Any hopes Octavius had nurtured about his years in Nevarra filing off the sharpest edges of his Tevinter accent were crushed the moment he'd set foot in the Free Marches. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. The accent is only one tell of many.

He spots her ear from where he remains slouched pathetically against the side of the ship, then meets her eyes, watching her warily watch him back. There's no judgment or disdain in his sallow expression; just weary gratitude for the tin of herbs she offers out to him. He reaches out gingerly to take it. "Thank you."

He straightens up slowly and turns to lean his back to the railing, shielding the little tin from the wind with his body so an errant gust off the sea won't blow away their only relief from the seasickness. Carefully picking out a modest amount of the herbal blend, he pops it into his mouth--and grimaces, predictably, before nodding, closing the tin, and offering it back to her. "I'm Octavius," he says by way of introduction, "but I gather you knew that already." Just, you know, judging by the Look, and all.