Well it's more, not to antagonize the spirits there. Those Sylvans all used to be Dalish elves, the stories say. So, maybe it's time we all gave the Brecellian a rest?
[He's still smiling, despite Adasse's disquiet, and shifts higher again in his arms. There's an unaccustomed hesitation there, yet again, leaning in as if to ask for permission, and depositing only a small and gentle kiss when it's granted. But, kiss finished, Sorrel doesn't pull away. Instead he presses in again across that small distance, kissing him again and leaning his weight on his elbows so that repetition turns that simple, chaste touch into something more intimate, and much warmer. It's another kind of story, like a seed growing into a sprout, putting down roots, and opening to the nourishing heat of the sun. Sorrel sighs, pure satisfaction, and eventually draws back enough to acknowledge the futility.
They're both too tired to take this anywhere, pure physical weariness and the traumatic ghost of the day combining to kill any such physical reaction. Even if his affection for Adasse is still a hot little flame in his gut, it's just not meant to be.]
You're boring today. [It's an obvious lie. Sorrel is, in this moment, completely absorbed in gazing at Adasse, as if to get him down by memory.] No werewolves, no abominations, no chantry explosions. What else?
no subject
[He's still smiling, despite Adasse's disquiet, and shifts higher again in his arms. There's an unaccustomed hesitation there, yet again, leaning in as if to ask for permission, and depositing only a small and gentle kiss when it's granted. But, kiss finished, Sorrel doesn't pull away. Instead he presses in again across that small distance, kissing him again and leaning his weight on his elbows so that repetition turns that simple, chaste touch into something more intimate, and much warmer. It's another kind of story, like a seed growing into a sprout, putting down roots, and opening to the nourishing heat of the sun. Sorrel sighs, pure satisfaction, and eventually draws back enough to acknowledge the futility.
They're both too tired to take this anywhere, pure physical weariness and the traumatic ghost of the day combining to kill any such physical reaction. Even if his affection for Adasse is still a hot little flame in his gut, it's just not meant to be.]
You're boring today. [It's an obvious lie. Sorrel is, in this moment, completely absorbed in gazing at Adasse, as if to get him down by memory.] No werewolves, no abominations, no chantry explosions. What else?