A series of spartan camps, fire long gone cold, the barest spattering of blood where one might hold someone prisoner, and the odd curl of half burnt paper with writing in Antivan directing whoever they were following to the next safe location. The further from Skyhold? The more careless they are with the burning, the more scraps left available-

The more blood pooled in rusty spatters next to a hook set into a wall, driven into the ground, or the cut length of rope.

It is a long ride North, but they are gaining ground.