No, wait. They're banners. It's just that the mural makes everything look small. Towers that should rightly tower over Matthias and make him feel like an ant, those are rendered small, and everything else is in proportion to those. Including the bannersin every color of the rainbow, which are fluttering, merrily, over the whitest and shiniest version of Kirkwall on an impossibly sunny day.
The air on this day, in this Kirkwall, would smell like fresh-cut grass, and smell of the sunshine baking rocks in a shallow stream-bed. The mural makes it look so real that Matthias thinks for a moment that he can smell it, really feel the kiss of sweet breeze on his face. Nothing like the real Kirkwall which, as he's experienced it, smells like wet sewage, stagnant water, old rot, and sweaty armpits.
It is beautifully im-bleeding-possible, both as a city and as an experience, and Matthias goggles at the little golden man in a way he wasn't doing previous to this moment. Previous to this moment, he'd been avoiding looking at the man, because he didn't know what to do with him and didn't trust him and didn't like how he felt, looking at him, whatever the weird thrum in the air around him was that made the blood in Matthias' veins go tingly. Now he's looking at the man because he still doesn't know what to do with him.
He points to the mural. It's a big gesture, especially in contrast to his quiet awed, "What is this?"
Nothing he's ever seen, is what. But like actually what. The rest of the Inquisition and the Rivaini in all their bright colors might well not even exist. Everything has narrowed.
gallows
No, wait. They're banners. It's just that the mural makes everything look small. Towers that should rightly tower over Matthias and make him feel like an ant, those are rendered small, and everything else is in proportion to those. Including the bannersin every color of the rainbow, which are fluttering, merrily, over the whitest and shiniest version of Kirkwall on an impossibly sunny day.
The air on this day, in this Kirkwall, would smell like fresh-cut grass, and smell of the sunshine baking rocks in a shallow stream-bed. The mural makes it look so real that Matthias thinks for a moment that he can smell it, really feel the kiss of sweet breeze on his face. Nothing like the real Kirkwall which, as he's experienced it, smells like wet sewage, stagnant water, old rot, and sweaty armpits.
It is beautifully im-bleeding-possible, both as a city and as an experience, and Matthias goggles at the little golden man in a way he wasn't doing previous to this moment. Previous to this moment, he'd been avoiding looking at the man, because he didn't know what to do with him and didn't trust him and didn't like how he felt, looking at him, whatever the weird thrum in the air around him was that made the blood in Matthias' veins go tingly. Now he's looking at the man because he still doesn't know what to do with him.
He points to the mural. It's a big gesture, especially in contrast to his quiet awed, "What is this?"
Nothing he's ever seen, is what. But like actually what. The rest of the Inquisition and the Rivaini in all their bright colors might well not even exist. Everything has narrowed.