Sauntering out amidst the cluster of people is a tall, dark-headed figure with a cigarette clamped between his lips, his gaze fixed on a scroll he's perusing on his way from one side of the Gallows to the other.

It's been six years since he left Tevinter, and Benedict has taken on a decidedly working-class affect in how he dresses and moves with the crowd, but in the haughty tip of his chin and the sheen of his hair he is, and always will be, unmistakably an Artemaeus.

He hasn't noticed the pair yet, his brow pinched in concentration at whatever it is he's reading while he traverses the courtyard.