"Encampment," Teren snorts, "putting us up like bloody Templars in their dungeon rooms, right. You're here." She's parked on a stone bench, surrounded by scraps of fabric and clearly in the middle of mending a thousand blue undershirts.
"Warden Commander's going to be Alistair or Howe. First one's a big fellow, reddish hair, thinks he's funny. Second's usually got a scowl on, you'll know him when you see him."
Pausing her stitching, Teren leans forward to extend her hand for a greeting clasp. "Teren von Skraedder, I'm the quartermaster. Anything you'll die if you eat?"