↑ to pick my muse up and carry them, for whatever reason -- From Grinnaux
“Put me down, you bastard!” He snarled, attempting to jerk away from the larger man. Celestaux could count on one hand the number of times he’d gotten so worked up, but there were some things he simply could not allow to stand. The usual blank mask had given way to cold rage, revealing that perhaps the Bull’s temper ran in the family. Despite this unusual shift in character, the violent flailing of his cousin, the Bull seemed undeterred from his task. Few had overheard the quip from the knight that started the scene, but all had seen the usually stone-faced Dzemael fall upon the man like a raging beast.
The elder Dzemael said nothing, as if not acknowledging a child’s tantrum, and simply adjusted his cousin’s position thrown over his shoulder like a sack of popotoes. The Bull’s pauldron was digging into his side, making the deep breath required to ease considerably less comfortable. Like a switch, the mask slipped back into place and rendered his expression unreadable. They’d long left the group behind, and though they earned no small number of odd looks, most knew better than to be caught staring too long.
“... You can put me down, Grinn.” He rubbed a hand over his face, going limp over his cousin’s shoulder. “At the nearest pub, preferably.”
