He startles in the midst of spit shining a pair of leather boots that likely don’t deserve the effort he’s putting into maintaining them--but as Petrana has likely noted, better gear has not been offered to this particular Warden, nor have many additional provisions been made for his comfort. He hasn’t complained, only bent to the task of making his circumstances more bearable.

Loghain considers the young woman in front of him; it’s been years since an Orlesian accent could truly make his skin crawl, and hers sounds just off enough for him to presume instead that she is one of the rifters he’s heard about. Clearly a young lady of some consequence, wherever it is she’s originally from; her bearing is too like Anora’s for her to be any less.

“My mending?” he repeats, a touch bewildered, and seems to take a moment to sort out what she means. Then, “Ah. Yes,” he says, and reaches for the pile of old blue rags that are forced to pass for the tabard beneath his armor these days. “I suppose these have seen better days.” Or decades.

He gives her a chagrined look. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself on my account, my lady. I’ll see to them on my own soon enough.” Surely mending a shirt can’t be so different from darning socks.