Grass grows through the cracks of the flagstones, much taller than it ever got when people lived here. Cullen ascends the stairs, rounds the corners, proceeds down the hallways. The centuries-old Tevinter statues and carved metal reliefs haven't gone anywhere: weeping slaves, pleading slaves, slaves in coffles bent nearly double as they stand in line.
In the courtyard, it's worse. Bits and pieces of huge statues -- larger slaves, as well as armored guardians -- are flung all over, some of them clearly having dropped heavily enough to crack the stone under them. Under a stone overhang it's clear that the brownish-red stains there aren't rust, and that no rain will wash it away. A pile of bones leans against a ragged crate here; a mound of rubble blocks linear passage there.
All around, stalagmites of red lyrium -- some quite tall -- pierce the ground, the walls. Cullen's aware of it, as always; it's late enough in the day that he is beginning to feel restless as his ever-smaller daily dose of regular lyrium begins to wane. His eyes feel too big for his head. He could walk up to one of the outgrowths, and --
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion Should they set themselves against me.
He oughtn't to be using the Chant of Light as a sigil to ward off the cravings. Cullen knows that, knows that if Cassandra knew she'd chide him for it, maybe even give up this fool's errand of trying to make him into someone fit to help lead an Inquisition. It's in this pleasant state of mind that Cullen approaches the remains of Knight-Commander Meredith.
On her knees, leaning back, mouth open in a silent scream, Meredith Stannard is no longer what she once was. Instead, she, too, is solid red lyrium, armor and all.
Cassandra wanted to see. Cullen brought her. He tries not to breathe too much, or get too close to any of the stuff. Tries not to snap at Cassandra, or say anything at all.
no subject
In the courtyard, it's worse. Bits and pieces of huge statues -- larger slaves, as well as armored guardians -- are flung all over, some of them clearly having dropped heavily enough to crack the stone under them. Under a stone overhang it's clear that the brownish-red stains there aren't rust, and that no rain will wash it away. A pile of bones leans against a ragged crate here; a mound of rubble blocks linear passage there.
All around, stalagmites of red lyrium -- some quite tall -- pierce the ground, the walls. Cullen's aware of it, as always; it's late enough in the day that he is beginning to feel restless as his ever-smaller daily dose of regular lyrium begins to wane. His eyes feel too big for his head. He could walk up to one of the outgrowths, and --
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion
Should they set themselves against me.
He oughtn't to be using the Chant of Light as a sigil to ward off the cravings. Cullen knows that, knows that if Cassandra knew she'd chide him for it, maybe even give up this fool's errand of trying to make him into someone fit to help lead an Inquisition. It's in this pleasant state of mind that Cullen approaches the remains of Knight-Commander Meredith.
On her knees, leaning back, mouth open in a silent scream, Meredith Stannard is no longer what she once was. Instead, she, too, is solid red lyrium, armor and all.
Cassandra wanted to see. Cullen brought her. He tries not to breathe too much, or get too close to any of the stuff. Tries not to snap at Cassandra, or say anything at all.
He can endure. He exists to serve. No more.