They’re trudging their way through the Storm Coast, and of course, this being the Storm Coast, the skies have opened and rain is pissing down relentlessly. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; one of the first things he noticed about the South was its ever-present dampness.
Gal’s boots are squelching with every step, his war paint is more of a grey smear all over his face, and strands of his hair are plastered to his forehead. It would almost be hilarious, but Dorian’s sure he himself is in just as much of a state.
Generally he might expend a little mana on a minor barrier, just something to keep the cold away. He does for a while, but then he finds himself distracted. He spends half a mile trying not to remember the soft look of surprise Gal had given him; and then lips against his, and those big, gentle hands on his hips, pulling him closer. He utterly fails, of course, even when he attempts to recall Alexius’ entire first experiment from memory, and the seven humours (they teach them differently here, in a way which seems utter nonsense), and the vintage of the last wine he liberated from the Skyhold cellar. Oh, he manages to bring them to mind - his brain is a little more complex than that, thank you very much - but beneath them there’s always an inconvenient current of thought. A sense-memory he won’t quite let in. His mouth tingles.