Wine and Hemlock (WARNING: Assisted Suicide Themes)

Aside the ever present voracious need for arcane knowledge, language was something else Lana had found herself passionate about. Enough that she'd spent many years teaching herself every possible language she could - even those that were no longer spoken, if only so she could read older texts in pursuit of her magical knowledge.

This, however, was the first time she'd had a more practical application for her extensive languages. Or, at least, what common folk might consider practical. Conversing with another was, after all, far more important to many that being able to read and translate old, dusty tomes.

Lana shrugged. Does the Chant count? I feel it probably doesn't. She paused as they walked, looking up at him with a lifted brow. Do I? It would not be the first time she'd been mistaken for a Dalish elf, if that were indeed the man's thoughts on the matter. Of course any who truly knew elves would know she could hardly pass for one, but some saw the pointed ears, the lyrium branded onto her face, and made assumptions. Lana never dispelled such thoughts either.

Perhaps, she added soon after. Or perhaps, I merely read it in a book. She flashed a toothy smirk.

The arrival at her griffon brought both an eager and wary eye from Garuda. A stranger with her mistress was a bit uncommon. Atish’an, Gardua. She greeted her griffon, smiling as she lifted a hand for her massive companion to touch gently with her beak.

Looking back at the man carrying the boy, a more natural smile and lightness had returned to her. This is Garuda and her clutchmate, Athene. She gestured to each griffon in turn. Show them respect and they will return it in kind. A commentary, as well as a warning.