The air is foul, the earth incapable of growing anything that doesn't seem to have a touch of rot to it at all times, but it is Fereldan soil and for this reason alone, Loghain cannot find too much fault in it. How many opportunities has he had to return to his homeland in the intervening years since his ill-conceived tenure as regent to his daughter's throne? It seems another lifetime ago, mistakes belonging to another man.

And so he walks at a slight distance from the rest of the group, an ear turned to Anders' instructions which he dutifully follows, trusting to his familiarity with and recollection of this area. He sees no cursed dragon bones yet, nor any indication of the fallen, crumbling walls which might serve as the resting place for the orb; still, he moves in a decidedly south-eastward direction, and keeps his other observations to himself. (For now.)