Lingering 'top the highest hill of the orphanage's plain, it was a child that noticed the caliginous shadow first, outstretching a shaking figure towards the ink black night. "A specter haunts," the lad murmured, but none were there to hear him but the whistling wind, which brought a breeze so blistering that the child swore it was stirred up from the underbelly of hell. In that moment, the lad shivered and blinked back his brown eyes, but the second he had was the second the specter fled — away from this hill, and hopefully, away from this plain.
You couldn't call Dantalion sentimental, but there were some nights when the desidare kept the cold of the night wrapped tight around his form and stared up at that dilapidated orphanage, standing stubbornly on that wretched little hill. If you peeled back the layers of brick and mortar that kept it strong, there'd be nothing but hellfire remaining to its core; he knew this, but you didn't need a demon's intuition to know the face of corruption. Long years spent trawling this earth meant knowing its very scent and feel, how it crept into your bones if you were a tempting threat.
If you decorticated the desidare, you'd find he had just as much in common as that damned orphanage atop that damned hill. From sunrise to sunset, he was dressed to death — in regal jet blacks, from his hair to his nails, to his boots, to the coat with upturned collar that gave him a touch of class. In town, they called him Lord Nox: a dealer of gold and silvers under gleaming moonlight to useful souls, a philanthropist who raised up grieving souls, who kept company of both beggars and benefactors. He sleeps in shade, they knew, but we do not know his name.
This town — sleepy and innocent, yet dripping with the sin of humans who supped there — was under his thumb, as he was their enigmatic "Lord Nox" of Tylondale. None would find it odd, how those whom he'd dealt with would do whatever he'd asked of them, because who wouldn't feel indebted to a man who found a way to give worthy souls what they desired? None were sure if it was magic, but all were sure that it could not be explained. Dantalion spilled no secrets: it'd be such a human thing to do.
So when the sun set, the Mother of the orphanage stood waiting for him with a wide smile, her grey hair pulled back into as neat of a bun as she could manage, dress ironed of wrinkles to the best of her ability.
"Greetings, Lord Nox," she welcomed, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Please, come in. The children and I have been hoping you'd grace us with your presence." Her words were saccharine, but it was her eyes, gleaming with gold, that gave her position away. If Lord Nox visited, surely, it must mean money was involved.
His boots clicked onto the hardwood of the orphanage's floor, his coat nipping at the back of his heels. The black of his coat was accented with silver thread, cloaking the figure in midnight cloth. It was only his hands— fit with white gloves— that may have given him the appearance of a benefactor, but even then, there was a looming aura about him that was near unshakable. If the people of Tylondale looked past that, it was because he wore the mask of a saint, put on the show of a perfect prince. When they looked at him now, they'd see silver eyes as well; another part of his "ensemble," definitely not the eyes of a beast.
So it was the children, who all looked at the Mother as if she were a demon, must've been herded into submission before his arrival. It would be simple, then — laughably simple — to find one who had a wish to make. Or better, one who wanted to contract him, whose contract would give him license enough to put this town behind him.
"As I'm sure they have," Dante said with a small smirk, shaking his head. "But you know it's not so simple. I don't give gold to institutions that aren't up to snuff." He rested his hands in the pocket of his coat as he said this, watching the woman's lower lip twitch in anxiety.
"The orphans here are well cared for," the Mother ensured, but the children — who were slowly slinking away from her, off to do anything else but stand at her side. "I assure you, Lord Nox, we're a reputable establishment."
"An easy claim to make." As Dantalion spoke, he grinned a little— forever amicable. "But you know what they say," he muttered, stepping further into the house, examining the cracks in the walls, the chipping paint, listening to the far off cries of squabbling children and tyrant toddlers. "Seeing is believing... no?"
The Mother was silent, and Dantalion chuckled under his breath. "A week," he told her. "I'll be staying a week, to see if your humble abode truly is as well run as you say. If I like what I see, the money will be yours to use for renovations." He fixed her a solid stare. "And if it's not, well..." The dark-haired desidare shrugged. "It'll be hard to keep this place afloat, wouldn't it?"
"It would indeed." The Mother pursed her lips, but said nothing more.
She lead him to the guest room— to a room perched on the third floor, one that oversaw the highest hill of the orphanage's plain. The room was small, albeit cozy and worn, as if someone had once lived here long ago— someone who hadn't been your run of the mill orphan. A week— that should be ample time to find someone with a strong enough will to contract him, someone who wanted his power to the extent that they'd let him feed off their very soul. Who better than an orphan— one who'd been knocked down and out, ignored by all the world?
"Send one of your girls up with some tea for me, if you would," he told the Mother, resting his satchel down on the bed. Dante turned silver eyes towards her, contemplative. "Black tea, if you would. Darjeeling, preferably. Tell her not to dally."
The Mother nodded, leaving Dante alone in the quaint room. The desidare pulled a chair up and sat by the window, silver eyes staring out at the hill that hugged the edge of the orphanage. He let his fingers rest on the window sill, watched the sky turn grey with clouds that threatened to pour— the oncoming storm, as if the heavens itself had learned of his resurfacing. He laughed to himself, a small chuckle under his breath, and listened on as thunder rumbled in the distance.
Alea iact est. The die is cast.
