In the dying light of the sunset, another templar sat nearby, scrubbing at a piece of her armor, diligently working to keep it clean and polished. She sang verses from the Chant of Light softly under her breath as she worked. Her accent betrayed her Anders origin, though she said little to most of the others along, her Ferelden halting and her Orlesian no better. But her commander had sent her south, and so Ingrid had obeyed.

Every now and again, she glanced in the direction of the paper, frowning slightly in puzzlement as the shape of the mask took form.

Finally, she spoke. "Something from Orlais?" she asked.