Two weeks into their march, the Champion saves them.
The girl, a small elf of around 8 knows it's the Champion. Knows it as soon as he appears. She's heard the stories like the rest of her group, about the fabled hero of Kirkwall. It's something they often tell to one another at night, mixed in with other fables, myths forgotten. She has heard how the Champion defeated a warrior in solo combat, how the Champion saved the city from collapsing in on itself. She has heard the tale of the Champion fighting a dragon. She has heard how after being feared dead for months, the Champion was spotted once more, freeing the slaves being marched across the plains. All of those stories she knows.
So when the Champion appears with a streak of red war paint and a Amell crest on his belt, she knows they have finally been saved.
The fight is brief but brutal. The Champion swings his broadsword into her captors and when the blood begins to soak into the dirt, she tries her best not to watch. It's over in minutes, and soon enough the Champion is whisking them away, freeing them of their chains, directing them to safety. To shelter. To someplace to call a home.
She has to thank him.
She runs up to him an hour after they start walking, fleeing from her mother to tug at his pant leg. It's a weak tug, she doesn't want to surprise him, and when he looks down, she tries to give him her largest smile. The one her father used to adore before he was taken away from them.
"Thank you, Champion."
The man looks at her surprised. Up close, she can see what he looks like better. It's a nice surprise to find that he is an elf like her; they never mentioned that in the stories. Or the tattoos. (To be fair, the stories mentioned little besides the war paint and the crest. She hadn't even known the champions gender until he showed up).
"I am no-" He cuts off, seeing something in her eyes and stops what he was about to say. "You're welcome."
"I've heard the stories about you," she chirps. "They told us you were dead. Cus of the Inquisition." The Champion's hands clenched into tight fists and the young girl realizes that she might have misspoke. He likely didn't want to talk about whatever happened. "But I knew better. I knew you'd show up."
He stops for a second. Turns to her. She looks up to meet his green eyes. "What's your name?"
It's an odd question. She tilts her head. "Robin."
He laughs. It's not a happy laugh, more of a sad one. Like she's said something horrid.
"Always with the birds," he mutters. He looks up at the sky. She thinks she can see a tear roll down her face. It shakes her; she never wanted to make the Champion cry. She searches out for a way to cheer him up, she doesn't want him sad, and when she spots the red scarf on his wrist, it seems a nice target.
"I like your scarf."
It's enough to help him with his composure. He wipes his face and when he looks back down at her, the tears are gone. He reaches for the scarf, playing with the frayed ends.
"I like it too," he pauses, searching for words. "Would you like to hear a story about the person who gave it to me? They were named after a bird. Like you."
Robin nods, and with that he begins to speak.
"I was running from slavers-"
The story lasts the entire walk to safety.