[Anton has to actually stop and consider that, even while rolling down his sleeves and wiping away the sigil with a hand. He had been a field-labourer as a youth, but when he took the gist he'd been forced onto the streets. Brawls had been common-place then--when he was nineteen. True style had only come later.]

Five-hundred and twenty-three years. And you?

[He picks up his jacket and turns to face Dante with curiosity. Few people could stand up to him without magic, and usually only because they knew him well. Chances are Dante has some of his own, or is long-lived enough to have that experience.]