Contracting the Blight. Her neck stiffens, shoulders sharp at a hard angle (Fucking Inquisition —), one that doesn’t ease as spell-light flickers overhead, as cold wicks out before them.

A string of uninventive profanity tumbles unsaid in the space between her lips. She’s dealt with more than a few hungry jaws on worse odds, but the short sword in her hand seems abruptly far too little to be of any use. Her back’s to Myr’s before it quite registers whose orders she’s followed; something in her palm feels slick at that. She tightens her grip.

Wolves scare off easy enough. But sick beasts don’t scare, just hurt and hurt until there’s someone else for the hurting.

"Welcome t'Ferelden," She repeats, far lower than before. It's not for Myr's sake.