The man Connor corrals happens to be around his age, dressed in innocuous rumpled clothes, no identifying markers, not even a division pin on his lapel.

But he does work with Riftwatch, if not strictly for them, and he hesitates. Dark eyes flicker to look across the water back to Kirkwall proper where a tall Chantry most pointedly doesn’t tower over the city anymore, and his mouth twists slightly. He’s not a Kirkwall native, but he’s made it a point of learning the city in which he now lives, its nooks and crannies and shortcuts and ugly history and, yes, the memorial garden the Inqusition had helped build.

“You’re about seven years late,” the stranger says, mild, “but I can take you there, yes.”

There’s a noticeable accent: something halfway between Tevene and Antivan, the blurring sound of someone who grew up near the border, perhaps.