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Kirkwall was colder, dimmer, darker than Fereldan. But Cullen still stripped to his shirtsleeves and went outside to shave year round if the sun was shinning. It was good discipline and honestly some of his brothers could use an example of someone attending strict personal hygiene. Sometimes he though Freemarchers were allergic to water. But then, with all the rain in Fereldan, it was more of an involuntary sort of bathing, than any real desire, that kept the majority of the population smelling semi decently.
She would have said wet dog was not a decent scent. He sighed and tilted his chin, running his fingers behind his jaw, up to his ear to see if he had missed any patches.
“I wish to speak to your Knight-Commander.”
“Er...” Cullen dropped his blade beside the bowl of rapidly cooling water and turned to find not one of his brother templars, but one of Serah Hawke’s mercenaries, standing behind him in full plate and closed helm. Now there was a Freemarcher who smelled as if he could use even a rain bath.
“However,” the man continued. “Hawke told me I should speak with you instead. I do not see why. You are a man of conviction, you do not need my words to remind you of the just course.”
“...Thanks?”
The man nodded. “Things are going down a dark path. Perhaps you can speak to your Knight-Commander and be heeded. But I shall not ‘hold my breath’. Take this as a warning; a sign of my respect.”
With that, the man turned on heel and walked out of the courtyard. Cullen blinked after him. Serah Hawke certainly had some interesting acquaintances. That had been, perhaps, the oddest conversation Cullen had ever been part of. With only one side of his face shaved. On a Tuesday.