Simon is nowhere near as quick-reflexed as his smaller, more lightly-armored colleagues, but one doesn't survive templar training without learning how to prevent something from escaping at all costs. He dives for the reins, coiling them securely around a gauntleted hand and only getting somewhat more winded when he hits the dirt than he would have when he first came to Ansburg.

"Now that was just uncalled-for," he tells the mule, giving it a tug once he gets back to his feet.

He can't tell, not knowing where she's come from, whether this girl is a former Circle mage or not. She can't be Dalish, or she'd have the face tattoos--unless she's too young for them; do they put those on children? He doesn't know, and he can't tell how old Fern even is, but his gut says just about Harrowing age. You can't get attached to the ones around that age. You can't get attached to any of them, but least of all not the apprentices, when your most sacred duty is to be ever-prepared to kill them.

But it doesn't work that way anymore; the Inquisition has ensured that much. It's a dangerous skill to have to learn and unlearn at will, but it does nobody any good now. He jerks his head in the direction of the camp. "Working with us. I don't mean under guard, or any such. I don't know what exactly you know of the Inquisition, but nobody means you any harm, I promise."