Out of Ferelden, reports of an itinerant teenage mage (who'd been working as a farm hand) being driven out of a village in the Hinterlands by a rock-throwing mob–with some rumors including accusations of blood magic, but most framing secretly being a mage as reason enough – are followed swiftly by reports of the village being burned to the ground.

Ferelden is a large and difficult country; travel has gone slow, slower for the forests and marshes that scatter its fields. He gave caution before the first wagon they hopped onto: There are dangers off the road, for a pair of soft foreigners. There are as many on it.

Isaac dresses plainly. His staff might pass for a walking stick – to the dull, or someone only looking for an excuse to look aside. By the end of dirt roads comes the high arch of Imperial Highway, and the scattered village ringing Ostagar. The land has little recovered to farm, but there's always been work here for scavengers. Whether or not the crown approves, it's proved a cheap way to sort the worst of the fortress' skeletons,

And a magnet for displaced mages.

"Remember," Isaac's expression sketches wide. "Absolutely no circles. If they serve you a pie, or a cup, that's code and you ought to smash it —"

He is, very possibly, just being a shit.