@worthyfate || continued from here.
—So much the SHAPESHIFTER without any manipulation of magic, Zekyr conformed to the conduct of his Inquisitor, and such was the reason a responding smile pressed a faint dimple in his cheek. He shook his head at the inquiry--passing or otherwise--while some manner of shrug rolled his shoulders. “The Iron Bull? Who do you take me for, Teren?” By the Maker, of course he had long before now caught the FIDGETING discomfort in their Herald at any title thick with responsibility upon his shoulders; the Orlesian elf had all but pinned that note at the forefront of his mind and used it.
Familiar, friendly, CASUAL terms, then. He treated him as no less than a close FRIEND.
“As far as I can tell, our dear ‘Bull’ frequents the Herald’s Rest, does he not? I seek finer beverages—those which you hide away in the CELLAR, unless I’m”—temporarily, Zekyr glanced down to smooth out the front of his coat—“mistaken?” He looked back at Teren and QUIRKED one fiendish brow. “Should you ever feel the urge to share... I do hope you’ll consider extending an INVITATION, but—dragons, yes. I’ve digressed.”
Softly, he cleared his throat. “If you wish to be EATEN by one, I’ll not crush your aspirations. Perhaps more dignity to be had than death by demons, hm? But they’ve a great STORM to deal with before laying even a claw upon you; I do hope they’re ready for a few SHOCKS.” The mage flexed his wrist, and his fingers curled. “Leaves quite the odd taste in your mouth.”