Stories in the Ink

The soft cackling and flicker of light heated the wooden tavern. The fireplace seemed to resonate with mirth, its warm air wrapping the occupants into a lulling stupor-whose drowsy effect was only seconded by ale and mead.

In the far corner, Bull and his Chargers were choralling in victory. Another job had been accomplished, and as such, the tavern of Skyhold would have its very walls shaken to the core from the group's sweltering pride. A rowdy bunch, Bull's Chargers.

Sitting just beside a window, the howls of glory had almost drowned out the softly plucked strings of the bard's lute that had barely managed to reach Solona's ears. The young woman was hunched over her current table, writing utensil in hand, which was furiously maneuvering about the page, turning white various shades of black and grey. Many times she had needed to pause to dip the tip into a bottle of ink before continuing on once more.

Her object of such passion was simple, and natural, for several minutes a seed eater had come to roost upon the window sill, possibly seeking the warmth the fire emitted against the northern winds. The finch was small, black beak short and stubby, body stout and feathers ruffling to fight against the cold. Even the rays of the sun seemed to give the feathered creature no release, for its soft chirps of discomfort could be heard through the solid glass.

Solona had merely watched the creature, black eyes large and shimmering with light from the reflecting rays. It reminded her of the eyes of a Pride Demon-the eyes of such that she had known well. Far too well. But this docile creature was not a demon, no. It was her friend. A friend that was suffering, and seemed far too fragile to survive in the Frostbacks.

Yet despite the chill within the seed eater's body, the bird was alert, for a swift movement of hand from the young mage had frightened it off.

"Oh!" Solona had gasped softly, watching the bird fly off as she had allowed her cramping hand to rest, setting her tools down. At this point, it appeared as if the drawing would remain unfinished. Sighing, the mage slumped within her seat, so focused upon her cramping hand that she had failed to notice a presence from behind her person.

"The spirits like it when you put ink to paper." Solona had visibly jumped, swiveling around to face the voice as she had clutched her drawing to her chest, protective and wary despite recognizing the strange boy, "You make the images bleed onto the page from behind your eyes, filling every pore with grey. Not too black, not too white, but greying. The whispers that shape your dreams-your hopes, your fears, your pains-they like that, like being colored, molded and shaped from pen to sheet. You make them real. You give each shade and shape meaning, a fuller feeling, a greying grey that grasps at the ground to be real-realer. You make the spirits real by bringing to life the pictures behind your eyes. They are no longer looking at a picture of a picture of themselves, but rather them, without the picture of the picture, real. They want to thank you."

His voice was soft and enveloping, as the mist shrouding the mountains in which Skyhold resided. Solona had looked upon the young man, shaking her head, oceanic eyes white and black hair strangled, "Oh, Cole...Please, don't tell Cassandra! She will yell at me for wasting the ink and paper!"

The young mage had continued to fumble over what to say next, pink tongue licking a chapped lower lip, "Don't...Don't scare me like that. Please."

"I'm sorry. I won't scare you." The blonde spoke, head cocking slightly, "I won't tell Cassandra, either. She likes reading about the people Varric brings to life. You and Varric are similar."

"No we are not." The girl mumbled, still clutching her drawing to her chest, as if it were her child, "Varric is good at telling stories and talking to people. I could never tell stories."