Brigham, likewise, cannot find any wisdom in settling in such a wretched locale. It seemed to be perpetually raining, and every inch of the bog was some degree of sopping wet. Elfroot was plentiful, at least, and he had even noted dawn lotus, but the hallucinogenic blood lotus was equally plentiful. Even if necessity had dictated these people stay for some length of time, why would they make permanent homes here? But perhaps it was better when it wasn't raining (if that ever happened), and water wasn't littered with the plagued bodies of the dead (though he's hardly surprised a plague found plenty of hosts here), and if the dead didn't walk right out of the water when anyone so much as ventured close.

He can't help but wonder if the Avvar chieftain's son chose this mire in hopes either the sickness or the undead would finish off the Inquisitor before he had chance to answer the challenge. If he's honest, it's a miracle neither did, because Inquisitor Lavellan hardly seems cautious of either.

"At least this will be quick, then, Your Worship," Brigham answers coolly. He pulls a tent flap aside for the Herald. The copper-haired enchanter is soaked, having waiting outside for Daithi's return, wavy hair clinging to his brow and temples. He is glad that this time, it is 'not that bad'. Despite Andraste's blessing, Daithi seems to attempt to collect scars like a noblewoman might collect jewelry. The healer does his best to dissuade such attempts. Idly he has wondered once or twice if Andraste in her journeys was protected by the hand of the Maker, or if she too might have had a healer following after her.