[He could stop the evaporation if he wanted to, could just turn down the heat, the slightest sign of his command over the element. He just doesn't want to remain soaked through. The feeling of the rain is something new. Wearing soaked cloth, however, is a feeling he's familiar with. After all, when you were a Prince of Hell, challenged again and again by the lesser demons who thought they had a chance at wrestling the title away, it wasn't uncommon to spend days soaking in a pool of blood.

But when Patience comes towards him, he's lowering his temperature, making sure his flesh isn't burning when she takes his hand. He allows the rain to soak in, to finally clump and plaster his hair to his skin, to permeate his clothes and weigh them down. All to make sure his hand has just the slightest bit of warmth as his Virtue links her fingers with his.]

Weather seems unbecoming of angels. [He can't help the sneer in his voice, the slight scowl on his face before he curbs his expression, attempts to soften it again, to glance back up at the sky.] Weather is chaos, is changing and unpredictable.

[And yet the rain gives life to the soil, the winds bring seeds and carry the birds. It's too volatile for the purity of heaven, and too nurturing for the damnation of hell. And so the great middle ground receives it instead. The moderation neither side can wrap their minds around.

A thought that causes an ancient ache of longing, of unremembered hopes and long dead dreams, to settle deep inside of him. That causes his fingers to tighten just barely around Elerial's.]

You'd think I'd be used to this realm by now.