"It must wear upon the Veil, Maker knows how."

One problem only worsens the other. The snake eats its tail,

She tears her eyes away to better regard him. Tattoos, or — well. Something. How terribly Dalish, though nothing else quite fits the mold. With a huff of breath, Wren kneels beside the pair.

"I trust they do not disturb your work?"

What precisely that is remains to be seen, but at least he doesn't seem squeamish of it. She carefully pats down the rotten folds of robe, feeling for anything that might linger in the pockets:

A letter, too molded to read. A single coin; this, she offers over to him.