Iskandar's about as big as a qunari, the likes of which Rachette is sure nobody in the depths of Orzammar had seen before anyway. She can remember, back before it all went to piss, finding him utterly confusing, and in some ways that was a charm. Now his songs, his stories, his positivity, and yes even his confounding attitudes and insights were a bright spot in her life.

She finds she needs that now more than ever, surrounded by reminders of what she'd tried so hard to leave behind. She's a grinning fool, waving him over. "Come look at this--some of the locals have gotten creative."

There's always plenty of dust, and she herself recalls spending some time drawing shapes in the dirt in old Dusttown. Here are a few drawings lined out from some bored rascals, clearly of some of the Inquisition. There's an elf with crudely exaggerated ears and long long hair. Someone maybe human training with a long stick. There's a big one, though, with a lot of muscle, and most of the face seems to be one big grin. Wonder who that could be?

"Think some Orlesian nobility might pay good coin for that," she jokes.