sky healer

@avvarborn.

The textures are rich in variety: course, soft, bumpy, smooth… Melisende runs her hand over the materials. Her other hand rests close to her wallet, as has become her habit after being pick-pocketed twice before. Everyone were quick to tell her how she should have adopted that habit in the first place, out of instinct, but Melisende never considered it. She was always too occupied with the sight of something new and luxurious.

Her facial expression, of course, is covered by the mask, which bears her family’s sigil. Only her brown eyes, dark like the caves she imagines these people have slept in, are available for judgment of her mood. She cranes back her neck to look up at the Avvar closest by. The unnamed woman is more than a foot taller than Melisende and looks about as threatening as Melisende wishes she did. There is a certain beauty in the roughness of her muscles and the serious look on her face. “Hello.” Her tone more than makes up for the lack of a visible smile; it’s warm like the sunrise after a frosty night. “You make excellent furs.”

Everything about Orlais is strange to Svarah, especially the people. In the mountains things must be durable, and most of all they must be practical. Here, though, people seem to take delight in useless and wasteful things. Take the masks: Svarah is sure it makes it harder for people to see where they’re going, and they make it much harder to know what someone is thinking, there is no practical reason for them, but the Orlesians cling to them as children cling to a favourite toy. Still, not everything strange about Orlais is entirely unpleasant. The sun warms her skin in a way it is entirely unused to, and when they ate lunch Amund had surprised her with a dainty, cake that had fit into the palm of her hand and tasted, much to her surprise, of blackberries. He is a good man, this she is certain of, but she must remind herself all to frequently that he is also a good husband for her.