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WHO: Cyril & Sam. Cyril & Sorrel. Cyril & James. (and if anyone else wants a thread, let me know!
WHAT: Cyril wants to hang out with some people he likes.
WHEN: After Island Adventures
WHERE: Throughout Kirkwall
NOTES: None yet!

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Cyril hums gently at the last part. Normally, he would take the time to brag at the reasons he learned how to do this, but he doesn't want to make Sorrel tense up again. Instead, he just focuses on moving lower down the back to work through more of the knots of tension he finds.

"You really needed this, didn't you? You're a bunch of knots just held together."

"I don't know. I'm f-f-f...ffffine," he grits out, as Cyril presses down painfully, a sharp agony that rises, crests, and only slowly eases away to a more pleasant ache, "Ow. I'm not. Doing it on purpose."

Well, perhaps he is. But it's hard to say if it's on purpose that he worries, or if worries are simply his nature. Sorrel certainly can't remember deciding to worry, at any such time. But true, he doesn't do much to decide otherwise, either.

"Everything just...keeps happening."

Cyril works through the knot that he's found, focusing on getting Sorrel's muscle to relax. He listens to Sorrel and for a moment he isn't sure what to say. A lot is happening, all at once. It had been building up, of course, but it seems to just be rushing to the finish line now. The finish line will likely leave Sorrel a widower.

"I wish I could pause time for you," he said finally. "Give you a moment to breathe."

Sorrrel doesn't say anything for a few minutes, breathing through each movement, thinking about time, and how little of it there is. Stop time? Surely he wants that, but not for him. His suffering was an an afterthought, next to the vision of Sina pale and thin in her blanket, and the decades-old spectre of pale elven bodies in rows, coughing out their last breaths beneath Deheune's hands.

"I'm breathing fine," he murmurs, finally, opening his eyes to fight back the stinging that wants to turn into tears, "But I wouldn't turn it down, if you happen to stumble accross some ancient elvhen magic that grants wishes. Assuming it's not just a demon, of course."

Sorel has some experience with the latter. Sleep has not been easy, of late.

"If I do, you'll be the first person I think of," Cyril responded as his hands kept manipulating his skin and muscle.

He was trying not to stare at the quality of Sorrel's skin, but it was getting more difficult to ignore how beautiful the mages was. He distantly wished he could kiss that skin as well as rubbing out knots.

"How can I make sure it's not a demon?" he asked, mostly to keep talking and prevent those unwelcome stay thoughts from crossing his mind.

"Demons are tricky. Sometimes they're pretty stupid, but you have to stop yourself from acting on your gut," He's solemn as he says it, the quiet voice of experience, "Harder than it sounds, I know. But if someone's not telling you what they're getting out of an exchange, that means they know you won't want to give it. Plus, if it is a demon, they can't actually give you anything they promise. It's all just...Bullshit."

No deal with a demon could save Sina, only hurt her immeasurably and destroy Sorrel in the process. Just as no demon could make someone love you, or make you beautiful, or give you back what you'd lost. The best any of them could do was power, raw magical power, or the knowledge of things best left alone. There were better ways to all those, ways that didn't involve walking right into a monster's mouth and thanking it politely as the teeth came down. Sorrel sighs and pushes up a little, giving up on the pretense so that he can smudge the wetness off his eyelashes. So much for dignity.

"If something seems too good to be true, it always is."

"That's probably true for some things even outside of demons," Cyril pointed out carefully. He sometimes couldn't believe his luck to have the life he had with the Inquisition, but he knew all of it came with it's own price. They were fighting a war, and any one of them could die during their missions.

"And I'm terribly at saying not to pleasures I encounter. I'm lucky I'm no mage. I'd probably be ripe pickings." He said so a little playfully, as if he didn't really believe what he was saying but instead just wanted to bring a bit of light into the conversation.

"Demons can't posess other demons, Cyril," That's a weak joke, he knows, but it's all he has at the moment. Sorrel lapses into silence, after that, letting his emotions ebb. Ugh, when did he get to be such a wet sop?

Probably it's just the lack of sleep.

"Thank you for this," He whispers, eventually, "I'm kind of a mess, lately."

Cyril laughs softly rather than being offended. He honestly can't help but be amused to be compared to something like a desire demon. That probably says something about his mental state.

"You have right to be, Sorrel. And you're welcome."

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