we've got nothing left to invade

// go get your gun, get your gun //

After the bit of respite and replacing his lial shift with his fyrhund to better traverse the dunes, Asta decides with a quick whiff of the Sea of Dreams and the shining blue sulfur pools below, that he fucking hates this particular place. It’s evident with the slight snarl that leaves his throat, the curl of his maw in response, tail twitching uncomfortably as his paws pick easy steps around the closest boiling pool.

It’s a poor imitation of the lava pools of the Climb, he thinks, too sandy and dreadful and lacking all of the comforts of the Climb he’d come to know. But they’d made it this far, and from the scans earlier from the height of the dragon over a majority of the desert, this quick diversion should lead them back to their tent where Asta’s positive he’s content to stay the rest of the trek.

His ears pin slightly before he glances back and over at Danta, wondering which shift he’s chosen this time, before a bubble of water in the pool beside him snaps with a loud POP that has Asta whirling toward it, jaw snapping before he growls low and threateningly at it with his ears flat against his skull.

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //

we're born at night, so much of our life

Asta has opted to travel back in his most comfortable shift, and so it's only natural that Danta has decided the same. It's been refreshing, he thinks, to see the desert like this, mostly because it's difficult for dragons and crows and lials and wyrms to get sunburnt to a crisp the way they would on two legs. That's not to say, though, that it's anything like refreshing here.

Crows don't have lips to curl up or teeth to snarl, but as Asta growls and circles the sulphuric Sunshine Pools with obvious disgust, Danta's black feathers are puffed up and ruffled enough to make him look like a squat and angry ball upon the fyrhund's back. He clacks his beak sharply in response, not daring to caw or croak anything in case it gets in his mouth, ew.

And when the loud POP! breaks the relative silence, he has to hop a few times along the fyrhund's rocky plating so as not to topple away completely. Fluttering his wings a bit and giving what's supposed to be a comforting(?) few pecks to Asta's shoulder, his meaning is clear. It's stinky, not dangerous.

Y'know. Probably.

Dantalion

is just carvin' through the dark

// go get your gun, get your gun //

The snarl that leaves him is one that the butcher hears echo back to him from the dunes around – but it’s the weight of Danta along his back, hopping to gain his footing again before Asta’s snarls slowly start to dissipate. He also hates it here, feeling those pecks of his beak against the volcanic plates of the fyrhund shift he wears.

With a canine huff like yeah you’re probably right, the butcher starts to pick his path around each of the sulfur pools, careful to avoid the salt that lingers on the edges like a boundary to keep him from stepping too close. More of the pools bubble and boil and his ears remain flat against his skull as he trudges on, only the occasional low thrum of a growl slipping from his lips.

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //

we're born at night, so much of our life

As they continue around the stinking pools, Danta can't even blame Asta for his continued growls of discontent; the gore grow doesn't dare take to the air in case the stench gets worse the higher he flies, opting instead to get as comfortable as possible between the fyrhund's shoulder blades. The pools seem to stretch on forever, shimmering and bubbling across a hazy expanse of the desert, but he knows, beyond that, they ought to be on the home stretch. (That is, back to their colourful little campsite).

Still, he has no idea how long it's going to take Asta to traverse the Sunshine Pools in this shape, and so after a few minutes of bumbling along on the fyrhund's back with his head shoved beneath one wing, Danta has had enough. Croaking his discontent at last, the crow flaps away and lands between two of the pools, shaking himself off - and then promptly beginning to shift into something much scalier and much larger.

Perhaps fleeing the sulphur will be good motivation for Asta to perfect his dragon flying, no?

Dantalion

is just carvin' through the dark

// go get your gun, get your gun //

They do seem to stretch on forever, and for that Asta tacks it onto the rest of the growing number of things that he hates about this particular spot of the desert. Hak Etme might have the second best option for heat, but in terms of accommodations and favorite places, well, his favorite place so far was certainly the Boneyard while the rest seemed to be a bit of a mess. If it wasn’t sand tornadoes, it was these horrible bubbling pools he steps past carefully – at least until he hears the croak of discontent and feels Danta flap away – the fyrhund stilling with a paw lifted as he watches him shift to that larger one.

Internally grimacing, he steps over to join him with enough distance to replace his fyrhund with his dragon shift, his tail sweeping high so it doesn’t drip in the sulfur pools, and with a long huff of smoky breath he nods toward Danta as if to say let’s get out of here, yeah?

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //

// fire on the mountain, run, boys, run //

Asta is his reserved self even as a dragon, but in response to his smoky sigh Danta - naturally - lets out a shriek of theatrical upset with the Sunshine Pools, promptly taking off with a powerful beat of his wings. The foul smelling air does clear momentarily as the dragon rises up and beyond its reach, wafted away by his wingspan, but it will undoubtedly be back before long - luckily, he doesn't plan for them to be.

Once he's able to properly see and breathing isn't an irritant, Danta lets himself glide out in a wide arc that will hopefully give the butcher time to join him in the air. And once that's done there's nothing stopping them from getting back to their real vacation; however much fun it had been to see the sights of Hak Etme, it doesn't really compare to lounging in a tent with his lover, indulging in the heat and getting drunk on one another.

~FIN

Dantalion

// the devil's in the house of the risin' sun //