[ It is paint and charcoal, true, but perhaps the magic comes from the pain of the art itself. Solas puts his heart into it, his spirit, his life, because he has seen and viewed all these things before in a way that is painful to remember at times. It is his life in drawings, and there is no way for him to ignore the personal touch that emerges as he goes. ]

If there was a way that mirrored it here I would make an attempt for you. Unfortunately, all I have is paint and walls that need decorating.

[ The cloak is, at least, a distraction, and Solas lets his eyes drink it in carefully. After a moment he has to look away, the movement of the fabric enough to make his eyes feel as though they're crossing over themselves. It harks back to the world he knew once more, when magic was not as tame and difficult as it is now, in this world where people think of themselves as mages and are barely a scrap of what had once been.

Smiling, he shakes his head. ]

I see no reason why anonymity should be your concern.