['Your people,' he says, and it makes her blink, perplexed. Aren't they his, too? Then, at his introduction, she recalls her manners--]

I'm Fern, [and juts out a hand for him to shake, if he so chooses. A human greeting, she'd know if she had any knowledge of such things, but she doesn't. The glove covering her hand doesn't completely mask the green glow of the anchor mark in her palm, a likely enough explanation for why one so young might be here with the Inquisition's forces, rather than at home with her family.

She considers him a moment in curious silence, tipping her head to one side.] Are you a hahren? [she asks him at length, the beginnings of a small smile on her face; he sounds like a teacher, a story-teller, his mannerisms making her homesick for her community hahren's occasional visits to her family's farm.]