#honnleath

As usual, the statue must be adorned with items that capture the essence of the season. Iris kindly offered the use of her wide-brimmed straw hat with the berries and daisies and would love to see it on the statue. Farmer Goodman will also donate some of his baby pumpkins. We think a garland of small pumpkins and ribbons draped about the statue's shoulders would be lovely.

Or not?

Honnleath

================================================== Birds covered the statue like bees on a honeycomb, though with a far lazier purpose. Their coos were a part of the village hubbub, each one of them as much a market square staple as the men and women that kept busy in this gentle yet never-resting nest. The sudden roar of many small creatures sent every pigeon into a flurry, whipping up like laundry in a hurricane. Cackles and shrieks of victory erupted from the children, their arms thrown skyward with the same gusto as the statue beneath as its feathered sheet flapped cacophonously into the sky. Running about the statue and making swooshing sounds with their voices, the future generation of Honnleath did laps around their village’s strange mascot, this expulsion of birds the most exciting thing that would happen to them today. Amongst the charge, one boy - his hair like lambswool and the colour of straw - came to a stop and craned his head upwards, watching the mass of birds in awe. The exhilaration lasted a few moments, but in time, the group grew somber as they returned to the original order of business: regrouping in a cluster, they huddled up, the eldest of the girls taking charge. “So. Who’s going to touch it?” The statue had simply appeared one day. Its arms flung towards the sky, its head arched back, legs frozen mid-movement, it was unlike anything seen along the King’s Road or in the local chantry, and those of the village who had traveled to Redcliffe with their families swore that it was nothing like the statues there, either. The stone was rough, more like rocks that just so happened to take the form of a person than anything deliberately carved, with white markings around its face and neck a little like those on some of the dwarves that came by to sell cakes and trinkets. Some of the markings even seemed to be a type of writing, as though someone had tried to use Trade Tongue but gotten it wrong. By far the strangest part of the statue of all, though, were the crystals: around one shoulder and one ankle, rings of them not only grew, but glowed. Even at night, the children could see the eerie white-blue light from their bedroom windows, causing whispers amongst siblings as they exchanged stories of ghosts and magic to answer what it all meant. The dare was a frequent game: either someone managed to touch the stone creature and became both hero and feared curse for about as long as attention spans could manage (about until dinner time), or, more often, everyone was too wise to take the risk. After all, one never knew what might happen that time. “My sister says it’ll snatch you up and carry you to its cave!”, one boy volunteered. “My father says you turn to stone and get chopped up into bricks for new houses!” another countered, leaning forwards in thrilled, gleeful certainty. “My brother says you become a demon.” This suggestion earnt particular respect. It seemed likely, and was a fantastic motive to make someone touch the thing. At this, the often shy, blonde-haired boy piped up, raising his chin and taking what he felt was a brave stance: mostly, it consisted of making sure his torso was as far above his feet as possible. “I wouldn’t! I’m going to be a Templar. They can’t BE demons.” The statement was met with a combination of impressed murmurs, knowledgeable confirmations, and a few sniggers from the older kids who had recently discovered class and economy enough to feel superior in their cynicism. They knew that Rutherford would never be a Templar - that was for rich people. This didn’t stop elbows nudging the boy forwards, however, both from those who avidly believed him and others who really wanted to see a demon today. “Go on, then. YOU touch it!” “Yeah, you touch it!” “Don’t just touch it! KILL it!” “No!! I like it!!” The boy looked between his friends, taking on this mixed counsel and weighing it up, then nodded, a child’s grim determination settling upon him - the kind that is always half-play, but never feels that way until actual severity enters life and reveals the difference. “Alright. I will.” “Mia’s going to be so mad if he’s a demon,” one girl muttered seriously to another. “I won’t be a demon.” His conviction based on very little (although a templar had let him hold his sword one time, and who else could say that?), the boy took a few bold few forwards, then a cautious few after that. The grass around the statue was tall, purples swaying amongst the green. Summer heat bounced off the stone, the classic Bloomingtide weather bringing its particular blend of sun and sweet scents, lodging themselves in the children's memories far more poignantly than any of them could yet know. There were a few weeks of play still left before field work would begin again, and the children were giddy on that temporary freedom, determinedly living it as fervently as they could. Another step forwards, then another. Sometimes, he liked to pretend that the statue’s strange position was the stagger from being mightily stabbed by he and his brother, but, when he wasn’t fighting monsters, he liked to think it was skipping. This close, the child felt as though he could hear the glow of those crystals and that strange, incorrect writing. There was a metallic taste to the air. He thought about running back, but he wouldn’t be a coward. Templars weren’t ever afraid. Cautiously, but resolved to prove his metal, the boy reached out a hand An ear-piercing scream from one of the girls cut through the group moments before he connected. It broke the spell: the group ran, laughing and joining the excuse to scream as they leapt over the low wall around the village green. The boy looked over his shoulder, watching the group bundle and crash away to the fields, then turned thoughtfully back to the statue once more. - Cullen stood a safe pace from the figure, watching it. After everything that had transpired here, it was hard to be fully convinced it wouldn't move. His time here was done, and yet of all the tainted memories he wished to leave behind in this place, this one, he could not stop looking at. Reduced to its knees, stricken with pain, its ribs visible and the spine beneath even more so, the statue was almost skeletal, apart from the occasional taught pull of muscle. It sat in permanent desiccation, every bit the horrifying bronzes that has watched Cullen on the way to her office. That had, in the end, marched to her command. Looking at the remains now, he expected to be reminded of Kinloch, the broken shapes that his friends had been reduced to there… but all he could think of was Meredith. Even now, deep rivets of red, glowing with twixt threat and appeal, snaked through the statue like veins. He could feel it calling to his blood, his bones, but his heart was closed to it: it was too beaten down, had been through too many rounds, to have the energy to register fresh temptation now. Unlike Meredith. It was hard to feel empathy for her, after everything, but in Cullen's disappointment, there was a drained, disillusioned solidarity. He had watched the sanity leave her little by little, just as it had left the mages in Ferelden Circle. Instability was not something exclusive to these people he had feared so long, it turned out, and neither was the ability to become a monster. “Go on, touch it! I dare you!” Cullen turned to the young voices. Further off in the square, a group of Hightown children were eying the statue, elbowing each other and looking on it with wonder. Despite everything - its macabre truth, the risk it still posed, how fatigued he was under his latest grief - he found himself to be smiling. “Children.” The templar - for, he technically still was a templar, for a few days more - called out; “Don’t touch it.” He might as well use his uniform for one last attempt at good. His next words, he uttered with far more fondness than he had felt for such a sentiment in years, feeling nostalgia stir within him. On the city air, he swore he could smell summertime grass: “You’ll turn into a demon.” The group gasped, sufficiently awed yet warned, and scattered to spread the news. “I’m going to tell my sister!!” The resigned Knight-Captain watched them go, a smile once again managing to survive under the weight of his spirit. Hopefully, the city would have the Knight-Commander removed and laid to rest before anyone got themselves hurt. He resolved to stay long enough to make sure that was so - one final chance to reduce the harm of Meredith’s choices, even if he had missed so many in the past. Watching the children run, Cullen pondered how little they knew about the city’s recent evils. It was a small relief - a reminder that life existed beyond Kirkwall’s burdens. The politics, the mistakes: all they saw was a relic to play with. It felt naive, but a part of him couldn’t help but hope that one day, what had happened here would matter that little.

Cullenweek - Honnleath @cullensource

@cullensource | Cullen Week 2021: Day Three -> Honnleath

Song: Sun Giant by Fleet Foxes