Melys spies up from under the brim of her hat, faintly suspicious he's taken it so easy; the look of someone expecting to find a fight, and not sure whether she's unhappy for its absence.

"Who ain't a local," She puffs out through her teeth. Spin a wheel in a room of folks that sound Ferelden, you'll get even odds on those that fled north. "Spent a few winters running this road."

No danger in offering that answer: He's a warden, they're all half-rotten for a noose.

"Used to be a town, couple miles east, plain washed away. Heard they still got dead trouble for it," She signs absent across her chest. Speaking of corpses, "The fuck'd they dredge you out from?"

Thought they had all their neat little number corralled, hiding behind Inquisition lines. (No comments, please, on what precisely she's been doing —)