This might look totally different in the end, but I kinda like the sketch.
He does not run from room to room to choreograph routines. The mansion is large enough to host many a guest interested in such activities and were perhaps once used for just that back when it was not in such a state of decay, but that is of no importance to him. He makes use of it as he does and lets if fall apart out of reasons and feelings more complicated than either simple convenience or spite.
There is no dancing, but there has to be something to fill the days spent inside with. In a somewhat more habitable room than most there are parchment to fill with brush strokes; a skill he does not recall obtaining but has had time to perfect.
Not all in his life is violence and blood, or death and its following decay. He does not form words as well as images, and so his new hard earned memories are put to paper in the form of what he does best; it seems more fitting that way, as if he is honouring them by doing so.
Images of forests and people from so far away, recreated with a brush to never be forgotten. New places, endless caves and so many faces, some showing up more often than others. A taproom, another mansion, a dwarf and another elf and so many humans, and someone who is perhaps more spirit than mortal man.
At some point the calls of abomination turned into mage, and after so many years spent near him he is finally Anders in his mind. He does not quite recall when he started to view him as more than the host for a demon, but now he does and knows his face better than the others. Where the sharp angles are and how his hair moves in the wind, how he carries himself as he calls upon more magic than anyone should be able to, and how he has hardened over the years, where the frown lines are that the abomination did not have but the mage, the man, Anders now does. He paints it all with brush strokes as careful as a lover’s caress, but he does not colour it. Not because of a lack of coloured paints; it is something he can obtain as he wishes.
He simply does not know if he should make the eyes an amber kindness or a harsh, clear blue, the hue of an other-wordly magic that calls to his markings more than the amber does to his heart.