There hadn't been a time she felt so much like a child, so spoiled that they became entitled and bratty once something hadn't turned out how they wanted. Some already looked upon her as too naive and too soft, but Merewen always kept her heart on her sleeve. The very sleeve that now wiped at wet, glazed eyes in vain to cease the tears that spilled over her cheeks and only made her already red nose and cheeks even redder. A whimpered sob sounded as her bottom lip quivered, gaze diverting.
Dirthavaren, in it’s wild, untamed expanse, has too many sorrows to hold. They spill forth from the land in droves of undead, dot the charred plains in plumes of smoke, desecrate the ancient burial sites, and soak the soil in a constant flow of blood. Everything about this land screams death. Spirits scraping at the veil so violently, that they occasionally burst forth. A land in the Dales once promised to the elves, a second chance to rebuild and set claim to a second great city, an opportunity to unify a scattered and broken people…
But it had been for naught, for promises are too often broken. A once beautiful rolling plain twisted by the cruel hearts of man. Even now the scent of death pungent in the air, civil war forever soaking the soil in blood. Even dreams are not safe; forsaken spirits twisted in search of revenge, corrupted by the terrors the mind can not forget…
So why is the sight before them so utterly suffocating? Why does the apostate mage stop dead in his tracks, fingers set hard on hips, turning away in hopes his mind only plays sick tricks? It hits Merewen first, and he knows she is about to break.
They dot and the land like ivory petals, each velvet coat tainted in crimson. Spiraled horns no longer dancing towards the sky, obsidian eyes blank and ghastly. The men here so broken and damaged, they pick off every halla without conscience, a mindless untamed slaughter that serves as an outlet from endless civil war.
Cassandra stands tall, stoic and silent, Varric casts eyes to the ground, kicking at loose pebbles. The air is still and quiet, a distant howling of wolves and the mutterings of the men responsible. He cannot see them, but Solas vows to track them down and make them repent for their sins.
He approaches Merewen in soft steps, brows drawn and frown rigid. Tears spill forth from sapphire eyes, hands clasped over her mouth to muffle sobs, turning sharply away from the scene before her. Timidly does Solas reach to settle a comforting palm on her sleeve, silent cries now wracking her body.
So he takes her firmly with both hands, pulling frail frame against his sturdy chest. She quivers and shakes, and he swears she will collapse if not for the tight hold upon her. For a dalish elf, the sight is too much to bare. Halla are sacred, pure, they travel the land with each tribe, a gift from the great ‘creator’ Ghilan’nain. Which is why there are no words to soothe her, a tight embrace and gentle rocking, tears soaking clothing upon his shoulder.
He presses cheek against hers, a soft whisper,
"Dirthara-ea…” Gentle fingers stroke her back, an offering of understanding. "Ame in na numin.”
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