"Orlais will triumph," Val shouts in Orlesian, a blessing for that which he is about to do. He draws his bare arm over the razored crescent, one quick slice. The pain is shocking, a quick burn, a heat. Val sucks in a breath, exhales an oath (also in Orlesian).

Then he sidesteps, both so there is room at the pedestal for his fellows, and so that he can tip his arm and direct the flow of his blood into the cut crevice. The blood comes quick, steady, good and rich and red and Val already feels a dizzy spike and tug somewhere in the region of his brain and nose and telegraphed into his knees. He grins through the feeling as he looks around, to see what effect their sacrifices might have.