An air of arrogance, cockiness, and some sort of twisted pleasure would ensue upon exhaling. That was at least indicative of how they've always been - and how they'll always be. This air surrounding his reaction extended into strides, a semicircle around the other, reunited again, but this time? Dante refused to let him go.
"Yeah... This is a lot easier than talking anyway." For the moment, he doesn't look at him. "It's been a while, Verg." He rolled his shoulders. "Think you still have it in you?" His taunt is presented mockingly, which is, at the least, predictable and consistent.
As he turned sharply and quickly toward his brother, that smirk stretched to his ears, and a twinkle in his eye glistened again. "---And for the record," Upon extending his arm, Rebellion ignites into a stream of sparks before him; a gust of wind waves his hair, but he shows no sign of being phased. All part of the show.
"That son of yours—-"He begins, swinging his weapon over his shoulder to rest there. "He's--" Unfinished, interrupted by the violent tremor of the ground and a fresh spawn of demons emerging before them. A clack of his tongue at the roof of his mouth. Typical. "You invited an audience?"
𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒 ––– but the trunk of the qliphoth still holds his attention, more and more often as they drew nearer and nearer to its roots. even as dante encircles him, his frosted gaze is hesitant to withdraw from it. it is only when the light gust of wind flutters through his silver hair that his eyes finally snap to dante; and he sees that, unsurprisingly, dante has grown bored. there is a flicker of a moment, when he is reminded of their childhood. the grass stains on dante's shirts, their twin scraped knees ––– all because dante couldn't simply let vergil perch in a windowsill to read for more than fifteen minutes at a time. at some point wooden swords had turned to sharp steel, yet they had not changed. not truly.
a bold sentiment to proclaim.
slowly lowering himself, heels rooted firmly to the ashen ground, his hand drifts to the yamato's tsuka. if his brother could not respect his wishes not to speak of it even when held at the edge of his sword ( again, unsurprising ), then vergil wouldn't hesitate to open his skin with it if only to prove an endless point. but when he parts his lips to speak, the quake of the ground being overturned, devils unearthed, he snaps his jaw shut with a quiet click of his teeth.
jaw clenched, bolt of it ticking, he growls ––– and lunges forward with the yamato unsheathed to cut clean through an empusa just beyond dante's shoulder. disgusting, verminous thing. overfull and near to bursting. ❛ evidently. ❜ his tone is tight as he glides the sword over his forearm, flicks the blood from its tip.