Marked from madness. The soldier stands. Decay makes its home, clings. The rot is sweet. [ There's the tiniest of frowns. ] I don't smell it with my nose.
[ Not in that way. He has. He knows it. In the heat of the fight. Skin scorched and slashed.
The hand is held out and he pauses, staring at it for a moment. Touch. Varric claps a hand on his back, shakes his head with a smirk to a joke misunderstood. The Iron Bull laughs, a huge hand falls upon his head and shifts his hat. Solas with a barely-there touch at his shoulder when directing him, polite and distanced. He holds the hand of a dying soldier who doesn't want to be alone as they slip from life.
It is offered. Waiting for him to take. He takes it. How does he hold it? ]
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[ Not in that way. He has. He knows it. In the heat of the fight. Skin scorched and slashed.
The hand is held out and he pauses, staring at it for a moment. Touch. Varric claps a hand on his back, shakes his head with a smirk to a joke misunderstood. The Iron Bull laughs, a huge hand falls upon his head and shifts his hat. Solas with a barely-there touch at his shoulder when directing him, polite and distanced. He holds the hand of a dying soldier who doesn't want to be alone as they slip from life.
It is offered. Waiting for him to take. He takes it. How does he hold it? ]
Alright.