Hawke lies back on the deck, staring up at the stars. None of the constellations are the ones she used to know. Not that she ever paid much attention to constellations, but you still pick up a few as you grow up, and it's strange to have them gone. One of the many small, jarring reminders that she's not where she should be. The big things are easier to cope with; it's the small ones that build up, like someone constantly poking her to be annoying.

"Oh, the usual," she says flippantly. Well, for her it's the usual sort of place. Hester's mileage may vary. "Lots of people, lots of taverns that serve piss-poor ale, the odd problem with demons and blood mage abominations and darkspawn wanting to kill you, an occasional war. Nothing terribly exciting."

If she sounds unenthused, it's because she doesn't particularly want to talk about it.

"What about you? What's it like where you're from?"