stay your pretty eyes on course

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

There’s only one place he knows to go — and it isn’t even his own bar. The one he’d built to replace the one he’d burned down years ago.

No, instead of the blue and copper accented VlamVloed, the Flood seeks out red. The Dusklight is welcoming in a way most brothels and bars are to him — he’s Frey’s demigod, after all. This is his domain. And yet, rather than the swanning, cocky, confident demigod he should be portraying…

It’s a broken thing that steps into the Dusklight, ignoring each and every look that greets him, seeking out the bar and a hopefully familiar blonde behind it — to request paper and ink, to send a letter announcing that he’d failed.

Again.

He makes the mistake of not looking up at the bar when his scarred hand flattens against it, palm down and feathers sparking through his hair and tattooed shoulders. “Is.. Danta in?” Comes the quiet request, eyes flitting up to search, when his hEARs pick up an accented comment of ’do you think he is lost?’

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?

// divide me down to the smallest I can be //

"Danta is always in, Sunjata." If and when the Flood does finally look up, he'll find the Maverick perched atop the bar not two feet away from where he'd come to a stop, one leg crossed over the other and a glass of something rich and dark and frosted with ice held casually in hand. His has been one of the sets of eyes on the other man since the moment he'd slipped into the Dusklight, watching expectantly to see whether broken and morose is a fashion choice or whether there's something more to it.

The latter, as it happens.

"Not lost, no," he adds, glancing to Astaroth with a sly flash of teeth, letting his free hand casually brush across the butcher's shoulder with an affectionate squeeze, rings flashing in the lamplight. "I believe these sorts of places are to him the same as lighthouses are to ships. Asta, meet Frey's demigod Sunjata." He raises his glass in a quiet toast to the Flood, though his amusement is already fading into something quieter and more calculating.

"To what do we owe the pleasure this evening?"

Dantalion

// put your, put your v-v-venom in me //

run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine

It is a sad creature that waltzes into the Dusklight at this hour — right when the conversation had just gotten good. And Astaroth mourns it as the scarred, pitiful thing approaches, subconsciously straightening up as his dark gaze stares at him calculating already.

Made taller by the fact he doesn’t slouch, Astaroth is already intrigued by the fact the man hasn’t even looked up to see who he’s spoken to. “Do you think he is lost?” Is whispered early on, before Danta’s answering and the warmth of his lovers fingertips across his shoulders keeps him from immediately breaking up whatever kind of reunion this is.

The threaded cane flashes in the light as Asta shifts it between his hands, glancing back over at Danta with the introduction, though it doesn’t stop his nose from wrinkling. “Not the nature aspect, then, I presume.” Comes the accented judgement, leaning on the cane into Sunjata’s space before he withdraws.

Pure curiosity, of course. Though he is judging harshly, he keeps it locked behind his too sharp teeth as he settles into a placating smile toward the demigod. Solely for Danta’s benefit, drawing silent to let the two speak.

Astaroth

run, baby, run, run for your life

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

He’s used to ignoring comments, especially ones made about himself. And he ignores it because whomever the accented voice belongs to doesn’t matter. Not when he hears Danta’s purr of a voice and the Flood lifts his gaze to find the Theocrat, and the tension in his tattooed shoulders loosens some as he straightens. “Thank Frey,” he breathes, before his lightning scarred hand brushes through his hair and rubs at his face, ignoring whatever introduction it is (he hadn’t gotten the name), but he does look over toward the equally tall Ancient at his side with a scarred brow lifted.

No, obviously not the nature one.

Shaking his head he focuses on the Theocrat, twisting a touch so his shoulders and back are more angled toward Astaroth, if only because he doesn’t know who he is and this particular conversation should only truly concern the Maverick. (Unaware that the Maverick’s business was the Butcher’s business, of course).

“I need to send a letter. Or two. And a room.” He sighs, nose wrinkling. “And a place to talk… privately, if we can? I know it’s a lot, sorry.” He twists a little bit more to hide the last portion from the Maverick’s companion, already feeling discomfort from the way the too finely dressed man leans into his space.

As of today couldn’t get any worse.

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?

// divide me down to the smallest I can be //

"Ah, so you've noticed he's easy on the eyes, then?" Danta teases Asta; one look at Sunjata does not have most people immediately thinking of nature, put it that way. Glancing back towards the Flood - and allowing he and the butcher to have whatever dick swinging stand-off they like - he tilts his head and gives a gentle nod, setting down his glass before hopping off the bar.

"There's parchment and privacy aplenty in my office," he says, gesturing to the other side of the bar and the door leading to the Backrooms. "Let's go." Turning back to Asta with a sweetly wicked smile, he reaches out to playfully fix the butcher's collar (it absolutely does not need fixing). "If you'd be so kind as to keep the place warm for me until I get back?" he purrs.

Assuming his head of security can more than handle a few minutes without him (joke's on you Danta), he heads for his office, assuming Sunjata will follow.

Dantalion

// put your, put your v-v-venom in me //

run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine

“Not my type.” The butcher says through his too sharp smile, as if they weren’t just talking about the man in front of them like he was an object to be devoured. The smile remains, faker and faker as the request is made where the butcher can very much hear it, despite the scarred demigod’s attempts to hide it.

He’s leaned over Sunjata a bit more as the requests are made, catching a vague scent of blood that surprises him, before he’s drawing back up to his pristine height and posture the second the demigod moves and Danta’s flashing a bright smile at him, sickly sweet in a way that Asta’s smile twists more akin to the kind where he’d just as soon snarl.

It’s the same that’s angled at the Maverick when his collar is fixed, despite how he knows it didn’t need it. It’s a placating gesture that his tail flicking his annoyance and betraying it even if the smile on his face pretends otherwise. “Try not to be too long, darling.” He hums, voice deeper and more accented as he watches the two vanish toward the back rooms.

Astaroth

run, baby, run, run for your life

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

Puffing out a quiet sigh that’s hidden behind a scarred hand, the Flood ignores each and every comment until the golden offer of being able to send a letter rings through. Already he’s straightening, casting a brief glance toward the other Ancient — eye level in a way he doesn’t often see many people, and perhaps were it not for the immediate comments and the fact Asta looks more like a cat putting up in its frustration when Danta begins to leave, he might have actually tried to toss some of the charm his way.

He is decidedly not charismatic right now. Right now he wants privacy and to beat himself up internally where no one else can add to it (Astaroth). “Thanks, Danta.” He says, ignoring the butcher, to follow the Maverick through the rooms off to the side, toward the office that runs the region.

Once they’re clear of anyone overhearing, Sunjata finally stops grinding his teeth. “I really appreciate this.. I won’t take long with the letters.” He murmurs, content to be guided until he has the paper in front of him.

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?

// divide me down to the smallest I can be //

"And leave you out here to have all the fun?" Danta purrs to Astaroth, tipping him a wink and a lingering look over his shoulder before he's leading the way into the Backrooms. "My pleasure," he says automatically to Sunjata the moment the low buzz of noise from the Dusklight disappears, heading down the corridor and opening the door to his office (Moira croaks a greeting from her nest atop a bookshelf).

"Nonsense - take as long as you need," he says, ushering the Flood inside and gesturing to the desk where he can sit (and, thanks to Kiada, will find all the supplies he needs to get started). "It's been a while since you darkened this doorway, though." If he ever has; Danta can't honestly recall, but either way the point still stands.

"You said you were in need of a room? Did something happen?" Gently said, Danta nonetheless raises his eyebrows, as if to tell the Flood that his social mask is awful this evening. "And don't mind Asta out there," he adds. "I think he's prickly with anyone who can look him directly in the eye, but he's my... well. He's mine. And you can trust him."

Dantalion

// put your, put your v-v-venom in me //

run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine

It’s a wink and a lingering look that does absolutely nothing to soothe the butcher’s distaste. Especially as he’s ignored, straightening up with a lashing tail and a too sharp grin that spells trouble to let Sunjata and Danta depart. He doesn’t calm, either, not for a second that they’re out of his sight, not unlike a cat puffed up at the first sense of something being amiss.

So, he tries to busy himself. Tries to follow through with the request from his lover – the one that has him keeping the place warm – something the butcher takes, perhaps, a touch too literally. The threaded cane is swapped hands, leaning against the multihued cane as fire flares through his perfectly in place hair, swirling along his fingertips that rest atop the other hand holding the cane.

And he tries, desperately, to pretend as if he’s simply watching the rest of the Dusklight when his thoughts are anywhere but.

And maybe, just maybe, that lingering scent in the air once Sunjata had passed him had been a touch too good that has his alarm bells ringing as well. A scent of heady, fresh and warm blood, intermixed with sage and citrus, a strange and odd mixture with the fact that there wasn’t any blood he could otherwise see – and as such, left at a loss. Except for the fact that the stranger smells all too much like all his favorites.

Astaroth

run, baby, run, run for your life

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

It’s quiet, and unlike the butcher, the Flood is quite welcome to see the crow that’s made a nest in the office – thinking for a moment of just how much he missed Haai and her magpie wings – before he stuffs that sorrow into the box amongst the others. Instead, Sunjata remains with feathers intermixed into his hair, seeking out the desk and the writing instruments there, already snagging the parchment to start the letters.

“I don’t think I’ve ever… actually been here?” He says with a touch of confusion as he tries to think about it (and tries desperately to not think about Hotaru’s face when the next question arises). In fact, when it comes, he can’t help the slight flinch that has ink splattering onto the desk – one he swipes at with the sleeve of his sweater, uncaring of the stain. “Yeah, uh.. Taking a pit stop on the way home. Tired of sleeping outside.” Comes the brief and not-really-there explanation, before he’s looking up fully to let his gaze linger on Danta’s face, muscles flaring in his jaw and at his greying temples.

He nods to the fact he can trust the strange Ancient, and whether or not he thinks its true is irrelevant for the next bout of information. “He seems… sharp. Yours, though, huh? Are you guys together?” It’s a leading question, one to hopefully distract him while he starts on the letters – writing out a brief little letter specifically for Deimos as he blows on the parchment to help the ink dry before he designates it as such and starts on the next one.

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?

// divide me down to the smallest I can be //

"Mm, I don't think you have either. Well, welcome I guess. It's no House of Midnight, but we can't all have Frey themselves to come and smooch our brothels to make them magic," Danta quips, perching on the edge of the desk in Kiada's usual space while Sunjata takes a seat. As if on cue - and realising that the tall, scarred man who has slipped into the office is not the one Danta usually brings - Moira swoops down to perch on her bonded's shoulder, nibbling his ear with her beak and watching through beady eyes as Sunjata writes and spills ink and is a general mess.

"Oh? Big strong man like you, I figure you could make it home in one flight if you pushed yourself," he continues: code for I'm not buying what you're selling, Jata. Still, as he finishes one letter and starts on another, Danta takes the liberty of folding up the first and binding it with wax and ribbon (Moira is already shifting impatiently, assuming she's about to have a job to do).

Softening instantly as the conversation turns to Asta, what would have once been a very difficult admission is now as easy as the ready nod he gives the Flood, setting down the sealed letter on the desk. "We are," he purrs. "And you don't know the half of how sharp he is, especially when he's not behind closed doors. Still, I can finally see what all the fuss is about. How is Lady Midnight, anyway?" Meaning Hotaru, of course.

Dantalion

// put your, put your v-v-venom in me //

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

“I do take a little bit of pride out of being the only one really Frey blessed.” It’s an offhand comment, one that would be playful if his mood was anything but this shell he feels like. And it comes out a little bit more bluntly than anticipated, without the suave smile to smooth it over. There’s just the tired handing off of the letter to Deimos before he goes to start on the next one, addressing it to Remi and Ronin.

It’s precisely when the comment hits that he knows that lie won’t budge — and so he flits his attention back up to Danta and his crow companion, scanning his face for himself and deciding very easily that the Maverick isn’t void touched. Ah, but he doesn’t know who’s listening, either.

The parchment is slid over to reveal the next one, blank and empty, enough for the Flood to scratch out: I was infected by the void. Deimos, Remi, and Ronin healed me, but I could see that Hotaru was still infected and I lost her location when I asked for space, because I can’t look at her. Sliding it over toward Danta for him to read, the Flood waits for Danta to acknowledge he’s finished reading it, before he uses his water magic to blot out and flood the ink in the paper to make it unreadable again. “Didn’t think you were the type to settle down.” He admits, distracted as he returns to the next letter. “She’s.. well, her daughter died and came back to life so.. not well but not terrible..?” I asked for space when she needed me and it’s fucked me up.

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?

// divide me down to the smallest I can be //

"I'd think you were taking it for granted if you didn't," Danta says, though he already knows that Sunjata doesn't seem to be entirely there. As such, the rather blunt remark and its delivery rolls off him easily enough, the Maverick contenting himself with scritching Moira's downy chest feathers while the Flood works on his letters. He's a touch surprised to see one directed towards him, granted, and it takes perhaps a bit longer for Danta to properly read the missive than it would someone else, but he gets there eventually with a frown.

"Well fuck." And that's an entirely appropriate response, he thinks. "I'm glad you're better. But I... why can't you?" Look at her, he means, raising an eyebrow and releasing the paper for Sunjata to effectively wash away the message. "And no one said anything about settling down," he adds quickly, as if the Flood has just sworn at him. "Being in love has not made us boring, I assure you."

As for Hotaru, he can only nod now that he knows the full story, waiting until Jata has finished the next letter before taking it to fold it similarly - neat creases and precise shapes that speak of many an hour spent making origami envelopes. "Alright, Moira. You know what to do," he murmurs, the crow hopping dutifully onto the desk before Sunjata to give Danta time to tie the letters in a bundle.

"She'll make sure they get as far as they need to," he assures Jata. "Now what do you need?"

Dantalion

// put your, put your v-v-venom in me //

SUNJATA

angel loves to keep me spinning, much too high to see
that all these chains have started thinning & hell is breaking free

He doesn’t judge how long it takes Danta to read the message. Nor does he even really pay attention to how long it is to judge in the first place. And so when the question comes, there’s a slight flinch, a twitch that has navy feathers flaring as he reflects the memory. “It’s.. she has like, ten eyes and too many teeth in all the wrong places. It’s just..” His nose wrinkles before he puffs out a sigh that has him settling to chew on his cheek, some.

“I can see it sometimes in my reflection, too. It’s… bad.” Mortifying, if he’s being honest. So he busies himself with washing away the evidence of the parchment, focusing on the boon of Danta and his beau, as if it would work to be an adequate distraction as he writes out the letter to Remi and Ronin, before handing it to the Maverick to finish up sending. “Y’know, that's what they all say.” Comes the idle tease, a shade of playfulness of how he typically was, a mask for all intents and purposes.

Reaching out to scratch Moira’s feathery chest in a quiet appreciation, the hand flies to his hair to smooth through the waves there, spending a moment to collect himself and suck back in all the feathers of his own that have popped up. “Honestly? A drink and bed to sleep on where I might be able to pretend I’m not as shitty as I feel would be a good start.” It’s a fake twist of a smile directed at Danta as the Flood stands, fixing the sweater (now stained on his sleeve), before he shrugs at the Maverick with no more of an explanation.

every choice, every lie, demons that he kept inside
angel now that i've stopped spinning, could you come clean?