He gave the scout a sharp look, unamused by the unbidden entrance. Then, he noticed her ears; Cullen supposed she wasn't the only elf who didn't know what knocking was for. Some homes in the alienages didn't even have doors. Her face was bare, and he thought her from the city, though the where of it remaining a mystery. That he couldn't tell at all was a testament to the Inquisition's growing success; people truly were coming in droves from all over Thedas to support them in their cause. It granted the Commander some comfort, and eventually, his face softened into something resembling acknowledgment. The thrown report quickly found itself in Cullen's hands, his eyes leaving the scout's face for its words.
"Next time, wait for the command to enter," he remarked, his eyes still on the report, though the weight of his voice made its presence felt in the small room. "And don't throw the report on my table."
The information was satisfactory, with the troops' new practice of scavenging of elfroot in organized searches providing much-needed relief for the struggling healers. There were a few problems with sourcing some ores, but for the moment, iron could do for most of the troops. News of lower morale due to the recent increase of Venatori attacks now made sense, what with the Inquisitor's return - either she had managed to open the Tomb already, or was heavily noticed by them in her efforts to do so.
"Any news on
when the Inquisitor is to return?" he continued, as he finally put the report down and signed it. Ink drying, he then turned his full attention upon the elf. "And how are her companions?"
While he now had some measure of faith in their abilities to protect the Inquisitor, each came with their quirks, some of which Cullen found worrying. He hoped that Blackwall's shield was doing it's job, at least, and that Sera's judicious use of arrows and copious expletives would temper Dorian's showy spellcasting.
"While you're here, brief me on the status of your unit. Tell me your name, who you report to, number of injured, anything unusual, and so on." The Commander searched about for his quill and dipped it in ink afresh, ready to take down notes on a letter he flipped - clearly he had no intentions of replying to the message.
With her ears still ringing from the arrow's impact against the wooden wall, Alba could only stare at it, confused about where it had come from. Her eyes searched the room for the attacker, and before she knew it, some striking woman was commanding her to cease whatever it was that she had been doing, which was... not all that much, she thought ruefully to herself. The captain's face remained flat for a few moments, the gears of her mind in a whirr, as she considered the whispers around her. Was this one the real deal? If so, then Alba wondered just what it was that made Lady Luck smile upon her today.
"My apologies," began the pirate, as she took off her hat with a small flourish. Then, she gave the accuser a small bow, the graceful action becoming a gesture of sarcasm. "I am Alba, Alba Selvaggio. These people are my friends," she smiled, nodding at the ruffians close by, encircling herself and the minstrel. "We are far from home, you see, and are unaccustomed to the local laws. I trust that you are a voice of authority, but...
Creatore... can someone please explain what we have done wrong?"
She grinned at the extravagantly clad man who stood close to the supposed Inquisitor, taking note of his clothing and demeanor. He looked much like the men her mother spoke of, men who thought themselves gods. Then, she noticed a lithe elf too, alongside a metal-clad warrior - more disciples of the imperious beauty?
"If you like,
signorina, I can do you one better. We could all sit down, instead," continued Alba, herself returning to her seat, an arm resting on the chair's back as she surveyed the four. Around them all, her crew laughed, the sound terrible and taunting. "You will have to excuse me for not drinking, however. The ale is... not to my taste."
Remembering the previous conversation, however, Alba reached out for the minstrel's hand once more and turned her gaze towards the woman, ignoring Thedas' savior for her.
"A shame... I thought we were getting somewhere. And what was it that you wanted my help with?" She asked with a cold smile, her icy stare affixed upon the minstrel's lips. "Be quick with it. I have a feeling I am about to be shot in the heart this time. But wouldn't you rather be the one to fire the arrow?"
In response, the minstrel squeaked, shrinking in her seat, though her gaze still went wildly about the room. Her eyes held the Inquisitor's gaze, then they would dart to a certain corner, where an unremarkable group of mercenaries all sat together, watching the spectacle that had taken place in this unremarkable tavern. Alba saw this and followed her gaze, shifting ever closer towards the woman. Then, without warning, one of the crew drunkenly spilled ale over a mercenary's boots, and just like that, a barfight began. Raucous yells echoed throughout the tight space, some voices yelling in terror, while others yelled in excitement. People pushed every which way, hands striking where they could - some even holding swords.