Interest immediately piqued at that answer, judging by the arch of her eyebrow and the slight ripple across her expression, the woman’s face an open book. “Oh, just like in the stories!” she exclaims; perhaps a little too delighted for good sense. “Horse’s heads in beds and burning down buildings. Heard a bit of that from some dwarven traders, wondered how much was true. Figured you don’t shortchange the Carta, though.”

The accent has a touch of Fereldan to it, then rolled through those northern mountain vowels. She’s tightened her grip on the scaffolding, leaning out perilously far as if she’s standing on the branch of a tree, sparrow-like. She seems comfortable with the height; presumably accustomed to vertigo-inducing mountain passes and cliff faces. After another minute of watchful scrutiny of the building, she then glances back at the other motley pair, trying to read the vibes between them, utterly failing. Why the headlock.

“Child. You’re not, like, bein’ kidnapped or anything, are you? Blink twice for yes.”