[The latest fresco is the largest - countless figures standing in shadow, outlined only in silhouette, and the green glow from their hands. (One small female figure has the glow from right above her heart.)
A few frescoes before that, lies the saddest one - the Herald, her eyes closed and arms crossed, resting peacefully as flames lick around her. Her left hand is gone. There are countless flowers around her, even though they had not been there on the day, and the flames seem to caress, rather than burn.
It took him a long time to finish that one - her face, especially, had been left blank for months. But it is finished now.]
It is history, Dorian. [A touch exasperated, but moreso with the situation that he's dealing with, than with Dorian himself. So he sighs, and turns to him.] For a people who lost their language, painting is a far easier method to ensure that the history is not lost, again.
action.
A few frescoes before that, lies the saddest one - the Herald, her eyes closed and arms crossed, resting peacefully as flames lick around her. Her left hand is gone. There are countless flowers around her, even though they had not been there on the day, and the flames seem to caress, rather than burn.
It took him a long time to finish that one - her face, especially, had been left blank for months. But it is finished now.]
It is history, Dorian. [A touch exasperated, but moreso with the situation that he's dealing with, than with Dorian himself. So he sighs, and turns to him.] For a people who lost their language, painting is a far easier method to ensure that the history is not lost, again.