"Hey," is that greeting, exhaled as Xiomara slows her catch-up jog to a walk. She's loudly dressed: bright colors, patterns, jangling jewelry, her trinket-adorned sash, with her Riftwatch cape and pins thrown on top in a token gesture.

She wouldn't be in Val Royeaux without business here. These big Andrastian cities—she's seen most of them before, but only with Fabrizio, with his charming smile and his rounded ears, and a signal for turning on the appearance of subservience. Whatever people assumed about a human man traveling with an elven woman or three, it rarely involved attempts to interfere.

But Fabrizio's gone. Probably dead. She's trying to get used to this—to the way people here look at her when she's running around flashy and unchaperoned, to not being able to carry a weapon without drawing suspicion—but she'd still prefer company when she can find it. And with her particular business handled, short of a report she'll make Evelyn write for her, she can stand to go out of her way to acquire it.

Very little of the concern shows on her face. Not none of it; some worry shines through, a nervous and twitchy quality to the way she keeps tabs on their surroundings.

"Where are you going?"