don't you ever tame your demons

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Danta doesn't see Asta go down, focused as he is on the new flush of instinct and need that sings through his bones and in his blood. Nothing like this has ever existed in him before - pure predator, sleek and defiant and unyielding to rules or expectations. Snorting a lick of fire and snapping his maw, revealing rows upon rows of white, jagged teeth, it takes a second for the Maverick to orient himself towards the sound of a familiar voice.

And when he does, he regards Asta with a mix of confusion and curiosity, as if to ask him what he's doing all the way down there. On the ground, on his ass, whichever makes the most sense. Leaning in close, his serpentine neck curving gracefully to lower his snout towards the butcher, he gives him a nudge with warm, rough scales - gentle, for a dragon, but likely enough to almost throw him back off his feet if he's made it upright.

Why yes I am, he seems to blink at the other man, his talons flexing and dragging up rock and earth beneath them. How about that.

Stretching his wings out to catch the warm billows of air that breeze across The Climb, he lifts his head almost longingly towards the sky, but equally doesn't want to abandon Asta here on the ground. There will be time for it later, he assures himself.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //