to anyone who might care

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

If there is a storm inside the Temple, then Danta waits for her directly in the eye of it. He has warned Charlie in advance that he might owe her some new decor by the time the night is through, which is far, far more warning than anyone else is like to get from the Maverick. And now he stands before the firebowl he'd constructed in Dygra's name - one of the first things he'd done upon coming to the Grounds, in fact - with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyes on the dancing flames.

Danta, much to the surprise of anyone watching him leave the Dusklight that evening, looks surprisingly put together; dark pants and a charcoal shirt tucked into them, polished boots, blonde hair pulled up into a sleek tail with a number of silver bands and chains adorning the pale crystal of his horns.

If you'd asked him a few days ago what he might have done should he come face to face with Maea again, he'd have been able to tell you. One day ago and he'd have changed his mind. Two hours ago? Different yet again. And now he's entirely unsure what will come of their encounter, only that he's promised Astaroth that there will only be words - and he'd hate to have to lie to the man later.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //