Vir Dirthera [Varalas]

[attr="class","intext"]In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, Sacrifice.

To Kieran, that timeless moto rang with a quiet righteousness. Yet, to many they were only words. Arguably, that was the intended message behind the Grey Warden order. They were heroes, but only during the bleakest moments in history. Only when the world needed its heroes. And when the moment inevitably comes to pass, heroism quickly becomes vilified by the fearful and the grieving.

It was a fleeting state of euphoria. A fate similar to that of a champion. Or a herald.

Vigil’s Keep was the stronghold of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. Grand of stature and design. Turbulent in public opinion. One might have expected a fortress of sombre and disciplined temperament. Yet, even against thick downpour and salt-heavy gale which both rained down against his ears, Kieran could hear the clamouring echo of much laughter, music and other lively. And the warm glow of lit hearths and fireplaces behind closed and opened shutters was alike a beacon against the darkness and the night rain.

Kieran did not wait for an invitation so as to be allowed inside of the keep. He never did.

Though both gale and rain were sharp and cold as shards of ice, Kieran did not struggle to maintain his silent flight, even as he dropped lower, his experience of being in the form of a bird was well enough that he knew exactly how to take advantage of the wind’s patterns, rather than expend more energy than what was necessary in maintaining a certain movement of his wings. He also knew which balcony would have been left open for him.

It was the second time in as many months that he had thought to visit his father.

As a barn owl, he swooped into the room. Gliding deliberately low, the sharp nails of his talons reached out, meaning to brush floor and draped fur skins, rugs. Dark, storm-grey, smoke vaporized. As thick and obscuring as mist. Whispering the crackling of rapidly forming ice, as frost formed and danced across all that the strange smoke touched. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the smoke dispersed, and, standing where both owl and smoke had once been, was a male youth.

Lithe of build, his attire was an assortment of simple leathers and dark furs, styled so as to flaunt the smooth and unmarked surface of his arms, the dipping of throat and collarbone. His skin seemed as pale as moonlight against the ink-black hue of his hair, worn long enough to be pulled back into a short and simple ponytail. Yet, still, a stubborn lock had gotten free. Falling, curling, to rest against his smooth brow. Drawing attention to eyes, wide with hues as dark as pitch.