Ellie is different here.

Different even than when she first arrived in Thedas, wary and self-contained. There she carried herself like someone harder, wary of the world.

Here in Seattle, it's a different story. Her voice is quieter, flinty, her expressions shut down mostly to seriousness. The wariness has taken on a different quality, every movement bow-strung tight.

Early on, she teaches the others about gun safety. How to load and unload. How to use the safety switch, and how to mistrust it. How to not point the barrel at any-fucking-thing you're not willing to shoot. The differences between a rifle and a shotgun and the different kinds of ammo.

"Here," she says of an evening, placing something into someone's hands. A salvaged weapon, a water bottle, a crumpled package of peanuts from a gas station. Some small gift, some small comfort. Something to keep them safe or fed or warm. "You doing okay?"

Sometimes she comes back from scouting or scavenging for supplies covered in blood, and sometimes it's her own. Those are the times she's quietest.