"An elf," Herian agrees, very softly. "Not one of the Dalish." She leeches the bite and the venom out of it, wrestles the anger from her tone, but even with all the neutrality she can muster there is weight to it. Dalish sounds clipped, a strange harshness in each syllable.

From a few paces behind another elf steps forward. He's blond and dust-worn as much as all of them. "Herian helped us out of our alienage and offered to bring us to the Inquisition. She's kept us safe from the Civil War--" The man is in his forties, perhaps, or maybe his thirties. The mix of alienage brutality and elven blood makes it hard to tell if he looks old or young. A tilt of his head, and he holds up his arm, the mark of an arrow's bite through his forearm. "And, at times, the Dalish."
Cerise, the woman leaning against Herian, clears her throat. "She speaks for us because her decisions have kept us safe."

Cerise's gaze is not so harsh as Herian's, but it is cautious all the same. Herian, for her part, looks to the woman at her arm and frowns. She does need water, and she needs rest, but she does not need to be indebted to the Dalish, nor trapped in the presence of one. "I know not if the succour this woman offers is sincere, but I doubt it with every fibre of me," Herian murmurs, more for Cerise than anyone else.