laps up the vice like a wolf in the night

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

The shadow falls over him and Danta is already casting his eyes down as if in fear of some sort of punishment, before the world catches up to him and he realises that, whilst they are in The Climb, it isn't the one of their memory. Mostly, anyway; he and Astaroth have proven in only the past hour that for all their posturing, for all their we are not the men we were, whatever The Climb has made of them still lurks not so far beneath the surface.

Holding up a hand as if to stay the butcher's apology and still unable to meet his eyes, the Maverick picks himself up onto wobbly feet. Covered in gore and viscera as he is, someone has even stolen the ribbon from his robe, leaving it open unless he snatches it shut like some maiden caught undressing. "Thanks for bringing me out here," he mutters, his voice a little hollow, and he gestures to the pyrina as if for context (not that it's needed).

"And I'm sorry that I struck you." Rolling tense shoulders, he picks around the carcass on bare feet and steps by Astaroth, leaving a polite amount of distance between them. Only as he's halfway to the entrance of The Burrows does he glance over his shoulder, blue eyes tired and dark with the shadow of some deep pain.

"I am not her," he says stiffly. "You aren't a prisoner, or property. You can go wherever you please, for however long you please. I won't wait on you, or ask you about it again."

Dantalion