mississippi boys, inner city boys

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

Night falls long and slow over Torchline, and though the sun dips down below the horizon, the blessed heat remains. Having booked the same inn and the same room they'd found themselves in that fateful evening after all that had happened in The Hanged Man, it had been curiously nostalgic to return there; Danta had spent more than a couple of minutes, in fact, checking to see if there were still bloodstains or scorch marks or wood scored by a fyrhund's claws.

A shower had called soon after, though, and now that he's washed the sand and the blood from his body, the evening feels all the fresher for it. The Maverick stands out at the balcony in the twilight, shirtless with his blond hair drying around his shoulders in soft waves free of seasalt. A pair of light, somewhat ragged jeans sit low on his hips, spaded tail flicking idly as he watches the streets below.

Taking a drag from the cigarette between his lips - he'd snagged a pack of them en route back to the inn that afternoon - the light flares briefly on his face, before he's exhaling the smoke over the balcony and considering, perhaps, whether he might persuade Astaroth to go out that evening.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //