Thin and pale as death, FenāHarel emerged from his ancient tomb with all the glory of a king.
FenāHarel? No, that name would not do. Not anymore.
It was a name long buried in his memory, a painful memento of what was lost when he had been forcefully dragged into the Pantheon. It was old, and without weight, and it was his. He would dust it off and reclaim it as his own.
He had a name. What next?
Solas glanced down at the Foci clutched in hand. The orb was thrumming with a power that made his magic sing, but Solas wouldnāt dare to try and open it. Not yet, not when he was so physically weak. He needed something else, a conduit of some sort, a medium -
A soft snuffling noise caught his attention. He met the reverent eyes of one wolf, then another, and another, until the entire clearing by his tomb was filled with the mysterious creatures. Solas straightened, and watched. The wolves watched him in turn.
He would not focus on the crushing sadness and regret that pressed on his shoulders, an incessant weight that dragged on every breath he took. He could not change what had been done, but he could repent by making things better. He had to make things better, no matter the cost.
The Foci in his hand pulsed, and he shivered.
āCome, friends,ā he rasped, his voice barely recognizable after a millennia of disuse. āI need new clothing. Then there is much work to be done.ā
It could take years, or centuries, but Solas had nothing but time. Now, he needed to focus.
He needed someone to open the orb.