"I could put you back with the pickles," He points out, while carefully wedging the jar into a secure place, "But I won't."

It really is a beautiful day, and from here you can see out over the greyish waters of the bay and the city of chains itself. Laid out like a map, it's all there, the dingy warehouse district and the round scar where the Qunari compound once was, now overrun by squatters and other entrepreneurial folk. Sunlight glints off the white walls of hightown, and if one squints then the little hightown copse of trees where the Chantry used to be is even visible, a tuft of green among the grey and white stone, just aside the viscount's palace.

The seagull drops away in fright, a glorious vision of white-winged freedom. The door shuts. Skull is alone.