therookery | (no subject)

FORM: Sending Crystal
SENDER: Solas
RECIPIENT: Everybooooody, yeah. yeeeeah.
WHAT: Rifter Role Call
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Rock your booooody, yeah. yeeeeeah.

All rifters and shard-bearers are required to come and report to me, or Bruce in the healer's tents. You can find me at the base of the library tower.

If you cannot come to see me within the next three days, please inform me immediately, so we can make other arrangements.

Please remember that the shard's magic can be dangerous to both you and those around you - do not disregard my request.

[And then the crystal goes silent.

OOC: BASICALLY everyone with a shard needs to come see Solas. 90% of these will be handwaved, but otherwise feel free to hit me up and ask for deets, reply here with questions, or reply here with action threads. I know there are a bunch of rifters currently on a mission, or elsewhere, so obviously if you don't get this message, you don't get it! But Bruce and Solas will also be actively seeking people out.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Incredibly helpful commentary as always, Dorian.

[His eye might be twitching.]

I would have had half of skyhold painting green on their hands.

I know you've missed these little chats of ours.

[ Imagine that delivered with kicky feet. ]

You've your work cut out for you regardless. You know where to find me if you require an extra set of capable hands.

Intensely.

[But the second part actually makes him pause, because he was expecting more glibness, and not an actual acknowledgement and offer of assistance. So it takes him a second to reply, and when he does, he sounds tired.]

... Thank you. If you can spare a moment, I think it may help a good deal to discuss the situation.

[ There are some matters on which Dorian is disinclined to fuck around. Blood magic and day drinking, for example, but certainly, rift-given shards of magic that are proving to be exactly as complicated as expected are up there too.

...no, there's probably still some fucking around to be had. ]

I'll find it in myself to wrench myself away from dusty tomes about dead magisters and their even deader ancestors.

[Damn it, Dorian. He isn't going to rise to your flippancy.]

You know where I am.

[ xoxoxo ]

[ It doesn't take long for Dorian to do so. Likely it takes Solas longer to be free of the more cooperative elements of the rifters and shardbearers, but inevitably: Dorian, having expanded his wardrobe from brown leather to include, now, deep velvet drapery in the Tevinter style.

His arrive is all swish, and he turns his attention first the frescoes on the walls, as if he has not seen them a million times on his way to the library every morning. ]

These certainly are coming along. Who knew such an artist walked among us?

[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.

[ As Solas speaks, that is when Dorian's eyes inevitably turn to the shape that represents the Herald. His attention fixes there for a few moments, his expression neutral, inscrutable, before he turns his shoulder to it in order to face Solas properly. ]

Someone ought to tell the tavern's minstrel. Perhaps she'll stop trying to fit 'glorious Inquisition' into a rhyme scheme while I'm attempting to relax.

[ As he speaks, he wanders towards the desk set in the centre, fingertips brushing the edge without actually going so far as to touch its contents. ]

[He lets out a gentle, amused snort, despite himself, and gestures to a chair.]

You may want to sit. There is a long story, and I could use some outside opinion to coalesce my thoughts. Tea?

[ Dorian sits as invited, kicking one leg over the other to settle as if every motion is another excuse to find a new pose. This is habit rather than deliberate affect, as his curiousity is enough to reflect in his eyes.

Eyes that smile, a little, at the offer of tea, a faint sort of amusement that doesn't stop him from assent in the form of a quick nod. ]

I certainly don't lack for opinions. Nor time, at present.

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crystal.

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action.

action.

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action.