“Ohhhh no,” Astrid says as she falls into pace beside him, starting to lead the way along the island walk, and there’s a wincing sympathetic dismay in her voice. That’s rough, buddy.

“I’ve heard Kirkwall’s even worse than usual ‘cos it’s so close to the front and we’re packed with refugees from Starkhaven? People are desperate.” Which is a kindly read on the city’s thriving criminal population, but then her tone shifts to the mutual grumbling of someone who’s been through the same thing:

“I made the mistake of lingering to stare at the big statues in the port and someone nicked one of the daggers right off my hip. Didn’t even feel ’em cut the belt. The pickpocketing’s practically, like, an art.”