nehraa asalaMore Like This
If I am lost to the Maker for refusing to hate someone, for finding beauty in the "other..." Well, perhaps the Maker is the one who is not worthy of me.
There are other ways to see the world. The Qunari have shown me that.
Saemus Dumar storms away from Kirkwall, his fine leather boots and delicate clothing no match for the windswept terrain of the Wounded Coast. The rocky beaches are always desolate, abandoned save for a handful of gangs and raiders that occasionally plague the shore.
It's getting worse these days, and his father shouts at him when he ventures out here like this. He calls him a foolish boy, reprimands him loud enough for Seneschal Bran to hear. What doesn't the public know about their personal lives?
Saemus kicks at the beach and sends sand flying, the harsh ocean breeze blasting it back into his face. He curses and rubs at his eyes, furious with himself, with everyone.
He looks up, surprised to see a lone Qunari quietly surveying the coastline. The