Slave brand, is Myr's first thought, child of the Hasmal alienage as he is. They'd had their share of Tevinter escapees there--thin-faced men and women haunted always by the thought of recapture, who hid their marks beneath their clothing but never so perfectly a child might not glimpse one now and again. Might go home and ask his Tevene father what they meant...

Herian's questions are good ones, necessary ones, when Myr's all but ready to leap to conclusions about the unwilling kinds of tattoos. It's the last, though, that shakes him loose of his moment's reverie.

"Are we ready to proceed?"

"We are--if you are, Kit."

It'll be the most flagrant display of magic they've engaged in tonight, and it feels like damned poor repayment for all the help Kit's been to spring it on him without warning. Myr takes up his staff and rises to his feet once more, taking a step back from the corpse to await his friend's response.