Strand settles on a crate. Watches her think. There's a familiar wind-up to these things, the way that a riddle's spun and unspun. Pleasure in seeing a thing done well: When you need an expert, you seek one.

"Unusual," As she'll have read enough to know. The Wardens keep their secrets, but the waste laid by Darkspawn is written across book and battlefield. Half this city was once Ferelden. "Even the old, the young?"

Even the men, he does not ask. Some things can be kept within the Order.

"The Taint —" Forearm extended, he taps fingers over black. "— Runs through every Darkspawn. It's how they communicate, it's how Corypheus moves them. And if you're correct, something else has found a way to interfere."