A bro fist for Varric.
A noogie from Luscious.
A jaunty salute for Cassandra.
A puzzled frown from Solas.
The herald's party departed early in the morning with a small cart of supplies and a few soldiers for rotation at the Crossroads. She packed a crate of health and stamina potions and insisted on extra rejuvenation potions on the belts of the beginning members of the Inner Circle. All she could do for now.
The letters forwarded to her by the agents of the Nightingale smelled of citrus and she grinned in amusement for there were other ways to conceal other than invisible ink and coded writing. And she wasn't going to share them anytime soon.
She and the Nightingale hadn't had a conversation since that interrogation. An uncomfortable questioning about knowledge and foresight she bullshited her way through. The twins would be so proud of her. Leliana had let her be for now. After all, if they could admit an apostate mage into the ranks with more obscure origins than her more visible wanderings around Thedas, then they could not afford to turn away one of the Heralds of Andraste.
And the Inquisition needed to funnel their limited resources to gathering funds and allies. And information more relevant to the cause than details of one single person.
She was under no illusion that she was not suspect, judging from the scouts-cum-bodyguards who trailed after her.
With her continual work as the assistant to the apothecary and the herald duties that had sprung from nowhere, she barely had time to swing by the practice yard. She knew she had to. There would come a time when the inevitable - being out in the field – happened and she needed to know how to better wield a physical weapon, if only to distract them from her being a nonmage enigma.