Patrol with the green recruits remains low-stakes; they stick to old paths rather than forging new ones, sweeping the territory under Inquisition protection to ensure nothing -- or nobody -- has tried to reclaim it. Today's intent is to extend their watch from early morning to midafternoon, with a short interlude to test how swiftly they can set up and break down a small temporary camp.

As the foul-mouthed Orlesian kid struggles his way through starting a fire (without magic, the captain insists; just because they've a mage in their group today doesn't mean they always will), Alistair takes a seat atop a nearby rock. He fishes out the leather scrap he found last night; turns it over in his hands, considering, before unstrapping a small knife from his belt.

One ear attuned to their surroundings, he begins to pare tiny bits off the scrap, trying to shape some kind of design at its center. A yard away, the mage strikes up a conversation with another recruit: an elf from Halamshiral, who could give Skinner a run for her money with the sheer number of knives she carries.

They're talking about how they came to join the Inquisition. Better than the alienage, says the elf, and unconsciously, Alistair's paring slows.