therookery | (no subject)

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(no subject)

FORM: Hand-written public posting.
SENDER: Cyril Ashara
RECIPIENT: OPEN
WHAT: A couple requests
WHEN: Recent
WHERE: Around Skyhold
NOTES: None at the moment!

Requesting to barter or trade for the following items:

[What follows is a list of ingredients that can be used to create home made lotions, oils, and rudimentary sun block.]

If interested, please contact Cyril Ashara.

Also;

MISSING ONE (1) ANGRY DALISH ELF.
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Noticeable Features: Vallaslin over one eye, scar over lip.

IF FOUND: Please inform him that no one believes his grumpy loner act.

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[Cyril raises his brow a bit and comes closer to tug at the hood of the cloak.]

And I'd like to see yours.

[ This time, Merrick leans forward and knocks his forehead against Cyril's. A small smile is tugging at his lips now, the kind reserved only for his brother. ]

I'd like you to fuck off.

[Cyril takes that challenge and doesn't respond verbally. Instead he bends a bit and shoves his entire body against Merrick, intending to force him down so that he can't try that headbutting and hitting again.]

[ Merrick flops onto the ground on his back, but springs up quickly so he can grab Cyril by the front of his shirt and drag him down with him. He's got a full grin now, toothy and wild despite his illness. ]

Come here--

[Cyril is smiling too. He tilts his neck a bit to stretch it and then tries for Merrick again, fulling intending to get him back to the ground and find a way to keep him there.

When he's well, Merrick is the much better fighter. Cyril is better at a range, and is less likely to try underhanded methods that Merrick is. He thinks maybe he can get the upper hand due to the illness.

He turns out to be wrong.]

[ It's true. Merrick has a few inches on Cyril and is better at close-range combat. That, and he's a scrapper. Cyril never really gets into fisticuffs with people; he's a smooth talker, using charm and diplomacy to get himself out of sticky situations. He lies, placates. Things that Merrick never does.

He lets himself be tugged to the ground, if only so that he can wrestle with Cyril in the grass for a while. It's fun, and he's been antsy even since the fever set in and many of his activities have been put on hold. ]

[They spend a bit of time wrestling, rolling around on the ground as a collection of limbs and hands. Cyril almost gets the upper hand a couple times, a sign of Merrick's weakened state more than anything.

Honestly, the fact that their bodies are so close, that he can hear and feel Merrick breathing and grunting, that his brother's hands are on him and moving, that he's not dead, that he didn't drown, that neither of them ended up plagued and on a pile of burning bodies - like their mothers - means everything to Cyril.

He hardly notices when Merrick finally wins and has him pinned to the ground. His legs spread so that Merrick can fit between them, his arms shoved into the grass. But then there's a moment where he realizes just the position they're in.

Oh.]

Edited 2015-12-13 07:23 (UTC)

[ Merrick is grinning, sharp incisors flashing as he basks in his victory, and he's fully prepared to start gloating until his breath slows and he just looks.

It's no secret that Cyril is beautiful. He's fairly certain all of Thedas knows it, provided they have working eyeballs. To someone just laying eyes upon him it would be startling--they'll stop for a moment, falter in their speech, feel that slight burst of joy and awe one has when faced with sudden, stunning beauty. But to Merrick, he's so used to Cyril that it barely occurs to him. He's known the other elf for almost his entire life, has seen him in every possible state. He's just Cyril.

But right now, for some reason, it lights up his eyes.

Merrick feels a sudden surge of possessiveness, the kind that's always there when it comes to Cyril-- to his many conquests, who could partake in that beauty, but never have it-- But he also feels very, very sick, and makes a pained little mumbling sound as he flops down on top of his brother.

His face now buried in Cyril's neck, he groans softly against it and bites sharply out of frustration, short presses of his teeth against flawless skin. ]

[The bite sends shivers down Cyril's spine. His neck tilts to give Merrick space to nuzzle against him. He body squirms just a bit, trying to get comfortable as Merrick puts weight on him.

His hand moves to the back of Merrick's head and fingers trail against the hair there. He moans, very softly, and then strokes Merrick's hair a bit.]

You're okay. [He mutters, his voice soft.]

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