It is a face. A young man's face. He has rounded cheeks and bright eyes, his gaze is innocent of fear or wariness; he looks back at the memory of Solas without guile. He has not yet been taught fear. His face is marking in black ink, whorls spreading across cheeks and forehead like the branches of a graceful tree, accentuating the beauty of his youth.
"I call it, the Vallaslin," A voice says. This man is tall, enormously so, broad-shouldered and commanding, his face set in a grim, sour smile. It is not that he is truly happy, nor even that he is remembering happiness. In Solas' memory, Elgar'nan is only happy as a balancing force against other's misery; he is happy, because of the unwitting misery he is inflicting.
"Blood writing?" Solas asks, backing up a step a wolf's snarl in his voice, "A brand, to mark them. Why?"
"It is an honor," comes a woman's voice, as she steps up alongside the other. She is just as tall, just as regal, and Mythal's face is as cold as her voice is warm; she touches Elgar'nan's shoulder in a tender greeting, and is rewarded with a smile in return, "Those who follow each of us shall bear our heraldry, Solas. I thought you would approve."
"I—" He hesitates. Surely, Mythal is honest, how could she not be? Her voice, so smooth and soothing, so adored and adoring, is a balm upon all things, "It seems... a drastic step."
"Yes, I understand," She says, crossing past the silent, puzzled young man, the elf with his face permanently changed, "But you must see, it is necessary. Why, what if Andruil were to mistake our own people for one of the enemy? And all the better, too, to differentiate between each of our forces..."
"...I suppose so," Solas allows, begrudgingly.
"It causes them no pain."
"Surely, it must. They have no choice in the matter."
"Of course they do not. Why should they?" Elgar'nan's laughter is a cruel rumble, "A momentary pain is little enough to pay for security, Dog. They are mine. They should look the part."
Solas can barely keep from baring his teeth, but before he can draw breath to speak, Mythal's hand is on his shoulder, a gentle press of fingers, warm and welcome.
"Come, my Wolf. Let me show you what other designs we have devised. The People shall not despair, for want of variety. All will be well. Come..."
Waters of Memory: The Ancient Glade
It is a face. A young man's face. He has rounded cheeks and bright eyes, his gaze is innocent of fear or wariness; he looks back at the memory of Solas without guile. He has not yet been taught fear. His face is marking in black ink, whorls spreading across cheeks and forehead like the branches of a graceful tree, accentuating the beauty of his youth.
"I call it, the Vallaslin," A voice says. This man is tall, enormously so, broad-shouldered and commanding, his face set in a grim, sour smile. It is not that he is truly happy, nor even that he is remembering happiness. In Solas' memory, Elgar'nan is only happy as a balancing force against other's misery; he is happy, because of the unwitting misery he is inflicting.
"Blood writing?" Solas asks, backing up a step a wolf's snarl in his voice, "A brand, to mark them. Why?"
"It is an honor," comes a woman's voice, as she steps up alongside the other. She is just as tall, just as regal, and Mythal's face is as cold as her voice is warm; she touches Elgar'nan's shoulder in a tender greeting, and is rewarded with a smile in return, "Those who follow each of us shall bear our heraldry, Solas. I thought you would approve."
"I—" He hesitates. Surely, Mythal is honest, how could she not be? Her voice, so smooth and soothing, so adored and adoring, is a balm upon all things, "It seems... a drastic step."
"Yes, I understand," She says, crossing past the silent, puzzled young man, the elf with his face permanently changed, "But you must see, it is necessary. Why, what if Andruil were to mistake our own people for one of the enemy? And all the better, too, to differentiate between each of our forces..."
"...I suppose so," Solas allows, begrudgingly.
"It causes them no pain."
"Surely, it must. They have no choice in the matter."
"Of course they do not. Why should they?" Elgar'nan's laughter is a cruel rumble, "A momentary pain is little enough to pay for security, Dog. They are mine. They should look the part."
Solas can barely keep from baring his teeth, but before he can draw breath to speak, Mythal's hand is on his shoulder, a gentle press of fingers, warm and welcome.
"Come, my Wolf. Let me show you what other designs we have devised. The People shall not despair, for want of variety. All will be well. Come..."