In a fluid motion she comes to kneel close to her, opening one of the pouches at her waist to reveal a pouch of ring velvet that she hands over carefully, mindful of what she has carefully tucked within.

"A few small things, they should not take up much room when space is at such a premium in Skyhold or an aravel," she eplains, her smile small and her eyes watchful. Inside the pouch there are a few feather such as Morrigan wears on her own garments, so glossy they gleam blue and green in the light, a few carved beads that caught her eye, an assortment of small stones to do with as Ellana pleases, labelled seeds for healing supplies. But most importantly a fragment of a poem, translated and written in Morrigan's own curling hand.