The dim glow of lyrium slithering along exposed arms were covered again as Dezrith caught the older man glancing his way, eyes meeting his own as the man walked on with his companion - a young, pretty little thing. Humans, Ferelden by the look of them. Dezrith's eyes captured quick glances of quirks and features. Straight back - unnervingly so, and subconsciously. This was a noble - no, a bent fingerbone - a noble servant. No change in skin-tone under his beard: this man had a thicker beard than he was accustomed to: a long journey without luxuries. Darting glances; a runaway.<br/><br/>Conclusion: This man is the guardian of a Ferelden noble who had somehow been forced out of their ancestral home. The girl behind him was more than likely that noble. But what were they up to? And why a brothel? It was terrible how Dezrith's curiosity was creating more questions than it was answering, but at this point he was too far in - he had to know.<br/><br/>Eyes closed as he wafted through the sounds of the brothel for the pitch and tempo of the guardian's footsteps, following their direction for as long as he could until they faded, thinking it distance enough as he began to follow, pulling a tray from the shelves, setting down the still near-full mug of ale on it as he would hide in plain sight, hoping to catch the old man's words, and those of his ward.