"Then I recommend finding someone here who knows more about it to take with you, or relying heavily on the locals," he says, leaning back to rifle through a drawer.

A copied map and a single page letter is produced. Both are lain out on the desk between them. The letter begins, 'To Whom It May Concern, I am writing at the request of a coalition of rural livestock farmers—'

Flint covers it with the copied map. The border between Orlais and Nevarra is delineated with a bold dark line. He indicates a slab of territory immediately adjacent to it on the Orlesian side.

"Here. The ground is too rocky for growing, but this stretch is evidently a fine piece of grazing land. Sheep, cattle, and so on. It seems that as of late, the shepherds tending those flocks have been killed while on watch. The locals suspect some fanciful animal. Given the proliferation of rifts in the fields and what we know of how it affects the environment, a fade touched wolf or something similar isn't out of the question.

"But there are a dozen other rumors as well. That it might be some demon roving the countryside left over from the war, or some kind of heretic northern blood mage, or even the peasant farmers from the Nevarran side of the border looking to chase off their neighbors from good grazing."

Here, finally, a pause in this lecture. Flint looks up, attention piercing and calculating—measuring what percentage of this has penetrated what seems to be a somewhat notoriously thick skull.

"Are you following?"