"Creators, Cyril," Sorrel was trying to sound forbidding-- and really, the situation was sort of bad, wasn't it? "Be serious for three damned minutes, will you?"
Just the same, he can't help the sneaking smile as he gathers fire to hand and the Bear takes three neat shots into the soft, fatty join between shoulder and neck, thump-thump-thump, one after the other! You have to admire the speed; being part of the Inquisition has done nothing but good for Cyril's skills.
He's waiting, letting his clan-brother buy time, feeling the build-up of mana. Wait...wait for it...just wait...and focus-- now! The fire blazes up just as the Bear rears back, right in its face, searing an already lightning-scorched nose, catching the exposed fletching of Cyril's arrows ablaze. It's had enough; instead of using its superior height to crush them, the Bear turns on its hind legs and leaps into a clumsy, trundling gallop. Where is it going? Anywhere but here!
There's a moment of silence and Sorrel breathes into it, then straightens up, turns, and pulls Cyril intot he tightest hug he can manage, despite his staff, despite Cyril's bow, and quiver, and all the travel-gear. When he pulls back, he's laughing, smiling, clasping Cyril by the back of his neck like no time has passed and they're still two young elves of the clan, brothers among the moors and highlands of the Free Marches.
"You! You, you stupid, show-offy-- Dammit, Cyril! I missed you, lethallin."
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Just the same, he can't help the sneaking smile as he gathers fire to hand and the Bear takes three neat shots into the soft, fatty join between shoulder and neck, thump-thump-thump, one after the other! You have to admire the speed; being part of the Inquisition has done nothing but good for Cyril's skills.
He's waiting, letting his clan-brother buy time, feeling the build-up of mana. Wait...wait for it...just wait...and focus-- now! The fire blazes up just as the Bear rears back, right in its face, searing an already lightning-scorched nose, catching the exposed fletching of Cyril's arrows ablaze. It's had enough; instead of using its superior height to crush them, the Bear turns on its hind legs and leaps into a clumsy, trundling gallop. Where is it going? Anywhere but here!
There's a moment of silence and Sorrel breathes into it, then straightens up, turns, and pulls Cyril intot he tightest hug he can manage, despite his staff, despite Cyril's bow, and quiver, and all the travel-gear. When he pulls back, he's laughing, smiling, clasping Cyril by the back of his neck like no time has passed and they're still two young elves of the clan, brothers among the moors and highlands of the Free Marches.
"You! You, you stupid, show-offy-- Dammit, Cyril! I missed you, lethallin."