Nari is there, as usual, with the baskets of the morning's fresh bread, the tureen of soup, bowls that knock woodenly against each other as the Dalish woman struggles with the load. Today her steps are different, the sound of the bowls exaggerated by the heavy uneven falls of her feet.

"Did you hear-- of course you did. I--" There's something deeply shaken in her voice that wasn't there the day before, the air fair vibrating with nerves when she comes close enough to place a bowl down within Myr's reach. "There's soup. It's--" Metallic noises as the tureen lid opens, "Some kind of vegetable. Myr is there--have you found anything new?" Nari asks this as if the mage's work had, in the intervening minutes since Solas's report had rung through the crystals, miraculously yielded some information less dire than a death sentence.