#▪──── ⚔ ❝ ( Vergil is ready to get his butt HANDED To him ! ) ❞

[jetblackknight]

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ long overdue starter for @sunfallsprophet's 𝙳𝙹𝙰𝙷𝙸𝙼𝙰 : )

⚔ ────▪ 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚂𝙽'𝚃 𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 . ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ He thought this with confusion written across his strong, yet soft, features. Vergil knew every inch of the island of Fortuna, from its rocky beaches to its snowy peaks, and even beyond. He knew of the jungle, its demonic, magical nature finally dissipating after nearly eight years of influence. It was to be an empty forest. Yet, from where he sat, on the rooftop of one of the few still-standing buildings in the castle town, such was not the case. Curiously, he sipped at his tea in front of him, but what he saw had begun to bug him more than mere curiosity. No one was supposed to be on those mountains now. They had not yet been deemed safe—small packs of lesser devils still hid within its canopied hills. And he knew where Nero was right now . . . he was on a job, with Dante. He was not allowed to go on any, yet. At least not without supervision.

                         ❛ It is their life, ❜ Vergil reminded himself. He sipped at his cup of tea, admiring the glass-work. The cafe underneath his feet had not yet reacquired the appropriate stock; Port Caerula was in ruin after what his son had done in frustration, and had yet to be repaired, leaving imports to the island few and far between. The occasional ferry was all that came, back and forth, once a week. Largely, the cafe was a " Bring Your Own Cup " situation. Vergil admired the sustainability. He enjoyed the tea, too. Homegrown, still earthy, with a little bit of sugar. It was distracting enough to almost make him forget.                          And yet, here Vergil was, sitting there, thinking about the soft plume of smoke he saw in the mountains . . .                          ❛ Or not. ❜                           Sighing, Vergil stared at his cup and grumbled, standing. He brought it with him half-drank, and downed the rest on his way downstairs. His name had been engraved in his own, elegant script on the bottom of its glass, so he left it with the barista behind the small, cluttered counter. She knew exactly where to put it. The perks of being a Sparda—special treatment across the entire island.                           With a start, Vergil began to flit throughout cramped alleys and busy streets, a blur of black and teal, making his way to the port, to the mine, up the mine, and over the now non-magical bridge that led him to what was once a training ground. It was now merely forest ruins. Kicking off the ground, he made his way into the air out of the watchful eye of the townspeople and transformed, flying above until he was almost touching the curious plume of smoke. He smelled food. Fire, of course, but food. And still . . .                           His curiosity had been piqued, such was true. Vergil flew back several yards before diving down into the forest, nothing more than a whisper of leaves—he knew when to be silent, unnoticed. If this was simply an idiotic hiker, he could scare them into returning back to Fortuna before something far worse than an irritated half-demon came along. What he found instead was not a hiker.                          ❛ How curious. ❜                           The middle and end of a small forest path, overgrown by flora, sat under his feet ; not more than thirty feet away, the beginnings of what Vergil first presumed to be another ancient ruin. But it wasn't. The material was all wrong. Where the training ground was sun-bleached stones and clay, this was something else. Something handmade, without the use of infernal underlings, as the training ground was. After all, it was where his father trained the Order, long before that wretched old pervert had taken up the mantle and turned the majority of the town's able young men into artificial demons. No, this was made with love and care, each stone fitted into place, each beam of wood hand-carved and cut and sanded and oiled to blend into the environment. At least, until whoever was here decided to use their fireplace.                           Vergil began to step forward, careful, but not careful enough—the scent hit him just before the aura, and it knocked his concentration completely to the floor. Whatever was here was not human. Vergil gripped his sword tightly, trying to recover. He had only seconds before whatever warding magic was here alerted its owner to his presence.                           Even then, it appeared he was far too late.                           Vergil braced for a fight.