Once the sun has gone down and the bonfire has been lit, Gwenaëlle has wrapped herself up in her bear slanket, a thing comically large for her frame, large enough that it had once easily accommodate two dwarves (one on the other's shoulders) delivering it to her room in Skyhold with their best impression of a fearsome animal. (They hadn't quite known how to play it off when she'd been delighted instead of terrified.) It is part blanket, part coat (it's hard to immediately tell, but when she shifts it's clear it has sleeves) and part trophy, the enormous bear head resting on her shoulder, glass eyes glinting in the firelight and gazing sightlessly at Clarisse (which makes three out of four eyeballs there false, for those playing at home).

It's cosy. She wonders sometimes at the others of the Inquisiton who Asher had made these for, where they all ended up; she thinks, though she isn't certain, that she might be the only one here. It is an excellent outfit for telling stories in, and it puts her in mind for a moment of the Boneflayers around a campfire, listening to Yngvi read from whatever he'd lately got his hands on.

He isn't even far, in Kirkwall, but absorbed back into the Carta he might as well be a world away. She's said, “Alright,” thinking of him, before she's realised she's decided to.

“Any sort of story in particular?” Is this a good time for a sad story, or a heroic one, or something sweet—