Another Theirin on the throne... Wonderful.

Dylan huffed as he turned a gold coin over in his large hands, roughened from being burned by the forge over the past near three decades. It was old – the first he'd minted for Ferelden after Maric had freed them from the Orlesians. It was for that very reason he had held onto it for so long.

Never had he imagined he would end up with so many just like it.

Yes, there would have been plenty, thousands and thousands, forged during Maric's rule, stamped with his face. Dylan had known that, but really... He looked up in irritation at the stacks of newer coins, ones from Cailan's rule, lining the inside of the latest lockbox set for shipment, and tossed his Maric coin in with the ones of Cailan. As if anyone would notice the difference. The crown prince had looked so much like his father, Dylan hadn't even gotten to make a new face to engrave the coins with. He had just used Maric's for Cailan's rule too.

Though he hadn't told Teyrn Loghain that, but now that he'd been executed he didn't have to worry about the crotchety old teyrn anymore.

With another irritable huff, Dylan turned to the bellows, working up the fires of the forge. At least this Theirin, this Alistair, wore his hair differently. Shorter. Dylan closed his eyes and shuddered as the image of the new king swam before him. Urgh, that hair... Well, it gave him a chance to alter the engraving, and for that, he supposed, he should be happy.

It didn't mean he wouldn't make his new king regret his choice in hairstyle.

Why couldn't Maric's illegitimate brat have been a girl?Dylan wondered as he heated and began to shape the metal. Women, they have such a sense of style. Making a mold for a ruling queen would have been such a challenge! Working the shape of the hair, the lines of the face, immortalizing her features in ageless metal! If only they had left Anora on the throne, there would have been a work of fiscal art.

After some careful adjustments to the new mold, maintaining the Theirin face and snarky smile – he was told the new king was a jokester – Dylan stood back to admire his handiwork. Yes, yes, that would work perfectly. Just one more...

Hours later, the first gold coin cooled and emerged from the molds. Dylan lifted it up and examined it by the firelight of the forges behind him. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, inviting smile... Yes. And a short crop of hair, protruding unnecessarily, almost comically, forward from the crest of King Alistair's forehead. It bore a striking resemblance to a duck's rear end.

"I do hope the king isn't overly fond of his hairstyle," Dylan smirked, polishing the coin's surface with his thumb and slipping his latest success into his pocket, a keepsake of the Blight-ending king and his poor sense of style.