it with a stick.

It hobbles and leans heavily one way as its trajectory changes and Asta nods a short dip of his head to say that he probably can. “No, no. Not this way.” Comes the low hum, redirected with blasts of fire to keep it on course until it seems thoroughly annoyed with dealing with them and trundles off into a space far away from where they’re headed.

Turning back toward Danta, the butcher shoots him a shark tooth grin. “There. Any leads, darling?” Danta, in the time it took Asta to redirect the memory mud, will have found a small trail that probably pinpoints to the man — one of broken branches ran through in panic and relief at being “freed”, a piece of torn cloth hanging to one of the branches further in.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Mm, I suppose not. They don't really have ears, do they?" Danta says with a scrunch of his nose, watching half over his shoulder as Asta corrals the mud-man away with a mixture of threats, fire and coaxing, unable to stop the smile that tries to sneak across his face. He does force himself to actually do what he'd said he'd do, though, turning back to the brambles and starting to poke around to find a lead on their prisoner.

Of course, he zones in on the broken branches and torn cloth like a hound scenting blood, and by the time Asta has managed to shoo away the mud-man so they can focus on their fun, he'll find the Maverick crouched in the undergrowth, turning the scrap of fabric over in his hands, his expression gone eerily neutral. Nodding down the trail, he cocks a sudden smile across to the other man.

"This way," he says, quiet and dangerous, before tossing the torn bit of cloth to the ground and setting off with all the fluid agility of a big cat. Instinctively avoiding the branches that will crack underfoot and the areas of wet mud where he'll leave obvious footprints or risk getting stuck, it's not long before Danta is acting entirely on instinct, quickly closing in on the escaping man.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

Squinting at the mud monster as he corrals it away, the butcher snorts a little and shakes his head. “No, they do not appear to.” Perhaps that made more sense than he’d originally given the mud creatures credit for. Either way, it’s a thought that’s there and lost immediately upon the retreating form of the creature, sluggish and slow with how it doesn’t have all of its mobility.

Turning back to his lover, the butcher steps over in time to find the Maverick crouched amongst branches and leaves, inspecting a scrap of fabric that’s the tell tale sign that it’s the prisoner they’re after. It’s calculated and quiet, the way that Danta inspects the track left behind, and he thinks momentarily that had he been born in Whitebrim just as Asta was, they would have made one hell of a scouting team.

It's a touch of pride and excitement to watch as he pinpoints where exactly the man has run off to, trailing behind him silently – equally just as much predator and with less agility than the Maverick has, that the butcher chases after. He, too, doesn’t leave prints as they close in, and before long they’ll find a clearing where the man has attempted to hide behind a large boulder in the right side of the clearing to catch his breath and to try and scheme his way out of it.

The only problem is that he’s staring in the opposite direction of them, having not yet made the connection that he’s being followed closely. So the two Ancients get a full view of the man trying to hide behind this boulder, peeking up and over it, mumbling to himself in a moment of insanity.

"After you, my Wasp." The butcher purrs in a tone low and only for Danta's ears, not hiding the sharp grin gracing his face.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

Whether in Whitebrim or even in the Climb; had they not been put so immediately at odds with one another, either region might have been graced with a duo whose skill borders on dangerous. Asta is all quiet calculation, predatory patience and careful observation. Danta, on the other hand, is instinct made material, a child of Dygra through and through, his bloodlust barely at bay as they close in on their meal. It's only Asta's tempering presence that keeps him in place, in fact, the Maverick crouched in the undergrowth to watch the man peek frantically over his boulder, and as the butcher's voice purrs into his ear, the smile that spreads across his lips is dark and gleeful.

With pupils blown wide to swallow the blue of his irises, Danta waits until he's right in the criminal's blind spot before he lunges out of the undergrowth, no longer trying to hide his footfalls. The man has just enough time to glance over his shoulder, to yelp in surprise, before the Maverick's hand is on the back of his neck, smashing his skull into the boulder with a quick and sickening crack.

Whether he's conscious or even alive before he hits the ground is none of Danta's business; he's on the man in moments either way, tearing at him with his bare hands.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

Oh, they would have been a force to be reckoned with had they been paired together. Between the way they both had to learn how to thrive, if they’d had each other to help them along in those aspects, something tells the butcher they’d have been a terrifying duo. That Danta might share his own spooky moniker, and that the Butcher of Whitebrim might have been less of a solitary ghost story, but – perhaps selfishly – a haunting love story.

For now, though, the butcher watches in pure murderous delight as his lover launches once the man’s completely avoided their gaze. The prisoner doesn’t even know what’s coming, knowing enough to turn when he hears the footsteps and panic befalls him – even more so to realize it is not the butcher darting his way, but the Theocrat himself. Asta, for his part, does not bolt over to join the fun – it’s Danta’s day, after all – instead, choosing a patient approach, watching as blood immediately pools from the prisoner’s nose with the force of which Danta’s smashed his face into the boulder he’d thought would protect him.

It is amusing, to say the least, that the prisoner’s main worry had been the butcher when the reality was that Danta was far more brutal. It’s something that Asta appreciates as he comes closer, still granting space as he knows how Danta is with his food. The man collapses, crumpling in on himself as Danta tears away at him. He’s still alive and with a burst of consciousness tries to kick out to try and loosen the hands that have started to tear into him.

It's a garbled cry that leaves him and the only way Asta does get involved – reaching out to pin his legs down to keep him from getting too loose so Danta can get the portions of him that he wants. And with each passing second, that life force within him starts to wilt and wither away as blood and torn flesh become the only point of focus for the pair.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

This is far from their first rodeo at this point, but even so, Danta will likely apologise to Asta later for the way the butcher completely vanishes into his periphery. The second the blood spikes through the air the Maverick is lost to it and to his bloodlust, and even as the prisoner struggles and swats at him, it only spurs him on. In fact, the poor criminal will find himself missing a finger or two, the digits bitten clean away with a spray of blood and crunch of bone, while Danta continues to rip into him.

Aware of Asta holding down his prey only as a presence somewhere behind him, as the clearing grows heavy with the stench of iron, the Maverick loses himself to the feast. He has no idea when he returns to himself, only that by the time he does, the man has stopped moving and his ribs stand cracked open, wet and glistening in the cold air. Breathing hard and feeling a snarl curl across his lips, he resists the urge to perform further violence only thanks to the dawning realisation of the butcher nearby, Danta sitting back enough for him to get his fill.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes

// don't you fight my hold on you //

Watching with open admiration as Danta slices fingers off, the butcher is resigned to keeping his hands to himself (he would prefer to keep them all, thank you very much) and instead works to restrain the bottom half of the prisoner as the fight is slowly lost. He really tries to go for it, though, and for that the butcher can find some appreciation in the fight. But as it stands, the man succumbs in a slow decline, until he’s no longer moving or breathing.

Just a limp, cracked open dinner waiting to be nibbled on. It’s about this time that Danta seems to recall Asta being there, and the butcher glances at him sideways to spy the slight snarl and the dripping fingers, the way he seems to come back to himself enough to know he’s there. And for that, the butcher takes it as his opportunity.

He’s impossibly quick to twist around and dive in himself — plucking innards out and devouring them with ease as a bloody hand withdraws the butcher’s pack brought with him. Unfurling it, the knife he withdraws is prime for flaying, letting him carve off some of his favorite places (most notably, the muscle above the collarbone). He carves and preps portions out, devouring some and sharing some with the Maverick, until he thinks enough time has passed for his lover to be less feral about it.

Which results in the butcher digging the knives in a space where Danta could utilize them if he wanted, but then it’s the butcher’s turn to get lost in the cooking prisoner’s corpse; sharp teeth and meticulous hands making very short work of more of the criminal.

Astaroth

// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

There will be little left of the corpse other than bone and viscera by the time they are done, and Danta is happy to leave that to the animals and the elements that roam the Outer Brambles. He samples a few pieces that Asta offers his way, but otherwise takes himself off to slouch against a tree nearby, covered in dirt and blood and feeling a warm haze settle over him with the conclusion of the hunt. By the time the butcher is losing himself to it as well, he's settled enough to absently lick the blood from his fingers, fire flaring around him in little motes to keep him from getting too chilly.

"I almost wish he'd run more," he says slowly, voice a little rough, mouth and face stained red. "They taste sweeter when they're out of breath." They probably don't, in actuality, but Danta's bone-deep trauma and the shackles of his past means it tastes that way to him regardless. "We should do this more often."

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes