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@meravaas
In an inquisitive manner and forgetting the Act of a humble Permission, doth Roland kneel in black soil and caked, thus, up to his elbows in the stone-tier’d garden of helpful Skyhold. A grasp of elfroot seeds, spindelweed seeds, and naught but four seeds of the elusive Crystal Grace sit in the center of his palm, and doth he peruse with a furrowed brow, the beginning silence of a hum ‘pon his lips, and three ceramic pots set a’fore him like the hushness of a Stage.
The opened wound of the streak of goodly soil is his canvas, yea, and thus the patronage of all the pilgrims with an herbal touch, but doth Roland find himself within the Mark of the fashion. He rolls the seeds in his palm in a thinking Poise, and sits cross-legged at the foot of the three, empty pots.
