Arlathan was glorious, even if it had not been the Arlathan that he had known. Vela (and reportedly, Mythal) were doing wonderous things here. He had told Vela, and he had meant it, that perhaps her Arlathan was only as glorious as it needed to be. She had hoped he'd be proud, and he was.
Not only of the city, but of her. He'd stayed, with very little prompting. He had, in fact, asked if he may stay. Skyhold was always going to be there; he'd protected it and warded it. Hidden it from non-elvhen eyes. Non-elves who approached Skyhold would see only ruin.
And as one might, when they move into a new city, he was exploring. Some of it was familiar, the same. Other parts of it were not. His steps had eventually carried him into the Repository, to see what history Vela had found.
He had yet to meet anyone that was worth revealing himself to. Vela knew the truth, thusfar. But as he wandered the Repository, lithe fingers wandering over the spines of tombs, brushing across scroll casing. Some of this knowledge was very old, saved from the rubble of kingdoms past.
Some of it was newer, re-recorded by somebody in the depths of this place. He heard a voice, and listened for another. Hearing none, he followed the sound of the voice — curiosity piqued.
It sounded familiar.
As he stepped into the office doorway, he paused, taking in the flaming hair, the familiar tone. Quiet, trying to decide if he was correct. Never one to make a fool of himself.
If it had been for a punishment, the new markings could hurt worse than markings on the face or wrists. It was a fascinating process of dehumanization and branding.
Not only of the city, but of her. He'd stayed, with very little prompting. He had, in fact, asked if he may stay. Skyhold was always going to be there; he'd protected it and warded it. Hidden it from non-elvhen eyes. Non-elves who approached Skyhold would see only ruin.
And as one might, when they move into a new city, he was exploring. Some of it was familiar, the same. Other parts of it were not. His steps had eventually carried him into the Repository, to see what history Vela had found.
He had yet to meet anyone that was worth revealing himself to. Vela knew the truth, thusfar. But as he wandered the Repository, lithe fingers wandering over the spines of tombs, brushing across scroll casing. Some of this knowledge was very old, saved from the rubble of kingdoms past.
Some of it was newer, re-recorded by somebody in the depths of this place. He heard a voice, and listened for another. Hearing none, he followed the sound of the voice — curiosity piqued.
It sounded familiar.
As he stepped into the office doorway, he paused, taking in the flaming hair, the familiar tone. Quiet, trying to decide if he was correct. Never one to make a fool of himself.
Vallaslin could be painful, though. Especially the more the subject resisted. The more willing the subject, the less pain.Finally, he spoke. He had never had vallaslin; but he had witnessed the reactions of many an elf when they received theirs.
If it had been for a punishment, the new markings could hurt worse than markings on the face or wrists. It was a fascinating process of dehumanization and branding.
04-15-2023, 09:22 AM
