Surrender their weapons. She doubts it -- in part because some of their number are Wardens, and in part because absolutely no one will agree to it. She might, but only because she knows she doesn't need the staff, if it comes down to it. But her mind is pulled away entirely at the sight of the young man and the figure behind him.

Despair. Merrill flinches; Creators, of course it's Despair. Why wouldn't it be? They thought they were dying. And the demon hasn't possessed him; it's there, bound by an invisible leash, likely feeding off him. Anders is already moving (and she's certain Justice is quite unhappy), and Merrill's fingers twitch. She wants to reach out, wants to see if she can recognize the magic that was used -- is the young man in full control of himself? But she stays still.

"My name is Merrill," she tells the young man, and wonders if it will mean anything to the other humans gathered. Luckily, the Chantry found no evidence of blood magic, and she doubts any Tevinter mage has put much stock in the talents of an elf. Her reputation with Hawke can go either way, but she has to try. "Will you tell me yours?"

Kind, gentle- wary, but perhaps she can be a balm in this situation.