I am unsure who drew this but it is great. I want to credit the artist!!
pretty sure the OP drew it, it’s watermarked with the username ‘veusovon’ and the user veusovon posted it.
This is not justice. This is not the spirit who was my friend, my self. What has he become? What have I become? We must get out of here. There is no place for me in the Grey Wardens now.
This wasn’t supposed to make me sad
S-Sad feelings??? nO
Only doodles of happy Anders allowed from me today.
Because I refuse to feel sad. And perky music made me want to draw smiley peoples.
Because I am nothing if not a shameless fangirl.
Just a little doodles of practice with facial structures.~ nwn
Hnnnng dat Varric
I am no demon! Are you one of them, that you would call me such?
“Hey, don’t worry about the statue’s inaccuracy, though. As you remember I’ve got an inaccurate statue too—probably broken by now, but I’ve got one. Now we match.”
I don’t always draw lazily done mini comics, but when I do, my brother is responsible for spawning the idea. The whole: “What if Anders eventually got a statue in his honor.” idea. :V
well of course there’s a statue of anders. of course. and of course it stands against the cold better than flesh ever did. and of course it gets his nose all wrong—although, at certain angles, maybe it doesn’t do such a terrible job of it after all.
and birds perch on his shoulders, ruffling their feathers. looking like pauldrons. making, in brief moments, the stone come alive. almost as if a tired little man is sighing, yawning, shrugging.
and strangers leave garlands, little candles burning. and they toss flowers or drop chipped, round coppers or rest a moment in the shade he casts, touching him for only a second.
then moving on.
in spring, isabela can see it from the shore, steering close enough—but not so close that the hull of a stolen ship is dashed in the shallows. she lifts her hands, not in a salute, but to wiggle her fingers. electricity tricks and april showers. lightning, now and then, just before dawn.
in summer, the stone bakes, but it doesn’t change—not too much; not like varric’s narrative, which still can’t settle on a point of view. ‘writing,’ varric sighs, shaking his head. ‘all it really is, is making a whole bunch of difficult decisions.’ he leaves blank vellum, so it’s not like he’s really gone.
in the fall, leaves scatter at anders’s feet. the garlands lose their petals. the candles burn out.
and hawke comes, always in the winter.
because there’s a hole in anders’s coat. because the sculptor got that so very right. and because being alone is always so bloody cold.
Justice in his bones.