Solas is waiting when she returns to the streets. Gone are the days when he hunched, leaning on his staff with both hands as if to relieve the pressure of standing on well-beaten joints. Then, he sought to seem unremarkable, an old man standing by in the corner, nothing worth bothering with. Now he is tall, straight-backed, head held high. He watches passers-by with idle interest, his hands folded behind his back, feigning and different kind of nonchalance.

But he is watching, and he is waiting; the moment she comes out the door, his eyes are on her. And there is, however, one genuinely remarkable thing about him: The massive bruise blooming purple and yellow, already darkening around one eye.

"Vhenan," he greets, as she nears, as calm as if nothing at all were the matter, "How fares the requests?"