Fortuna without the sun.
It wasn't exactly home. But his father's followers were here. They were lining up in droves right outside the pristine cathedral, and many of them had shoveled themselves neatly inside, closing hands together as if in concentrated prayer. These Sparda worshippers wore white gowns paralleling their existing loyalty—-their faces, bore the passive cumulative expression that allowed them to honour their god without misgiving.
When he first came into the city, he was not surprised at the grandeur, nor at the massive towering architectural design that could threaten a lesser man. He was not at all displeased that his father's shadow seemed to continually be the source of all and everything. He just wasn't impressed at the intensity it came down to.
From the moment he was given the information about his father's love--in between the time he lost his brother Vergil to the depths of hell, and the time where he was able to listen to the soft voice of his mother's love within the amulet—Dante had finally laid to rest the ghosts that had haunted him when his mother died.
Curled brown leaves, dead and brittle scuttled towards his way when a breeze blew from below, the lightning flashes continued as if ripping from the sky and tearing the clouds open with sharp invisible hands. They dusted his trousers, touched the brown leather of his boots and he permitted himself a moment or two to flick off the offending demon's dust from his person.
Perusing the environment, there were two jutting lean edifices, sharp, pointing upwards to the darkening tumultous clouds.
He allowed himself a little pleasant snort, his stance relaxed against the electrified atmosphere. Between the these dual structures he hadn't noticed until the lightning struck down, that there were more of them. They finally lined along a patterned floor to a fine circle and within that circle were rows of graves, and the broken trees barren from lack of soil drooped low to touch cracked flooring.
Too many monsters, too many evil deeds, and too many horrors would come to pass; yet, the devil hunter strode forward, his steps loud over the crackling noise of lightning. And the thunder kept its distance.
It was fitting he'd come during the night. He picked up his heavy sword, light against his grasp, and allowed it to lounge against his broad shoulder. With several more steps, he sauntered into the graveyard, where the dead could not sleep: the howling wind was whispering, clanking against rickety trees, and pestering the side of his ear.
"Come out come out, wherever you are." Dante whispered, a forming grin painted his expression. He could feel them. His entire body readied when the creature would emerge.
"Aw come on, afraid of me?" He continued to taunt, the breeze filled with the heavy dust of old bones and ancient smells. His sword vibrated over his shoulder.
He recognized them: marionettes emerging from the overhanging trees long dead and making shadows over cracked stone and accumulated dust. They clanked and clinked as if they were weighty armour--arms and legs attached with sharp metallic threads and dripped in blood. And their eyes, glowed red and vibrant under the lightning and darkened cemetery rotting along the field.
Dante made an expression, curled his lip, showing a little flash of white teeth; his eyes twinkled with a merriment and off colour humour; and a tongue flicked out to wet a pliant upper lip. With a quick gesture, he pulled his sword forward—pointing it in the direction of approaching marionettes.
"Nice to see that the demon world hasn't changed much…" He muttered, beneath his breath, and without waiting, he picked up his feet, pushing body forward so that he hovered above them, suspended over his victims. Dante's long billowing jacket flew backwards, flapped noisily like a flag, his sword dropping down to strike at two mechanical disjointed parts--making up a hollow figure drenched in devi's brew. They broke back with a swooping swing from his blade, cutting a fragment of wood or two; but it wasn't the promise of pressed wood when the chips went down. They scattered like sharp knives along the uneven ground.
A puppet with strings sent itself towards the devil hunter's path, and while it would have given some semblance of pain to another, it managed to break apart with a crash as Dante's pointed blade drew back and struck fast, imparting stabs and serious mortal wounds had it been human. But the puppets were not like the ones he had encountered in the depths of a castle few years before.
He was sent spiraling against a broken fence with two more marionettes at his back, and he grinned low and wide, his eyes blue and clear, "I like a challenge, and you—andyou," he chuckled darkly, the rumble of deep laughter in his chest, "are not it." The blade was smeared with blackened blood, the taint of demons—-pointedly in their direction.
Dante pushed off the fence, the language of his stance relaxed with hip out, "As much as I like to milk this battle for all its worth, I'm afraid I've got other matters to attend to.." he looked at the sky where the dual lightning felled down, striking quick and illuminating the darkness.
The marionettes arbitrarily approached, unfazed by the half devil's proclamation. But by then, Dante sent his sword against the wind with the flick of his wrist, slicing several heads in its path; he simultaneously pulled out Ebony and Ivory. Bullets shot out from twin barrels as quick as the lightning above, flashing against the background and casting his profile in a golden-white glow.
Down down the strings were severed, and the shrapnel edges of demonic energy sent from above was shoveled down with each penetrating slug from Ivory and ending it with Ebony's last kiss. The wooden pieces mountained in a heap, disappearing slow like a burn, into the cracked ground. Dante's eyes scanned the perimeter, watched, listened, and heard only the hollow sounds of the wind cutting through wrecked trees barren and sucked out of vigor.
He watched as the smoke rose, curling high and lazy above him from the twin barrels. It reached to the dark sky where the lightning had stopped, pausing for effect, and the rumbling sound of distant thunder seemed to ease up on itself.
"Humpf," he snorted, showing a dimple, the flick of his white hair dressing the side of his face, "and the lady wants proof."
Holstering his guns, his sword drew back to his hand, as if magically drawn to the demon power within the palm of his hand. With one swift move, he shoved it back in its casing that was situated on his back. The yawning darkness ahead and the cathedral seemed to beckon. "I'll give you proof, lady, and no more."
Only the echoing sound of his footsteps replaced the once noisy battle of flashing guns and metal fragments. Dante disappeared between two edifices, the darkness swallowing his presence up and the last of his coat, flowing behind and sharply licking out against the wind.
Christmas lights were lit up all over town, lightened every dark corner, and flickered on and off till the early mornings. It crossed to some thoughtful citizens that the electric company didn't mind having to generate so much power through the city streets come winter when the shops were opened late and people shuffled about to get their lists cleared. And in one alleyway, down the street to where the workers must have forgotten to decorate anything close to holiday cheer, was an establishment called, "devil may cry."
From the distance, the long narrow windows presented thick dusted near-smoky obsidian glass where a perpetrator could not possibly see in but those inside could see out. A lit candle was flickering, illuminating one corner window of the place of business-residence. Inside, the bustle of one particular occupant was rising from sleep, lacking rest from the previous hunts hefted upon her: A woman of dark hair, a little mussed up from the tossing and turning during the night had gotten up.
Coming out of the bedroom from upstairs, her hand grabbing onto the frame of the door, she reached with the other to flick the lightswitch. But Dante must have forgotten to pay the bills because they wouldn't come on. So she stumbled back inside to the bedroom; her wobbly movements lethargic from sleep; searching in the dark, with not much of a moon out—the window allowing a tiny glimpse of a crest--she managed to search for some matches and the candle she remembered Dante kept in one of his drawers. Rummaging through them, there were dirty socks mixed in with the clean ones, which left her shaking her head.
Finally finding the small stubble of thick wax, she was glad to see that it was stuck to one of the holders—a handle curving out for where her index finger could curl and carry. The matches lay right next to the stubbed white candle and she struck the match against the box—the flame sparking up immediately as it hit the air.
Stumbling down the stairs with one hand wrapped around the weakened banister, one hand holding the candle, her eyes tried to adjust to the lengthy expansive room before her.
Wearing just a robe, shorts with printed motorcycle patterns on it, a sleeveless top that was held up with small spaghetti shoulder straps—which kept falling over whenever she moved--the ties loosened, permitting the cool night air to touch her exposed skin. With this slight distraction, and the semi-dark making her eyes adjust slow, her foot slammed into one of the fallen bottles near the desk. It had spiraled away, rolling noisily to the jukebox, hitting against it with a loud thud. A huffed breath released from her lips and a furrowed brow marred the usual porcelain-like face. But by then, the woman just barely missed the empty pizza box that was close to where the bottle originated.
She managed to bump her leg rather violently as she wasn't in her right mind; still half asleep and sluggish, that when she lodged herself into the sharp edge of the coffee table, that had suspiciously managed to move at least two feet from where it originally sat-- she cried out a little too loud. The lady in question grumbled loudly, muttering words in cursing such as Dante this and Dante that, and about how wonderful he was at cleaning house.
It wasn't usual that she was this clumsy, infact, it was hardly ever. When the lighted candle fluttered in the enclosed expansive living room, the pain made her grit her teeth, scrunch up her face unflatteringly so that she was forced to settle the holder near a solid flat surface.
Rubbing her knee, the candle presently set down, allowing her to use both hands to knead the now forming bruised skin there. The phone rang. In the semi-darkness, the small flame profiled her features in a golden soft glow.
Limping over, she nabbed the receiver, "yes, Dante?" It was late, and one of the lighted buttons on the phone told her it would be from him. She leaned against the table, bringing with her one hand free, the ties of her robe together, while the other hand held the end piece to her ear.
"Lady, you might want to come on over."
Her eyes darted over to the clock, round and staring at her from the opposite side of the room. She could see the long hand still making its slow progressive way towards the bottom and the short hand just a hair's breath away from closing towards two.
"It's late. I just got up. What could possibly make me want to go to where you're at this hour?"
Dante's voice over the receiver sounded as ever, teasing—to Lady's chagrin, which allowed the female in question to nearly roll her eyes.
"Fine. Suit yourself. You know you want to come over." He continued to tease, the deep chuckle tingled in her ears, "demons everywhere, just your kind of party."
"Well yes, normally I would jump at the opportunity. With great pleasure. However," she licked her lips, her tongue jabbed against the side of her mouth, "I didn't get any sleep for three days, Dante. Get that. Seventy two hours. Annnnddd, because I'm not blessed with demonic powers, I can't go without sleep."
"I can't either." He remarked back, "you know that…"
"Yeah, well, maybe so, but at least your constitution doesn't need R.E.M. all that much."
"Didn't you get enough sleep?"
Her eyes lowered, lids drooping with the promise of the sandman's calling, but she breathed deep, "A little. Okay, I went to sleep around sixish-right before you left, remember?"
"Yeah."
"But, I guess you must have had some kind of dinner before taking off to Fortuna."
Lady said this with a kind of lazy accusation, imparting undertones about his lack of cleaning up.
"I take it you found the table moved?"
Silence.
"You know, I was moving that because I was placing a Christmas light above. Used it for standing on."
"Christmas light?" Lady looked up to where the tall ceilings were, and found there in the semi-dark, the hanging silvery piece—an Angel with white wings swinging lightly from the roped electric wire lodged in from the ceiling fan.
"That's an…angel?" Her brow went up, and she rubbed her eyes for good measure.
"Yeah I know, I got it free for helping out someone. Figured it would be nice to have a little something that reminds you of this holiday."
"Me?" now she was piqued, "Dante, did you think that my childhood was blessed with merriment and Christmas cheer where daddy came home to greet my mom with kisses and pretty presents, while he held a fluffy teddy bear in one hand to remember his daughter?"
"Sounds about right. Wasn't it?" he was joking, he knew, and he'd get a little hell from this he figured.
"Oh you..." Her eyes narrowed, spitting pretended fire, her lips forming a half smirk despite gritted teeth, "I'll be there. Fortuna huh? Think that you'll leave me a little bit of demon killing when I finally get there?"
"For you, Lady, on Christmas eve? Anything." And he was Dante again, just from that intonation, because she was visualizing him with that signature grin.
"Better. Or else, you're going to have to pay up earlier than agreed."
"I like a woman who's such a hard ass. You better get that moving, by the way. And it's past the cemetery where you'll be heading. If you want to meet me."
The phone clicked, closing the conversation.
Lady reached up to push her dark tendrils back, the mussed up appearance would have to be combed through with one of those brushes—vigorously and was glad that she sported a short crop for years. The length of her hair would definitely get caught up through rides across the city for hunts and the like. It was easier this way—and she managed to get it done stylishly this year.
It was Trish's suggestion, really—where her hair was cut in a way that allowed different lengths to frame her heart shaped face. With it touched with highlights tinted with gold and red.
Pulling her robe together, she picked up the candle, holding it so, her eyes sought for any heavy debris she may falter upon. The bathroom being in the back and her clean clothes were hung on the back of the door. Her boots, brown and suede decorated with tassels and heels sat side by side by the bathtub and on the blue floor mat.
Yawning, she set the candle down by the sink and looked into the mirror above the basin. No make up, nothing fancy to paint her face but she was going to wash the sleep out of her eyes, and brush her teeth before heading off.
Grumbling in an unladylike manner after finding that even the hot water wasn't available, she splashed some cold water on her, eyes blinking wide. "I'm ready," she whispered, almost inaudible.
Louder next time, as if to confirm in the darkness, "I'm ready."
After slapping her boots on, motorcycle gloves and jacket covering her breasts, she noticed the candle was flickering close, nearing the end of its existence.
"Remind self to pick up some candles on the way back here."
With that, she blew on it, encasing her in darkness, departing the bathroom in a hurried fashion. Moments later, the door opened and closed, creaking shut; the sound of a motorcycle stirred, leaving a trail of noise in the distance.