plain as day [ open ]

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Despite his love for more intellectual pursuits, reading in particular, Cyrlan finds a spontaneous lecture purely on abstract mathematical theory a little too much. He is not as literate as, say, a Circle mage who spends their entire life around bookshelf upon bookshelf, but he can read as well as any Dalish First, and enough of human language to write a letter or read a report. It is no surprise that the only thing he can do is smile and nod at the mathematician as the elven boy jabs his finger at numerical figures enthusiastically, which to him, could be written in ancient Tevene and it still make little difference to him. Try as he might, he cannot see the significance of these studies - they are unlike the research on the Fade nor the unreliable narrations of overly adventurous Chantry people, both of which he comprehends to a certain degree. And so he excuses himself politely and strides briskly towards the entrance before his curiosity once again gets the better of him and lands him in the clutches of a student all to eager to share their most recent discoveries.

He is not a frequent visitor to the University of Orlais, in fact, Cyrlan often avoids Val Royeaux. Without a mask, the vallaslin that curls around his eye is as conspicuous as can be, and in his periphery he catches people throwing furtive glances at the Dalish apostate walking among them - his staff is strapped to his back, branding him a mage for all to see. It is not quite the sprawling landscape he is accustomed to travelling, but moving from university to the bustling Summer Bazaar takes its own fair share of time. The only reason he keeps from fleeing back to the comfort of the stony grey fortress is that he still has duties to attend to in this city. Namely facilitating the training between templars and mages who are not keen to make the trek to Skyhold, some brilliant strategy courtesy of the Divine. But with that training only scheduled for the following day, he retreats to the upper galleries of the Summer Bazaar and laments the fact that the little biscuits he received sometime earlier in the day (and then carefully stored in his pockets for a mid-afternoon snack) are not quite as good as the little cakes by the Inquisition's own cook.

Settling against the wall in a corner blissfully devoid of masked nobles, he peels a corner off the biscuit and flicks it across open air, a gesture driven by inane restlessness if nothing else. Oddly leonine eyes follow its trajectory, the elf even takes half a step forward to watch as it sails over the banister and down to the marketplace below. It does not go as well as expected. Shortly before it collides with an unfortunate victim's unprotected head, Cyrlan bites back a horrified squeak and darts for a strategically located decorative plant, wholly unaware of the fact silvery blond hair is far from inconspicuous and clearly visible for any searching eyes. Despite the skills developed since his becoming the Inquisitor, hiding in the ornamental greenery of the Orlesian capital is not one of them.