The shine of his mood dulls, by design, matching her for tempo and tone. He doesn't ease her nearer to him, feeling the measured bracket of her arms against his that is both welcoming and moderating, but he can sketch little circles against the damp cloth of her tunic with his thumbs, up over her waist.

"Perhaps out of the company of some bizarre foreigners," he suggests, a little wry. "I doubt we're making the best impression, by existing."

A little Orlesian, two rifters, one of them a qunari. He doesn't sound too apologetic about it—he has travelled in his share of mixed company.

"Did you enjoy beaches like this one, back when?"