How was it with Alistair, again? Touching, yes but...He does not wish to remove the fur from Shiro's shoulders, to expose him to the chill of the night. He pops his slice of rabbit in his mouth before peeling off his gloves, turning to reach up and hold Shiro's face much as he had for Alistair.
When in doubt- do exactly the same as before. Like this it is-
He remembers all too well, the First Night. The warmth of wine in their bellies and how sweetly Shiro sighed. Remembers well the tenderness, the affection between Altair and Shiro not long ago. So he does not lean in. He simply cradles Shiro's jaw in one hand and lets his eyes focus on the middle distance- for a moment? Nothing. Just the warmth of the fire crackling, the stillness of the night-
That becomes the muck and oppressive darkness of the Deep Roads. The skittering patter of Genlock's feet, the dull groan of Hurlocks lurching from all sides. The scrape of a shirek's blades against stone, the searing acid and rage of Emissary's hurling their blackened magics about.
The ground shaking force of an Ogre's blow, the rancid puff of its breath, the crushing grip about his ribs before he's able to twist free. Slogging through their endless hordes over the bridge with the Legion of the Dead at their back-
Flickers of memory of the fields surrounding Loathering, once full of life and color, burnt and blackened, reeking of blood and death.
The inhuman wail and roar of the Archdemon, a tainted dragon flying high above, urging onward a massive wave of twisted, tainted bodies swarming the walls of Denerim like locusts.
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When in doubt- do exactly the same as before. Like this it is-
He remembers all too well, the First Night. The warmth of wine in their bellies and how sweetly Shiro sighed. Remembers well the tenderness, the affection between Altair and Shiro not long ago. So he does not lean in. He simply cradles Shiro's jaw in one hand and lets his eyes focus on the middle distance- for a moment? Nothing. Just the warmth of the fire crackling, the stillness of the night-
That becomes the muck and oppressive darkness of the Deep Roads. The skittering patter of Genlock's feet, the dull groan of Hurlocks lurching from all sides. The scrape of a shirek's blades against stone, the searing acid and rage of Emissary's hurling their blackened magics about.
The ground shaking force of an Ogre's blow, the rancid puff of its breath, the crushing grip about his ribs before he's able to twist free. Slogging through their endless hordes over the bridge with the Legion of the Dead at their back-
Flickers of memory of the fields surrounding Loathering, once full of life and color, burnt and blackened, reeking of blood and death.
The inhuman wail and roar of the Archdemon, a tainted dragon flying high above, urging onward a massive wave of twisted, tainted bodies swarming the walls of Denerim like locusts.