starter call for dante / @dvilhunter
the night was young, and so was the hunt of the former princess. under moonlit silence, the demons laid claim to the illusion of vacancy. they spilled from alley mouths and cracked doorways like rot made animate— clawed shapes that dragged shadow behind them, eyes burning with borrowed malice as their blind ambition let them believe melinoë was but a prey. such pests endured regardless of their masters, unaware of their own pitiful existence. she did not slow to humour them. her magic shall see to their demise. yet amidst the swarm, something else drew her attention. it was not subtle; it declared itself outright, rolling through the street like a second heartbeat. demonic energy, yes, but not the mindless stench that clung to the creatures she had just severed from existence. it was sharper, older. it said enough on its own as it threaded through her arcana with a familiarity she had not expected to feel again. the phantasmal arm at her side glowed in response as though it, too, had recognised the intrusion.
❝ son of sparda. ❞ she spoke it like a thing meant to be left behind, yet persisted. ❝ we meet again. ❞ dante stood ahead in the open stretch of street, framed by the dim spill of a streetlamp that flickered as if undecided about doing its job. red coat. careless stance. a blade slung on his back like it weighed nothing at all. even at rest he carried that familiar contradiction: demonic power worn loosely, almost casually, and something stubbornly human beneath it that refused to be ground down. ❝ what a strange coincidence. ❞ she professed, neither warmed nor rattled, though hinted with surprise that was barely there. they had parted ways so long ago that she had been certain there would be no follow-up guaranteed. yet fate, it seemed, always enjoyed its share of unpredictability in a world far too inevitable. ❝ what has the night summoned you for this time? ❞ she prompted, though she was almost too certain she wouldn't be receiving a satsifactory answer on his end.
