i. arrival The bar is a raucous and chaotic place. It's choked with new arrivals and old patrons, the latter in search of a drink and the former of answers, often from each other. Solas, dressed in resplendent Elvhen armor, is far from the oddest-man-out of this motly collection. He is, however, not a particularly subtle sight, with wrought-silverite ivy feathered across his chestplate, and golden aurum chasing the edge of his leathers. Very well, admit it; it is very nice armor.
Or, it had been, before this place had stripped it of every enchantment and effect woven into its making, and carefully preserved against the effects of millenia. Now it was merely pretty. And heavy.
For now he simply waits, a drink in hand that he did not pay for, and does not intend to sip. He simply swirls it from time to time, or lifts it to his mouth as if to drink— watching. Listening. He sees you, too... or maybe you're smart enough to come at him from a blind angle. But no matter what, he does stand out...
ii. season of light It is difficult to grasp his situation with equinamity, and so he is compelled to pace. The streets are lined with light, and on the lips of every gossip are questions; even here, people are no different than ever, and those in authority call reassurances from on high, whilst the private wounds of suspicion fester.
Ah, civilization.
Perhaps you spot him walking, oddly barefoot in the snow. Perhaps you see him paused at a crossroads of two streets, considering the sky with solemn dissatisfaction, as if the stars have offended him somehow. Perhaps even, he sees you first— and what are you doing, to create such a fuss with that food vendor? Leave that poor man alone.
iii. wildcard choose your own adventure, I'm ready for anything!
Solas | Dragon Age | Undine
The bar is a raucous and chaotic place. It's choked with new arrivals and old patrons, the latter in search of a drink and the former of answers, often from each other. Solas, dressed in resplendent Elvhen armor, is far from the oddest-man-out of this motly collection. He is, however, not a particularly subtle sight, with wrought-silverite ivy feathered across his chestplate, and golden aurum chasing the edge of his leathers. Very well, admit it; it is very nice armor.
Or, it had been, before this place had stripped it of every enchantment and effect woven into its making, and carefully preserved against the effects of millenia. Now it was merely pretty. And heavy.
For now he simply waits, a drink in hand that he did not pay for, and does not intend to sip. He simply swirls it from time to time, or lifts it to his mouth as if to drink— watching. Listening. He sees you, too... or maybe you're smart enough to come at him from a blind angle. But no matter what, he does stand out...
ii. season of light
It is difficult to grasp his situation with equinamity, and so he is compelled to pace. The streets are lined with light, and on the lips of every gossip are questions; even here, people are no different than ever, and those in authority call reassurances from on high, whilst the private wounds of suspicion fester.
Ah, civilization.
Perhaps you spot him walking, oddly barefoot in the snow. Perhaps you see him paused at a crossroads of two streets, considering the sky with solemn dissatisfaction, as if the stars have offended him somehow. Perhaps even, he sees you first— and what are you doing, to create such a fuss with that food vendor? Leave that poor man alone.
iii. wildcard
choose your own adventure, I'm ready for anything!