[ All those empty ships look like a rather unbelievable opportunity, to Anders, who has more than once in his life entertained fantasies of stowing away to somewhere new to escape his present circumstances. He's not used to good fortune, though, and he's doing his best to look like nothing but a curious bystander, walking the docks and admiring the boats where they're moored.

Until he comes across someone else - who may be looking a little too curious of the unattended ships, themselves, or just doing in earnest what he's pretending at. ]

Any talent for sailing? [ He asks outright as he stops and leans against a salt-crusted wooden pillar of the dock, cheerful and - possibly - joking. ] I've got an inkling I might want to take it up, myself. Soon, even.

[ It's a secret. Well, that's helpful. Anders' mask doesn't quite hide the downturn of his expression as he gravitates away from another less than forthcoming stranger. Fancy soirees like this one might still be new to him, but it was almost embarrassingly easy how quickly he'd ingratiated himself to the Commander's guests at that last, tense Grey Warden to-do compared to this.

He should be enjoying himself, though, he supposes - let someone else figure out all this mysterious nonsense. But the city makes him uneasy (too strange, too reminiscent of the one he's always seen in his dreams - that every mage has), and the shallow, tepid charm of the people here nags at him. But it also wouldn't be much like him to let curiosity go.

Grabbing a couple of glasses of champagne off a passing server's tray, he turns and slips through the crowd again. ]

You look like you could use it. [ He offers one to the next person he sees, only belatedly noting the matching sigil pinned to them, too. ] Oh! Look at that. We're twins. So, any luck figuring out what all this is about?

[ The beach is more familiar, standing on the edge of a seemingly endless body of water, staring into the distant horizon and feeling the immensity of the flat, impassable border it represents. Of course, he'd only felt that way about Lake Calenhad when he was young, too young to think he could ever swim so far as to reach that foggy Fereldan shore from Kinloch's little craggy scrap of island.

Eventually, he did, still half-terrified he'd falter and drown at the midpoint. But there's no shore in that hazy distance, and he doesn't like his chances anymore, besides.

Instead of daring the waters, Anders stoops to drag his fingers through the sand, searching for any flat shell or stone in reach. Can't exactly skip a rock on the waves, but tossing one in might still be somewhat cathartic. The scrap of yellow cloth he finds half-obscured by the sand, instead, is a puzzling thing - the very obvious remnants of some corpse it's attached to less so. He jerks back with a start, toppling over into the sand and probably making a sound a little too loud for the peaceful, quiet shoreline as he pedals back through it.

It only takes him a moment to realize it's not the shambling sort of corpse, though, and he lets out a somewhat embarrassed rush of breath. ]

Knickerweasels— I thought long walks on the beach were supposed to be pleasant.

[ happy to keep tdm cr or handwave brief meetings on the boat for scrywatch threads, otherwise feel free to hit me with something different! plot w/me @gravejuice or by pm. and prose or brackets are both fine, i'll follow suit. ]