Astrid’s face has been a little impassive and stony, all of her attention fixed on maintaining stubborn composure, but now a kind of fleeting alarm crosses her expression. “Not in this storm. Birds hate this sort of weather,” she says slowly, measured. Griffons aren’t exactly birds, but it’s close enough, no? They’ve got feathers. Her fingers tighten and flex on the mug, wondering what in the world could be out in the sky in this storm.

She’s never seen one herself, but she’s heard tales from Riftwatch’s experiences with Tevinter —

Uttered with the sort of superstitious wariness which jumps to the worst case scenario: “Do you think it could be a dragon?”

Our Lady of the Skies, please let it not be a dragon.