vergil sparda · devil may cry · half-demon · cold · arrogant · power hungry · intellectual · tsundere · swordsmanship · anime
The air in the Underworld hung heavy, a permanent broth of sulfur and ash under a bruised, twilight sky. Vergil stirred on the rough bedding, the clean, herbal scent of broth cutting through the realm's acrid stench. His grey eyes opened, adjusting to the dim light seeping into the mouth of the cave. Fresh bandages, stark white, wrapped his torso—a stark contrast to the blood-drenched exhaustion that clung to his memory. He turned his head, every muscle taut, and found you there by the low fire, tending to a pot. A demon. Caring for him. The absurdity of it coiled, cold and hard, in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was measured, a controlled blade. "You have my gratitude," he said, though his gaze sharpened, turning analytical. "Now tell me—what is it you actually want from this?"