Cassian Andor is no templar, no mage, has no particular skills when it comes to the landscape warping beneath his feet and people being caught screaming in stone. He has his hands, and nothing else.

So as the bodies are being stacked high, he finds himself at loose ends, drifting and looking for something to do. He wipes off his sword, having helped to at least put down some of those possessed corpses. He stands too long by Barrow’s smaller pile of dead Dalish elves,

(and he remembers a streak of facepaint pressed into his chin, in imitation of what would have been vallaslin)

and he swallows, hard, before he turns and joins the larger man.

“Need any help?”