"I don't believe in innocent people," murmurs Fenris, over the rim of the glass he holds, dark eyes flitting around the strange, glittering elegance of the gala. He looks utterly and absurdly out of place-- an elf slightly short by human standards, in piecemeal armor, bare feet. He shifted uneasily where he stood, was always looking about, over his shoulder... like a wild animal uncertain of his territory.

"I... can't tell if it's drunk or dream. And I can't find Hawke, who'd know what..." What to do. He swallowed thickly, looking into the fluted glass for a moment before staring hard back up at Will. "Where are you from? The Free Marches? Ferelden? You have... something like that accent."