Merrill nodded along with Hawke, urging her along that line of thought. She felt herself jerk as it came to a metaphorical halt, like the wagon had thrown a wheel. Images of injured griffins began to form in her mind, and she was beginning to wonder if she should have waited before she agreed. But griffins. “Are there? It seems as if there are more laws about hurting animals than there are for people.” No one minded when they cleaned up a few back allies. Kirkwall must be used to the sight of blood on the streets.
“Oh!” Hawke jostled Merrill around. Accidentally, she was sure, Hawke was simply so much bigger than she. “For griffins!” she cried, not nearly as loud nor as boisterous as Hawke, but no less enthusiastic.
If it was a bad sign that they hadn't come across any significant clusters of raiders since leaving the city, Marian wasn't concerned. Dropping heavily into the sparse grass just off the path, she grimaced at the dampness, then gestured for Merrill to join her. "So, no sign of any griffins yet." She said, wiping sandy palms on her thighs. It was difficult for her to discern just how long they'd been on their trek, but she knew that it had been at least long enough for the effect of the alcohol in her system to begin wearing off and tiredness to set in.
But they were already out wandering the Wounded Coast, and Hawke was committed to the griffin cause. "I haven't the slightest idea where griffins settle down to have their griffin babies and... drink their griffin alcohol." If she were a griffin, she'd go for mountains. Or at least a nice rock. "Higher terrain, perhaps?"
