“Hello,” Bastien answers—sort of, obviously it isn’t a real answer—with quiet cheer, from well over a below his line of sight.

His accent is Orlesian; so is his mustache, currently fashionable among the masses in Val Royeaux, and the cut of his clothing, and his overall affect. There is nothing soldierly about him. He looks like he belongs at a desk, or behind a cart selling books. But on the other hand, there’s no shying backwards away from the Qunari, and any mild gawking is of the same friendly, impressed quality that might be directed toward a friend’s expensive new hat.

“I am Bastien, and—Maker, you are tall. I hope that is a compliment.”