[ There's a huge sigh of relief from vergil as he does hear dante call out that it's safe to come out. Dear lord that was an unnecessary amount of stress, but there's a degree of comfort as well--knowing he was right in his assumption; that if anyone could solve the situation quickly, it was going to be Dante.
the door is flipped open, and Vergil's taking the moment to put the bathroom cabinet back against the wall, where it belongs.
It's then that he turns to look at dante, and was going to say something along the lines of 'Don't leave your goddamn phone on your bed next time' but. The words ... die in his throat as he takes a moment to look at Dante's face.
He doesn't have the same reaction as the bear. He isn't immediately cowed, nor does he back up or scuttle out of the way. Vergil's always been a man who controls his emotions to an extreme degree, being able to reign in everything he's feeling all at once with the practiced mien of one of those british soldiers outside of buckingham palace.
But looking upon that half-transformed face of his brother sends him somewhere, in his head. Somewhere dark, somewhere that smells like fire, a place where the scent of brimstone is so strong that the scent threatens to strangle him as the putrid scent of rotten eggs fills his nose, his lungs.
Dante's face transforms furthur, in his mind--turning into a beast with more horns than fingers, eyes that burn like hot coals in its head as wet, slimy froth leaks out of its mouth. Red, like blood, but with something glowing mixed in with it that hisses and bubbles when it hits the clean grass of the playground.
He runs, because that's all he can do. He runs, because he's alone. He can feel his lungs struggling for air as he screams, screams for help that doesn't come, help that isn't coming--that'll never arrive no matter how loud he calls for it. No matter how high his voice begs for it, until he can feel blood on his own teeth from the sheer effort of the cry.
He runs to a graveyard, and there's more of them. More demon-faced creatures with crooked, horrible maws. With fingers dirtied black with dirt and dried blood, cackling and calling for him, for the blood of Sparda, surrounding him, cornering him. There's a sword in his hands, and it's too big for him to swing properly. Cleaving it down does little than make the monsters crackle and roar horrid laughter at him. Teeth and nails find skin and wrench flesh from bone, and it's when the blade of the yamato drives into his belly, he snaps out of it with a loud gasp, his face having gone horridly pale as he lost himself in, what was likely the most vivid memory he's had to date.
He feels like his knees are going to give out from under him.
Reign it in.
He opens his mouth to say something, and only air escapes. ]
2/2 CW: descriptions of violence, gore, horror elements
the door is flipped open, and Vergil's taking the moment to put the bathroom cabinet back against the wall, where it belongs.
It's then that he turns to look at dante, and was going to say something along the lines of 'Don't leave your goddamn phone on your bed next time' but. The words ... die in his throat as he takes a moment to look at Dante's face.
He doesn't have the same reaction as the bear. He isn't immediately cowed, nor does he back up or scuttle out of the way. Vergil's always been a man who controls his emotions to an extreme degree, being able to reign in everything he's feeling all at once with the practiced mien of one of those british soldiers outside of buckingham palace.
But looking upon that half-transformed face of his brother sends him somewhere, in his head. Somewhere dark, somewhere that smells like fire, a place where the scent of brimstone is so strong that the scent threatens to strangle him as the putrid scent of rotten eggs fills his nose, his lungs.
Dante's face transforms furthur, in his mind--turning into a beast with more horns than fingers, eyes that burn like hot coals in its head as wet, slimy froth leaks out of its mouth. Red, like blood, but with something glowing mixed in with it that hisses and bubbles when it hits the clean grass of the playground.
He runs, because that's all he can do. He runs, because he's alone. He can feel his lungs struggling for air as he screams, screams for help that doesn't come, help that isn't coming--that'll never arrive no matter how loud he calls for it. No matter how high his voice begs for it, until he can feel blood on his own teeth from the sheer effort of the cry.
He runs to a graveyard, and there's more of them. More demon-faced creatures with crooked, horrible maws. With fingers dirtied black with dirt and dried blood, cackling and calling for him, for the blood of Sparda, surrounding him, cornering him. There's a sword in his hands, and it's too big for him to swing properly. Cleaving it down does little than make the monsters crackle and roar horrid laughter at him. Teeth and nails find skin and wrench flesh from bone, and it's when the blade of the yamato drives into his belly, he snaps out of it with a loud gasp, his face having gone horridly pale as he lost himself in, what was likely the most vivid memory he's had to date.
He feels like his knees are going to give out from under him.
Reign it in.
He opens his mouth to say something, and only air escapes. ]