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Though Daithi's smile remains wide, he manages to control himself, concealing further amusement. (The reaction is, while unintentional, rather endearing. Daithi supposes he ought know elsewise, though.) Gracious, he ignores the speechless pause and instead, teases: "any time? A lesser man might take advantage of that."

The Enchanter gathers himself, somehow, hands loosely clasping without something to busy them otherwise. "You are not a lesser man," he says, tone assured. Even if Daithi were not holy to him, the man has proven himself, in Brigham's eyes, of a sound character.

Daithi, in turn, clasps his hands behind his waist (a habit from Solas). "I'm flattered," he replies.

In other circumstances, he might speak nothing else, then. But he can see Brigham is finding his footing, still, — to speak so casual with the herald of one's faith is rare, after all — and Daithi continues, offering something more simple. "But I believe I am, in fact, the lesser man." He smiles, still. "You're taller than I am."

Such humor catches him off guard, and he blinks as though he'd missed the joke for a just a moment. Then, with amusement evident in his tone and the hint of a smile hidden in the crinkle of his eyes: "Oh? So only men not as tall might take advantage of such an offer?"

"— ah." Daithi glances aside, the slightest moment, as though caught in something. He likes when Brigham allows himself a moment of humor. "Well, you've said it, not me!"

The man isn't completely humorless, although perhaps it's easy to forget such. "So I have," he answers, as though musing. It's strange, talking with Daithi as though he were just another man, but he supposes even Andraste was once seen as 'just another woman'.

"Did you wish to join me for a while?" he offers, motioning behind him.

Daithi's smile softens, then.

"I'd enjoy that, yes," though he waits to follow Brigham as a matter of politesse. This is not Daithi's tent, after all.

Stranger, still, that Daithi is simply visiting. The healer pulls back the tent flap to allow Daithi through first. The interior is organized and tidied again. He places the blanket down on the made cot, then gathers his robes to sit on one of the stumps inside. The accommodations are sparse at best, but in the field one cannot expect more, so Brigham does not comment.

In his nervousness? excitement? (neither quite right, yet nor entirely wrong) - he has forgotten his weariness, at least for the moment, but has not forgotten Daithi's. "You've been busy today, then?"

Inside, Daithi pauses: in part for politesse, still, though in part as well for his own sense of strangeness. He has stood in Brigham's tent countless times, — if not here, in the Fallow Mire, than elsewhere and even among fortress surgeons ... yet the air is almost different, now, and Daithi notes smaller details, lost earlier in the task of wounding arrows.

"No more than usual," he answers, sitting aside Brigham. The title of Inquisitor is new, — though the work remains the same. (Less argument, perhaps, among the council. More immediate control among agents. The exact amount, however, of travel and missive and people seeking his answer to all matters. To crown the Herald of Andraste leader was the most natural conclusion of this Inquisition.)

Daithi smiles, then. "You must keep busy," he continues. "No one's lost a foot yet, have they?"

He nods, short and understanding. He arrived late to Haven, having come too late for the Conclave and pausing for hearing of its destruction, then remaining away until hearing then of the Inquisition and its endeavors. Still, he has seen the work asked of the Herald before his appointment as Inquisitor, and especially now - indeed, 'no more than usual' was still a goodly amount.

"The soldiers have taken proper precaution, so no, thankfully. A few have come close, through no fault of their own, but permanent damage has been avoided." He glances to the side, in the direction of the tiny village, now entirely gone. "The true miracle has been our avoidance of the plague that swept through before we arrived."

Much as the question was something of a jest, ... Brigham's answer provides a measure of a relief as well. Daithi is not keen to abandon hostage soldiers, — and the image is not one to inspire confidence in others, — but the mire is a gamble, risking more soldiers than the Inquisition will regain to rot, plague, or even exposure. (That progress was meager until the Inquisitor's arrival is unsurprising.)

"The foresight of a few surgeons," Daithi offers. "They've used tissue samples to do ... something." Laughter, slight and breathy, punctuates the word. "I'm unclear on the nature of their work. But I suppose that's not surprising."

Living in a Circle, with ready access to healers (including being one himself), Brigham has had little reason to be exposed to the work of surgeons and other non-magical doctors. The fieldwork he has learned has been only since arriving to Haven, and much of the mundane medical work remains foreign and rather strange to him. It has its place, of course. Healers are not always readily accessible, and some things, even magic cannot help (like arrows still in the flesh). "As am I," he comments thoughtfully. "I am glad for it, though. To risk soldiers to save soldiers is a difficult decision. It has been handled well."

So far, Daithi thinks.

He knows than to voice such concerns, however, and after offering a soft smile, a thoughtful murmur, he replies, instead: "you seem to do well. Did you learn in the Circle?" (Daithi is doubtful, of course, — though polite enough not to assume aloud.)

Brigham regards the Herald with a slightly puzzled expression. He assumes, then, that Daithi meant tending to the things he cannot simply heal. After all, it is obvious that he learned to control his magic in the Circle, isn't it? To have such control otherwise is unfeasible, he thinks.

"I had no field knowledge, before leaving the Circle," he explains. "I was willing to learn, as hands were needed, and the Inquisition's surgeons were kind enough to teach."

Daithi nods, a thoughtful — if expectant — expression in place. He smiles, then.

"Lucky for me, hm." Lucky for Brigham as well, though, to meet the Herald of his faith. Though Daithi thinks more of their acquaintanceship, the growing ease in conversation, the appreciation for that, when he comments, "doubtful we'd have met otherwise."

Not particularly lucky, the Enchanter thinks, though he does not disagree aloud. Earlier they had spoken of the fact that, were Brigham not there, another would be in his place, so he does repeat himself. He cants his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement.

"Aye," he agrees to the next, "though I am grateful that we have." Even if Daithi were not Herald, he is a reasonable man, not unpleasant, and Brigham finds himself glad of his company now (strange, to think something so casually; he's not sure when that began).

"Likewise," Daithi answers. His smile is soft ... though grows impish in the next moment. Tilting his head, "I trust you won't tell anyone the Inquisitor is playing favorites."

"Of course." The reply is smooth and immediate, suggesting Brigham doesn't actually think Daithi is playing favorites. It is... nice, if a little overwhelming, to hear that Daithi might actually be glad to have met him— assuming the sentiment isn't just rote niceties. Even so, he doesn't consider himself any better than the next healer, when considering equal talents. That someone would prefer him for his person, rather than his skill, is something that doesn't cross his mind at all.

He chuckles, far from unkind, and glances elsewhere in the tent.

"You're very earnest, aren't you." The remark was another jest, of course, — ever something to guide conversation, to save others the miscomfort of silence, — though Daithi supposes his attempts are as meager as he often feels. (Perhaps for the tasteless quality of his natural humor. Perhaps for either belonging to the Inquisitor.)

"It's a good thing to be in this world," he says, a matter of reassurance. (The observation was not meant to mock.) His gaze returns to Brigham, then, soft and affectionate.

"Earnest," Brigham echoes slowly. He is not sure why the Herald might bring such a thing up suddenly. Then, "I suppose so." He lifts his gaze to meet Daithi's. He too thinks that earnestness is a good thing, "So long as it is tempered with thought, and tact."

Daithi thinks several jest in response, then, though given most of their conversation, ... he opts for something neutral, instead. "Suppose that's true," he answers, offering another soft smile.

Earnestness without thought was simply rashness, and without tact, bluntness, neither of which served to be productive. The Herald, an elf among so many humans, hardly needed a lecture about minding one's words though, Brigham understands that much. So, he changes the topic after a small nod and a moment of quiet.

"You and your companions have been making headway where the soldiers could not," he says, and pauses for the briefest moment to consider he will soon be (or rather, is now, perhaps?) one of those companions. "I imagine your confrontation with the Avvar challenger shall be soon, then."

"— ah," Daithi agrees, noise in his throat. "Perhaps even tomorrow." His smile widens. "Should be an interesting day for you," he suggests. Then, remembering Brigham's answer (or rather, a certain ambiguity —), "you are joining us, aren't you?"

An interesting day... Brigham cannot argue with that. Then again, no day since his arrival has been particularly uneventful. He nods, pauses momentarily for such a question, and then nods again. "If it please you," he adds. Daithi had left the decision to him, kindly, but the Enchanter cannot fully accept such a thing. It seems wrong to assert what he will or will not do in direct relation to the Herald, even when told the choice is his.

Daithi pauses as well, then, clicking his tongue. — glancing his gloves to conceal a sudden miscomfort. His smile returns in the next moment. "Of course." He raises his head.

"But the decision is, still, yours."