Small Yngvi is about ready to graduate to kneading Stephen's thigh with merciless, sharp-edged affection — it's remarkable how few people actually try and pet Gwenaëlle's cat, odd-looking and off-putting little creature — but swings his head away when she returns, carrying a likewise unusual looking bow, gnarled and strange, as if it might have been wrenched from a tree whole. It glints and sparks with cold ice magic, but where a bow-string should be—

there's nothing.

“A few weeks,” she says, oblivious to Small Yngvi vigorously grooming as if nothing had happened, “on the boat. A few years in Kirkwall. The Inquisition is in the Frostbacks, in a keep called Skyhold— we were sent here from the Inquisition as an outpost. Everyone with an anchor-shard had to come, if you bear part of the anchor you don't get all that much of a say in where you go or when.”