"Every frog is a special frog," is not entirely sincere, tongue partway in cheek as he ducks down onto one knee and corrals it from the other side. More sincerely: "Most frogs can't tolerate sea water."

Not that he, a lifelong inlander, would have had much opportunity to see them. But to the shock of dozens of Fereldans, he reads.

He catches the frog mid-hop in cupped hands and holds it up to her, fingers forming a little cage through which the frog is visible. Brown, grouchy-looking. Alive.

"They common in the harbor here? Or is this one suicidal?"