[SE] its denser now than ever

you're livin' for the rush, for that royal flush, but you take what you can get

"Mm, I suppose not. They don't really have ears, do they?" Danta says with a scrunch of his nose, watching half over his shoulder as Asta corrals the mud-man away with a mixture of threats, fire and coaxing, unable to stop the smile that tries to sneak across his face. He does force himself to actually do what he'd said he'd do, though, turning back to the brambles and starting to poke around to find a lead on their prisoner.

Of course, he zones in on the broken branches and torn cloth like a hound scenting blood, and by the time Asta has managed to shoo away the mud-man so they can focus on their fun, he'll find the Maverick crouched in the undergrowth, turning the scrap of fabric over in his hands, his expression gone eerily neutral. Nodding down the trail, he cocks a sudden smile across to the other man.

"This way," he says, quiet and dangerous, before tossing the torn bit of cloth to the ground and setting off with all the fluid agility of a big cat. Instinctively avoiding the branches that will crack underfoot and the areas of wet mud where he'll leave obvious footprints or risk getting stuck, it's not long before Danta is acting entirely on instinct, quickly closing in on the escaping man.

Dantalion

you play your final ace for a pretty face, tastes like scotch and cigarettes