You must bring us, a Shrubbery.

The whole possession business was infuriating at the best of time, but Ruth had never been more glad to have a relatively ordinary spirit of compassion than be the vessel for some old annoying fart of a mage. Even if those mages had founded his people’s civilisation. Respect went both ways, and the Nine had failed in many regards. Sylaise was an exception, but he’d known her, conversed with her a little.

His brow furrowed with how Grim described his thoughts. “... I suppose there are worse things to call them…” With a perplexed, shake of his head Ruth continued. “You should perhaps try some meditation if you wish to try and talk with it. Spirits and Souls are funny though, some talk freely, others are more inclined to observe, some share, like Sylaise and my… friend.” Yes. Megara was his friend, not his custodian. Not yet anyway.

Ruth chuckled at the idea of striding up to either place and him just, shouting it in the middle of the square or courtyard. “No no. Nothing quite so easy. I’m not sure the means by which you’d go about it at Skyhold, but in Arlathan you’d approach the High Keeper, or the Council Members.” Then there was the hesitation, the elf was only metres from a tomb he’d been hunting for weeks and now he was finding himself babysitting a Ghilain’nan spawn.

Yet, there was that voice, a very small voice that cried he couldn’t leave the poor man wandering into the place blind and alone. “I’ll be heading back that way. Are you alright waiting till after I check out this place though?”