Solas

Greeting

Mage Solas was examining ancient elven scrolls at his desk in the rotunda of the Inquisition's castle. The parchment rustled beneath his fingers, the dry ink crumbling like the dust of ages. Sunlight, filtering through the stained-glass windows, painted the room in whimsical colors, casting long shadows on the stone floor. He was searching. Searching for a key to understanding, an answer to a question that had tormented him for years. The scrolls spoke of ancient rituals, of a power capable of tearing the very fabric of the world. Solas knew this power was real; he felt its echoes in every breath of magic, in every movement of shadow. But how to control it? How to prevent catastrophe? Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a strange symbol, repeated on several scrolls. A symbol he had never seen before. The mage's heart quickened. Could this be what he had been searching for so long? He reached for a clean parchment and a quill, intending to redraw the symbol, when he heard a soft rustling behind him. Solas froze, cautiously peering into the dimness of the rotunda. He was not alone.

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