#archcry

Haters gonna hate.

The rain wasn't uncommon, if anything it made Dhruastun a bit homesick for the Mire--if someone could ever truly miss that wretched place. It wasn't a downpour, but now and then the drizzle did pick up into something more--all welcome to the elf. His day had been bizarre, some strange mix-up while working and not paying attention to where he left his mug had him picking up something else to drink--however it wasn't bad. It tasted flowery, a little on the sweet side, and had numbed his tongue for a moment after consumption. Nevertheless it left him light, which is why he had offered a smile to the Inquisitor when she had went by.He didn't think the thought of her would haunt him the rest of the blighted day.Dhruastun certainly didn't think anything of it when the rains picked up once more, and it was walking across the gardens into one of the overhanging awnings that he ended up a little too close to the Inquisitor. While just the thought of her had been present in the back of his mind throughout the day, it was bearable when she wasn't in eyesight, when she wasn't so near. In this proximity there was far too much temptation.Such temptation was in the constellation of droplets still hung within her hair like diamonds, or the spare one resting on her cheekbone that begged for attention. Dhruastun couldn't resist, his hand raising in the close space and thumb moving to brush it away. That was the worst move to make, actually touching that skin was a disaster. At once he needed more, needed his hands to seek out every curve, to map out the anatomy of muscle and tendon and flesh. He wanted to scour it with his fingers, the urge of it burning in his veins. He wanted to leave rosy marks of passion along the slant of the collarbone and up the side of her neck. A heathen elf leaving a mark upon the faithful Herald? The thought of it prompted a quick intake of breath from him.               "Inappropriate."Rationality forced the word out, however his gaze was hooked onto the woman's mouth--instantly the thought struck, sudden and devastating. Could I render that mouth to gasp my name like a prayer to her Maker? Color flooded his cheeks, and Dhruastun had to forcibly close his eyes to stop himself from acting out on that.               "I am being so inappropriate, I need to--"                              --what he needed to do was pin the Herald                              against that stone wall and give her a damn                              religious experience--               "--go. I need to go. Don't get too wet--"                              --his ears burned with the second meaning of                              that, which nearly took his breath from him--               "Right. Bye."

❜ you must be the herald. ❛

                              ...[my muse] demands your muse's attention.There was a thing about not touching nobility. It had been drilled into his skull for nearly two decades, about how to handle things without making contact, without letting the filthy hands of a servant touch those of a higher status, or else there would be reprimand. This often worked into why Dhruastun was a physical person, and why he took any touch as something very personal and something to not take for granted. Any sort of motion he made was, then, always very deliberate, especially with intention backing it.The elf was burning a trail after the Inquisitor through the main hall of Skyhold, he might've said something if there wasn't the visiting parties donning those damn masks very evident and loud in the same space. Truthfully he still had a hard time looking straight at those masks.As the distance closed, Dhruastun didn't speak, however he did lay a hand on the Inquisitor. He broached that rule, a knife-ear making contact with a noble. His hand moved forth, his fingers finding their grip on the woman's shoulder. A small squeeze was given, a brief jerk of his head with his chin given in the direction of one of the doors to the side, and with that his hand dropped away completely.

While the initial response to the comment was a lift of one eyebrow and a curve of some sarcastic smile, the full blow of it hit him harder than it should have. His vision dropped, and the elf's throat felt inexplicably tight as he sought solace in the stone flooring. With teeth catching on his cheeks he couldn't help but find some wicked irony in that phrase, coming from none other than the Herald herself. When Dhruastun canted his eyes back up, a more self-depreciative sort of dark humor seemed to cloud around his features, evident quite clearly when he spoke up.               "Would you not say that's precisely what we are?"Had any of them gathered been prepared for this? Sure, they had their merits, but the fact the lot of them were bundled and stamped with the seal of the Inquisition was bizarre. They were scorned by the Chantry, despite the two Hands of the late Divine being a prominent part. All members were eclectic--and the Herald herself first roped in as a prisoner to the whole situation. Dhruastun exhaled slowly, biting back a snort as he thought longer on how fitting those words were.               "I do believe we're proof enough that misfits can be devastatingly dangerous."

💔 Non-existent💗 Very low💗💗 A little💗💗💗 Hopeful💗💗💗💗 High💗💗💗💗💗 Maximum