[It should come as no surprise to Petrana that Loghain Mac Tir is, himself, also an early riser. He stands near the ramparts with a steaming mug of tea placed on the parapet, and what looks like a piece of hardtack held in one hand. In the other he holds a small journal, reviewing its contents with slightly squinty eyes. His eyesight isn't what it used to be.]
Your shirts.
[He looks up, startled, and stares at Petrana for a moment as though he has no idea what she's doing here. ...Possibly he hadn't expected her to arrive. Then he looks to the shirts in her hands, and can tell immediately that these are not the ones he arrived in Kirkwall with.]
Well, [he starts, sets the journal and tack down, and steps forward to accept them. It's easy to tell where the shirts came from; that alone brings an appreciative sort of chuckle out of him. One finger flips back the collar once he notices the little sigil embroidered there, clearly the work of a gifted hand.
Looking up again, he catches the look in her eye. How like Anora.] 'Mending,' eh? [Then, more appreciative, sincere,] You have my thanks, madame.
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Your shirts.
[He looks up, startled, and stares at Petrana for a moment as though he has no idea what she's doing here. ...Possibly he hadn't expected her to arrive. Then he looks to the shirts in her hands, and can tell immediately that these are not the ones he arrived in Kirkwall with.]
Well, [he starts, sets the journal and tack down, and steps forward to accept them. It's easy to tell where the shirts came from; that alone brings an appreciative sort of chuckle out of him. One finger flips back the collar once he notices the little sigil embroidered there, clearly the work of a gifted hand.
Looking up again, he catches the look in her eye. How like Anora.] 'Mending,' eh? [Then, more appreciative, sincere,] You have my thanks, madame.