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Surana - Blog Posts
One of the rare Dragon Age 1 fan art I will draw cause . . . the game bores me and . . . my elf mage can't bang Sten!!! >:S
Anywho my Elf Surana trying to woo the un-wooable Sten of the Berberbersad something lol
I do love Sten though! :3
my warden & inquisitor for me 8-9 years ago
for dadwc prompts, how about eireann and "A freshly painted vhenadahl" from the dragon age artefacts prompt list?
artefacts of Thedas prompts | @dadrunkwriting
Shadows and Tall Trees
“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red.” – William Shakespeare, Macbeth
The vhenadahl casts its dappled light over all the memories Eireann has of the alienage. Even as a child, she received no answer for why it was there, why they painted it every spring, or even what it was meant to do. “It means ‘Tree of the People,’” was the most her father could tell her, as he handed her a brush and a little pot of scarlet paint. More of it ended up on her hands than on the tree, but still, he told her she’d done a good job.
Odhrán Surana is dead now. He died in his daughter’s arms, and she cannot ask him anything else.
Eireann stands beside the vhenadahl, in the gloom of approaching twilight. The smell of new paint cuts sharp through the miasma of destruction and poverty, through the fourteen years since she had helped to paint the tree. She is alone, but for that memory. She doesn’t know how to be anything else. She can’t hold her mother, can’t reach out for comfort, can’t cradle the child resting in her womb, because when she looks at her hands now, all she sees is her father’s blood draining through her fingers.
She places a hand on the bark. It’s still tacky. When she peels her hand away, her palm is patched with paint. So she touches it again, and again, and again, until the tree is scattered with the voids of her handprints, and the vhenadahl’s patterns are ruined, and her palms are streaked red, white and pink. Anything to hide the stains of that memory.
They find her at nightfall, slumped at the foot of the vhenadahl, covered in the evidence of her outburst. Nobody blames her. The tree can be repainted, but her father cannot be returned.
