Posts by Dantalion.

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    Dantalion has always had some odd fascination with pain. It shouldn’t amuse him so much—it shouldn’t be such a delight—but it does, and he loves it all the same. In fact, he’d even say that being in pain is one of his most favorite things on this hellish earth. He likes the blood, the teeth and bone exposed, the spines that shot through his legs and the way his legs move out of place oh-so easily. It doesn’t hurt him, just his body, and that’s why it’s so fun. His body was dead from the start. His presence was merely prolonging the rot and decay that was bound to come. He can feel it, every day, no matter how hard his slimy little soul struggles to offset the process, however slow and uneventful it is. He doesn’t mind, really. At the most it’s an inconvenience, because he doesn’t want to have to continue to swap out bodies for new ones every month or so. But it’s better than having to share with a living being, and he supposes that maybe this will give him the chance to find a new, better-fitting body, one that doesn’t bulge at the seams with the massive weight of his very being.

    How does he want to go? What will be the best way, he muses, wandering along the cracked sandy ground of the drought-ridden desert. He plans to lay himself down where he had originally found his repurposed corpse, so as not to make a mess of the camp he’s spent such little time in. He thinks of it as no more than a mere act of courtesy, so as not to spatter his inky black ichor over the walls of the pyramids and the sands imprinted with his clanmates’ footprints, but rather add to the bloody, festering wall that lines the Ruins’ borders. He supposes that maybe he shouldn’t destroy this one, as much as he desires, but will he even need it again? Dante is well aware that. Without a physical form to sustain him, he’ll eventually end up back where he started, in the boring, scorching confines of hell. He may as well be some office intern, doomed to a cubicle for all of eternity. It could be worse, he thinks. It can always get worse, no matter how bad you think you may have it.

    With gritted teeth and words that are twisted and mangled in such a way only he can understand them, either a final hellish prayer or the incantation he needs to throw himself back into the utterly uninteresting expanse of Gehenna, Dante heaves out a breath dense with moisture, and lets out a coarse, humorless laugh. He must admit, he’s going to miss the sky and its infuriating shade of bright blue. He’d gotten sick of it less than a few days topside, but now he feels the slightest bit ungrateful for the awful sheet of blue stretching on forever above his head. Not that it matters much, anyway, as he imagines he’ll be able to slip away from his homeland with ease as he has the first several hundred times. Maybe this time, he won’t be stuck there for a thousand years this time.

    A sigh trickles from his lips. No, he’s not going to die painfully, it seems. He doesn’t have the patience for that at the moment.

    He leaves the body where it belongs, dead among the mass of rotting carcasses and corpses. For a moment, when he’s thrust into the air, floating daintily above his former vessel, he almost thinks it looks like it’s at peace. When he had inhabited it, it seemed to have some kind of odd twist in its default expression, sorrow and pain lingering somewhere in the corners of its bright white eyes. He knew there was a residue of sorts stuck in there, however it had never really been enough for him to constantly notice it. Maybe it’s just leftover bits of the former tenant’s soul. Either way, there’s no way that body is coming back to life on its own. Dante doesn’t destroy it, but he watches with a curious face as it reverts back to the state he originally found it in.

    The portal that he’d been so rudely shot out of opens behind him, but he knows both he and the door to hell are as transparent as the air surrounding him. There’s no one to look up and wave him goodbye—not that he cares in the first place. If anything he’s just glad that it’s nothing dramatic, a rather simple farewell before he’s sucked into the fiery plane of Hell.

    With one last heavy, bored sigh, Dantalion turns and steps over the threshold, vanishing into the realm he spawned from.

    shrieks as i crawl in here

    sorry for my inactivity lmao

    i have like, no muse for dante anymore, and i don't wanna get rid of him completely but he's not gonna be around that much anymore. feel free to demote him, cob susdkjfsd

    welcome new people!

    Of course, Dantalion recognizes her and her status, but he's sure he's made the decision to cut ties with hell altogether, so the hierarchy of demons and whatever other abhorrent creatures that climb the ranks doesn't matter to him. Her confusion is apparent, in such a way that he can't help but smirk—what, does she want him to bow? Obviously this isn't what he should be concerned about, but it's still funny nonetheless. "Interesting," coos the inky canine, tone no longer bored and uninterested but slimy and amused. He doesn't quite care for whoever died, but it sounds a hell of a lot better than a funeral. Funerals aren't his thing. They're awkward and smell like death and despair, which is nice every once in a while, but it's not something he wants to be constantly surrounded by. Can't a man have a break occasionally? Dantalion turns his head to Barbara, swiping his tongue absently over cracked lips as he continues, "what are your thoughts?" To be truthful, the premise of a celebration doesn't sound that bad. It's not something he would enjoy, but it's not like he'd be sitting in the corner, grouching about it the entire time. The raid, however, catches his attention, but again he has nothing to say about it.

    Fortunately for Rosalie, Dantalion doesn't care for the supposed grudge they have with the Renegades. She isn't a threat, as far as he knows, and she's respecting the border—so there's no reason for him to pull his lips back and snarl, or tell her to get lost or whatever. "Invite for what?" He asks flatly, eyes trailing off as if he's bored by her. Well, he is, and he makes no attempt to hide it, but he imagines his presence is enough for her. Besides, he's not quite sure if he should be accepting anything from a supposed "enemy." It's up to Barbara or someone like that, he guesses.

    He has to admit, this gets him a little more worked up than it should. Whether it's the thought of prolonging Domitian's suffering or whether it's the thought of Domitian retaliating with a fervor stronger than his own, he almosts laughs, gleefully, angered expression quickly reverting into one of pure joy as the tiger struggles to his feet, and lunges for him. For a moment, time seems to stand still, and Dante can't make himself move, thinking back to Crocodiletears and his own torn-out jugular, and he swears that he wants the same thing to happen to him, for Domitian to eviscerate him in the same way he had the ajin. He lets him, nothing but a cut-off wheeze trickling from his lips as teeth scrape against his flesh, and he enjoys it down to the very last second, but he supposes that he can't just let the tiger kill him. That'd give him the impression that he has any control in this situation, and if he's too blind to see it, Dantalion is very clearly the only one holding the leash here. But how does he get out of this one? He can't really think through his own haze—damn it, he can't let this body die. With a scowl, Dantalion lets out a harsh, hellish bark of laughter, little droplets of inky black ichor flying through the air as the impact sends him staggering backwards.

    The water seems to come creeping up from the ground, and with a sneer, as if he isn't staring death straight in the face—it's only a matter of seconds before he's choking on his own disgusting—he can barely see them, hardening quickly into a thin veil made up of little spears of ice, ones that head straight for the tiger's shoulders in an attempt to pelt him with ice like shards of glass. He doesn't want this to end so quickly, he doesn't want this to end bad for him, but he'd be a filthy liar if he said he wasn't waiting a second to see just how long he could go before he has to yank himself out of the tiger's grip. "The hole?" He wheezes, and everything is back up to speed. That's hilarious, it really is. He thinks he gets a say in where he goes, what he does? Does he think this is something he can just walk away from? Well, he's sorely mistaken, it seems.

    Dantalion has to admit, he isn't really intrigued by this one. While maybe his flat voice and devoid demeanor are a mystery to some of his clanmates, he's not interested by his outward persona, thus he doesn't care what kinds of interesting things may lay beneath the surface of the blind creature. His soul is vaguely interesting, but all it does is catch the duke's attention for a second or two before his pale gaze travels elsewhere. "Dantalion," grunts the duke of hell, sounding not too particularly invested in the scene before him. After all, he's been to many joinings, meet and greets, whatever. They're all so tedious, and he'd rather have an actual conversation that consists of more than a quick "welcome" and even shorter introduction, but this isn't the place to do it. He glances back at Charcoal, mirroring his blank expression, tone clearly reflecting his boredom. "Welcome."

    Pissed is an understatement, but... Dantalion is pissed. Astronomically so, so much that he nearly loses his grip on his achy-breaky body. When he drops back into the form with a heavy thud, slamming himself against the hot sands of the Ruins with several disconcerting cracks, a hellish roar seeps from behind jagged teeth. He doesn't look quite right, if one takes a close look at him. He growls, snaps his neck to one side, pops the joints in his body and rolls his shoulders back, and then he bolts.He can't believe the stupid tiger got away. How did he get away? How did Dantalion miss it? All the times he's come down to taunt him, antagonize him, he'd never noticed Domitian whittling away the lock to his cage, never noticed the wear and tear. He supposes that this is partially his fault, for being too caught up in the glee of having someone to torture to notice. But it isn't just his fault—it's everyone else's, too. Those dumbasses let him get away, just like that. And now, he has no one to play with. Now he has to go and find his stupid, stupid toy, and when he does he swears he will unleash a punishment worse than death upon the tiger.

    This is bullshit.

    But he's not going to spend his time complaining. He may be benevolent compared to some of his brothers and sisters, but he is by no means peaceful. He will raise hell for the tiger, teach him a lesson he won't forget, and he's going to enjoy it. Bright white eyes narrowed into slits, the doberman weaves throughout the desert, long strides carrying him further and further away from the bloody scene Domitian has created not too long ago. All the while he mutters angrily to himself, in a garbled tongue only he can decipher, cursing the tiger's very namesake as he reaches out, closes his pale eyes and searches for him. Where is he? Where can he be? Dantalion can only look so far before his mind is yanked back, as if on a leash. He can't be too far. Domitian is too weak for that. Dantalion finds something, and he locks onto it with a kind of fervor he's never felt before, some useless kind of determination he would have otherwise ignored, had this been any other situation. Maybe, he muses for a moment, distracted, this world has changed him.

    It takes him longer than he'd like, but eventually he finds the tiger, laying about in the open. His own inky form is barely visible within the night, but he doesn't care if he's spotted or not, since he'll make sure Domitian gets what's coming. He can be as loud as he wants―in fact, Dantalion encourages him, to go ahead and scream. It won't make him falter, not for a second. Gritting his teeth, he quietly stalks forward, aiming to rudely awaken the omega by grasping both sides of his head, lifting it up, and then slamming it into the ground beneath him.

    What's this?

    If Domitian thinks he's getting out of here scot-free, just like that, he's mistaken. Dantalian will be damned if he lets his favorite toy get away so easily. Domitian is his entertainment, his fun. He can't just vanish, as miserable as he may be. That's not how this game works. Clearly there is nothing that will end well for the tiger here, no allies or resources he can depend on, just his sheer strength and maybe some luck, some grace of god that will see him through. Dantalion gives chase, long legs carrying him quickly across the hot sand with large, bounding strides, an irritable snarl leaking from his unhinged jaws. Where does he think he's going? Nowhere he wants to be, obviously, since Dante is sure within seconds he'll be hauling the emaciated tiger's ass right back to the cage in which he belongs. But his mind blanks when he sees blood flies, a mess of flesh and fur spattering the ground and the tiger's maw, and his breath hitches in his throat. He almost stops, to inspect the torn body of Crocodiletears, but his attention is again caught by the tiger who's putting more and more distance between them, and the wolf's resurrection goes unnoticed by Dante as he races after him.

    He wonders if he'll suffer the same fate. Will Domitian turn around and rip out his jugular just the same? Will he receiver a lesser punishment? Who knows—Dantalion is excited for it anyway, a soft wheeze one can barely call a laugh seeping from his open, filthy mouth, as if he's playing a game of tag and not about to beat the shit out of a prisoner. Or, even better, get the shit beaten out of himself. Dantalion hears bones creak, joints crack and pop, protesting the movements he makes as he lunges and hurls himself towards the tiger, aiming to latch onto his back leg and bite down hard with the hopes of sinking his bloodied, jagged teeth into his flesh.

    Persistent, isn't she? Dantalion doesn't quite get her curiosity. If he were her he'd be bored by now. Rarely does the duke of hell hold interest in one thing for very long, even a mystery such as himself fails to capture his attention for more than a mere second. He meets her stare with bright, unyielding pale eyes, and slowly the amusement vanishes from his face, gradually replaced with yet another bored look. He wonders what will stop him from simply walking away. Will she chase after him? Demand answers? No, that doesn't quite seem like Alsanna, but there's always room for a surprise. He isn't shocked by her revelation, nor is he angry. She's right, that nobody has ever bothered to ask just what he is. Most of them found him unsettling from the start, which is still clear to see, but he never bothered to hide who or what he is. His disgusting, rotten soul is not hidden. His inky form that looms over this otherwise hollow body is visible to those who see beyond, if they squint. The fear of being touched with the sensation of his very essence being torn apart is too miniscule for him to really fear being "exposed."

    Alsanna is the only one so far to act on her curiosity. He doubts she'll be the only, but it doesn't seem to the demon that anyone is jumping at the chance to question him. He's not about to run about willy-nilly either, clicking his heels as he sprints and chanting in a sickly cheerful voice, to the tune of that awful Wizard of Oz song, "I'm the Duke of Hell!" He does not plan to brag, nor does he want to. It's not his style. "My bad," the doberman coos, in his horrible, slimy tone. "I just put it back together, you see." He makes a vague gesture, as if he's really trying to help her visualize. "Gave it a little jump-start. It works for the most part." He leaves out the fact that once he leaves this body for good, it'll revert back into its rotting, deceased state, as he feels that part is more or less obvious. Clearly without him to keep it running, fuel it, it won't make it more than an hour after he's long gone.

    [oof rushed @ the end sorry]

    "Who I am won't matter to you," the demon coos, tone slimy and unsettling as always. He leans in, an awful grin finding its way onto his maw, contorting the mass of bloody flesh and greying fur, inspecting the wolf with an almost curious nature. She's missing an eye, but he guesses that won't matter much to him, as he's not here to take any trophies or place any bets on her. She's just another addition to their upcoming entertainment, and he thinks that with the desperation to live it won't matter what's wrong with her. Morals and hindrances often fly forgotten out the window when one's life is on the line, or so he's witnessed. "You're in the Ruins." He doesn't plan to kick her around too much, just give her a couple of new scars, some scrapes and bruises to decorate her body. He inches closer, and with a sudden, snapping movement, aims to knock her legs out from under her, with the hope of sending her back down to the ground. He wonders if she'll fight back. He won't restrain her, won't stop her from coming after him, but it's clear that she has slim chances of escaping, and he's not inclined to let her go after anyone else but him.

    The presences that swarm Southpaw don't bother Dantalion. He marks it as just an uninteresting observation, nothing new, instead finding his curiosity surrounding the way the canine appears threatened by his presence — is he scary? Well, it's old news that Dante is a disconcerting sight, a slithering, inky form that's marked with scars and brands, a scowl fixed permanently upon his cracked, bloodied lips. It's the specks of grey that dot his muzzle that he thinks humanizes him, keeps him from truly being reckoned as pure terror. It's a feature he can't change, much like Southpaw can't get change his thick, seemingly suffocating coat. The retort the young male has to offer makes him do nothing but snort, pale eyes rolling. Smartass.No, it's not so much a smart mouth as it is the charm of youth. Dantalion isn't offended in the slightest, however the smart mouth the kid seems to possess doesn't necessarily amuse him. Is he really turning into a crotchety old man? There must be some residue of his body's past inhabitants, as Dante isn't an old man but an ageless creature spawned from the depths of hell. And still, here he is, appearing in his own man as some miserable elder waving a cane and shouting "get off my lawn".

    "Which is it?" The doberman barks, raising a brow. Kody, Southpaw, the way he introduces himself as we makes him all but frown for a moment. He supposes that, if he doesn't get a straight answer, he'll just make up some stupid name or "hey, you". He doesn't say anything else for a short while, until he remembers why the canine is here and what he himself is supposed to be doing. "You may call me Dantalion," the third tier says, flicking an ear absently, hard stare fixed on Southpaw's blurred form. "Welcome to Sanguine Ruins."

    On the other hand, Dantalion isn't itching for a fight. Raids have proved to be the most boring thing on this stupid earth, and he can't imagine why Damien is so excited for one. "Cool it," the doberman mutters as he comes forwards, tilting his grey-specked muzzle upward to meet the tiger's stare. "Why don't you go roll in the sand? That might cure your itch." He doesn't quite care for a raid, nor does he feel like starting trouble for no reason. He's not sure Barbara will appreciate the needless conflict, either. Who is this, anyway? Dantalion doesn't recognize him — he smells like a Ruiner, however, so the inky canine just assumes he's some hermit finally emerged from his cave.