“Ah. Yes.” Strange lifts his left hand to glance down at that unfamiliar sliver of green embedded in it, a new addition to the already-scarred topography of his hands. The anchor-shard is numb, but then again, it’s little different from the numbness already present in his fingers. On his ride to Kirkwall, the dull ache had felt so similar to the pain he already lived with each day, and so he’d found himself scrutinising the shard in fascination. “It’s supposed to upgrade to excruciating pain if we spend too much time apart from others with shards, yes?”

Hers is, as promised, bigger. He caught a glimpse of it glinting from her hand, as a fairly stark visual of Gwenaëlle’s time spent with the anchor; it figures that he’s already treating her as a source of useful information and intel, picking through her knowledge and experience.

And. She’s also brought a toy. Abandoning the cat, he scoots a little forward on his cushion, all his attention now razor-sharp on the bow. “Oh, that is interesting,” the sorcerer says, already reaching out, before he remembers a moment later to ask permission. “May I?”