They step into the briefing room, and Andersson halts mid-stride.

Karass is already there.

He stands at the side of the central table, too tall to comfortably fit near the aft bulkhead where the ceiling curves down with the ship's hull. Even here, in the wider part of the room, his horns nearly brush the overhead. He doesn't stoop—he doesn't need to. Somehow, even the space itself seems to give him clearance, as if the room understands who it's dealing with.

His arms are crossed, his broad silhouette lit by the ambient table glow, casting a long shadow across the floor. There's no entourage. No armored escort. Just Karass—eight feet of horned conviction—waiting in perfect silence. His gaze locks onto them the moment they enter.

Andersson is acutely aware that this is his ship. His command. His rules.

And yet, in this moment, he feels like a guest.

Reece slows beside him, body language shifting—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. Because Karass's presence isn't loud, but it is absolute. You don't meet it; you withstand it.

Andersson, trying to maintain his composure, steps fully into the room and nods. "Inquisitor, I'm sorry we weren't expecting you to come to the Pathfinder," he says, his voice steady but tinged with surprise.

Karass smirks, clearly enjoying the unexpected nature of the encounter. "I can see that," he replies, his tone teasing. "I wanted to see this vessel of yours. It's very... different."

"You should have seen it a day ago," he responds, half to himself.

Karass seems pleased with the response and continues. "What do you think of the upgrades my engineers made?"

Reece steps forward, clearly impressed. "Outstanding," he says with a nod. "We hardly recognized it. It's like a new ship entirely."

Karass gives a small, satisfied nod. "Good," he says simply, then adds, his voice taking on a rare, almost reflective tone, "We thought that since you may never be returning to your planet, you should at least have something you can call home."

Andersson blinks, momentarily thrown by the sentiment beneath Karass' words. The unexpected consideration catches him off guard—not just the reality of being stranded in another galaxy, but the realization that someone, somewhere, had thought about what that might mean for them.

He exhales, steadying himself before meeting Karass' gaze. "That's very thoughtful of you," he says, his voice quieter than intended, laced with something close to gratitude.

Karass merely inclines his head, as if brushing off the weight of his own words. "Make good use of it," he says, his tone slipping back into its usual command.

Then Karass exhales, shifting his weight slightly before giving them both a pointed look—one that instantly puts Andersson on alert.

"And I see you two have finally stopped dancing around the obvious," the Inquisitor remarks dryly, his sharp golden eyes flicking between them.

Andersson tenses. "Excuse me?"

Karass smirks, clearly entertained. "Please. Your pheromones are heightened—I could sense it the moment I stepped aboard. You are not as discreet as you think."

Reece coughs, caught somewhere between horror and amusement. "That's—wow, okay—so you can actually sense that?"

"A healthy sex life is important if you are going into battle," Karass continues, completely unfazed. "It strengthens bonds, sharpens instincts. If you are both fighting for one another as well as the mission, your chances of survival increase. This is a good development."

Andersson runs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Karass—"

"No need to explain," the Qunari interrupts with a shrug. "Unless, of course, you require performance feedback. In which case, I can consult some of my—"

Andersson narrows his eyes, folding his arms. "You're not watching us, are you? The upgrades didn't come with any… additional surveillance features, did they?"

Karass lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. "Relax, humans. While I must admit I am curious to see how you mate, I have better things to do."

Reece doesn't know where to look. Is he into us? He wonders.

Andersson, meanwhile, feels a faint chill coil in his gut—just for a second. The idea of being observed, even jokingly, sets off an old, instinctive defense. He masks it well, but his eyes flick to Karass with a hint of suspicion. Not fear. Just... caution.

"I'll take your word for it," Andersson mutters, making a mental note to have EDI thoroughly check for any bugging devices later. Beside him, Reece is actively trying not to choke on laughter.

Karass smirks again, obviously entertained. "Then let's move on, Captain."

Andersson exhales sharply, determined to move on before Karass can add anything else. Just as the tension in the room begins to settle, the door opens again, and Hale steps in. Her hair is a bit messy, and her uniform isn't as neatly put together as usual—clearly, she just woke up. She glances around the room, her sharp gaze flicking over Andersson, Reece, and Karass, before offering a half-smile and a casual "Morning."

Andersson raises an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance but doesn't comment, already sensing the awkward tension lingering from Karass's presence. He turns his attention back to the Inquisitor, eager to get down to business.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Andersson says, giving her a nod. "We've already started our discussion about the upgrades."

Hale rolls her shoulders and mutters, "Thanks for the new quarters, by the way. The bed's good. Way better than sleeping in a coffin."

Karass turns slightly, head tilting. "You sleep in coffins?"

Andersson sighs. "Not literally. It's an expression. The bunks are small. Confined. It feels like sleeping in a coffin."

Karass frowns. "But you must have experienced sleeping in a coffin to have a point of reference."

Reece pipes up from the far side of the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No, it's just what we imagine it to feel like."

There's a pause.

Karass snorts faintly. "Imagination is a waste of valuable time."

Hale rubs the back of her neck, glancing between Andersson and Karass. "Sorry I'm late. I didn't think you were—"

"You're not late," Karass interrupts, his voice cutting smoothly through the room. He offers something that might generously be called a smirk. "I arrived unannounced. I thought it might be amusing."

He pauses, visibly pleased with himself.

"I was right."

Andersson exchanges a brief look with Reece—one that says of course he did. Hale just blinks, mouth twitching toward a smile she doesn't quite allow.

Karass watches the group with an unreadable expression, posture still commanding despite the informal setting. He stands slightly to the side of the table, the low-angled ceiling making his height all the more conspicuous, his horns brushing close to the support beams.

"We will have much to discuss," he says at last. His voice is low and deliberate, each word weighted—but there's that same hint of amusement lurking beneath the surface, like he's enjoying a joke no one else has heard yet.

Karass takes the seat closest to the side bulkhead, even seated, he looks like a wall—broad, unmoving, impossible to ignore. Andersson, Reece, and Hale take the remaining chairs, their presence diminished beside him.

Trying to ease the tension, Andersson allows a small smile. "Can I offer you some coffee, Inquisitor?"

Karass tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "What is coffee?"

His voice rumbles low, edged with curiosity. The question hangs in the air, like he's unsure whether this is a genuine offer or a human initiation rite.

Reece stands, steps to the wall, and activates the coffee machine. After the brief brew cycle completes, he returns and hands a steaming mug to Karass.

The Inquisitor eyes the cup, then takes it without comment.

The sight is borderline absurd. The mug looks like it belongs in a dollhouse next to the Inquisitor's massive, armored fingers. Karass studies it for a long moment, then lifts it to his mouth and takes a sip.

His brow furrows instantly. His lips curl into a tight line as he slowly, almost reverently, sets the cup down.

"Disgusting," he mutters flatly, as if personally offended by the drink's very existence.

"I have tasted dirt that is less offensive than this."

Reece stifles a laugh. Andersson doesn't bother.

Reece watches Karass struggle with the drink, barely hiding his smirk. Between sips of his own, he tilts his head. "Maybe you should try some sugar."

Karass narrows his eyes. "What is sugar?"

"It's a sweetener," Hale supplies, her tone amused.

Karass considers this for a moment, then huffs. "Sounds disgusting. Give it to me."

Andersson obliges, handing a couple of sugar sachets to Karass.

Karass eyes them suspiciously before placing both into his mouth and chewing. The confusion on his face is immediate—and priceless—as he crunches through the paper and begins to grind the sugar with all the solemnity of a battlefield maneuver.

Reece tries—fails—not to laugh.

Karass, undeterred, takes another sip of the coffee, now laced with papery grit. He swallows, grimaces, and declares with unwavering conviction, "I do not see any improvement in the taste."

Hale opens her mouth to explain—something about how the sugar's meant to go in the drink, not become the drink—but she gives up halfway through, her amusement getting the better of her. "It's not for everyone," she says, grinning. "Some people find it makes the taste better."

Karass glares down at the empty mug with something like betrayal. "Nothing could make this taste better," he growls, utterly deadpan. "I hate it. It is revolting."

And with that, he finishes the cup. Every drop.

Reece, still watching with a smirk, leans in. "More?"

Karass, still holding the empty mug like it's a weapon of war, doesn't miss a beat.

"YES," he says—half-growl, half-command—laced with the grim, unshakable resolve of a man who's going to conquer coffee if it kills him.

Karass sets the mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I understand the ritual now," he says slowly. "Qunari begin each Dawnmark with a punishment. We usually endure physical pain. You humans… you endure a different kind of pain."

Andersson raises an eyebrow, deadpan. "We actually find it pleasurable."

Karass smirks, just slightly. "Pain is pleasurable."

The room goes quiet for a moment—then Reece coughs, not quite managing to stifle a laugh. Hale just mutters, "Yep, that tracks," and goes back to pretending this briefing is normal.

Karass grunts in agreement, still staring at the empty cup in his hand, as if pondering what other bizarre substances the Pathfinder crew have brought from their galaxy.

Andersson lets the moment linger just long enough for the awkwardness to settle like fog. Then, with a quiet sigh, he reaches for the small control pad embedded in the table and taps a sequence. A soft hum answers as the center of the table lights up—holographic overlays blooming to life in pale blue, spinning slowly above the surface.

The mood shifts.

Duty reasserts itself like a shadow falling over sunlight.

"Perhaps," Andersson says, dry but steady, "it's time to share our findings."

The room quiets. Even Karass, looming like a wall at the table's edge, leans in slightly.

The briefing begins.