It ought to strike familiar, striding the halls of a Circle, but the memory of Nevarra City is hazy; gone a little like a dream. When he thinks of it, he thinks of the high arch of a doorway. Couldn't tell you where it led.

A hand lingers on worn wood, heavy in dust. Different, yeah, strange. Stranger – he does not say – for the emptiness.

(His own dead Alienage was more ornate.)

"'S not all Cumberland," He admits. A shining door, cut into hillside. "But thought it'd be nearer town."

You row to the Gallows. It's still Kirkwall. Set apart, and yet a part, close enough to bleed for it. He glances Julius, tries to square the shape of a smooth tongue, a steady manner, and life on this frigid rock.

"Lot of work to keep it going this far out. You take a hand in that?"

Seneschal now, and he had to learn it somewhere. Fuck knows if Fereldens keep clergy for that.