hold you to the light, let you shine

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

It's true that with his wings spread the Maverick-turned-lyvern seems quite the impressive size - certainly enough to corner and panic the stag before he sets himself upon it. Once those leathery appendages fold, though, the shift is quite compact; should Asta ever want to, given his height, he might be able to manhandle Danta as a lyvern. (If he ever feels like grabbing a small bear-sized creature, that is).

With the stench of iron thick in the air and crimson soaking into the earth beneath the fallen creature, the Maverick is almost heedless to stop himself from feasting. Only the butcher's words give him pause, however faint they might sound, and he lifts his head to see the other man drop to his knees, pants instantly drenched in scarlet. Tracking the blade from his boot, the soft and dying bleat of the stag, the flecks of blood that coat his face, it truly is bold of Asta to assume Danta won't snap jagged teeth at him next.

He doesn't, though. But the lyvern's jaws do part to roar out a savage, keening, possessive sort of sound, one that bounces off the walls of the room and echoes long after. In the silence following it, only then does Danta shift back, his clothes saturated and ruined. He has the good grace to look a little sheepish, clearing his throat. "Sorry about that."

Dantalion