[ passed on when morrigan's next at the gallows, by a nervous-mannered scout who makes his way out again as quickly as can be managed. it's unsigned; a long black feather folded between the pages. ]
They say Nevarra’s where you go for dragons. I don’t know about that.
Everywhere I’ve been, people take up scales for their own. Wear them, and break them, and play at being something more, something true —
Because there is something true about dragons. It’s easier to see ourselves in them than in the rest of creation. If spirits are our reflections upon the Fade, then maybe we're all our own sort of mirrors. Where we flourish, wyrms die: The Maker's second progeny, hungry as the first.
There’s a man here, he wanted to speak with me. To ask me, What makes a true dragon?
He didn’t want me to answer, he just wanted to ask. Everyone here asks questions as though they’re the first ones to ever think of them. I can’t hold it all ill. Better that they share the words, than hold them holed up behind their mouths, like the menageries in town. There’s something wrong about that, those caged souls just set out to be stared at. I went and loosened the bars one night when the moons had shut their eyes, when none of us three might look, and still I couldn’t stop thinking of that question. What makes a true dragon?
That man writes papers about wyverns and gurguts, whole volumes on parchment to hear himself speak. They’re interesting, but I think they miss the point. Saying that things look alike, hunt alike, doesn't say very much at all. From a great distance, giants might resemble men; darkspawn are as quick to war as any.
No. Truth is something you know in your heart, not your head. It’s a piece of the divine set inside us. Even spirits own it, wyrms do.
What makes a true dragon? The better question is, What makes a false one?
[ a rough sketch of what may be (beneath alan's particular scratchy style) recognizable loosely as a courtyard in the university of orlais. a coiled serpent spits water into the basin of a fountain below. ]
letter; at some point
They say Nevarra’s where you go for dragons. I don’t know about that.
Everywhere I’ve been, people take up scales for their own. Wear them, and break them, and play at being something more, something true —
Because there is something true about dragons. It’s easier to see ourselves in them than in the rest of creation. If spirits are our reflections upon the Fade, then maybe we're all our own sort of mirrors. Where we flourish, wyrms die: The Maker's second progeny, hungry as the first.
There’s a man here, he wanted to speak with me. To ask me, What makes a true dragon?
He didn’t want me to answer, he just wanted to ask. Everyone here asks questions as though they’re the first ones to ever think of them. I can’t hold it all ill. Better that they share the words, than hold them holed up behind their mouths, like the menageries in town. There’s something wrong about that, those caged souls just set out to be stared at. I went and loosened the bars one night when the moons had shut their eyes, when none of us three might look, and still I couldn’t stop thinking of that question. What makes a true dragon?
That man writes papers about wyverns and gurguts, whole volumes on parchment to hear himself speak. They’re interesting, but I think they miss the point. Saying that things look alike, hunt alike, doesn't say very much at all. From a great distance, giants might resemble men; darkspawn are as quick to war as any.
No. Truth is something you know in your heart, not your head. It’s a piece of the divine set inside us. Even spirits own it, wyrms do.
What makes a true dragon? The better question is, What makes a false one?
[ a rough sketch of what may be (beneath alan's particular scratchy style) recognizable loosely as a courtyard in the university of orlais. a coiled serpent spits water into the basin of a fountain below. ]