She didn't make any move to hide her position, jerking the shield of leaves further down to cast her gaze towards the ground. The mischievous expression remained.
"Of all the forests in all of Thedas, and you both come clopping into mine," she told them cheerfully. She slung her crossbow over one shoulder and reached for the rope she had carefully bound on the bough hanging above her. Gripping it tightly, she hoisted herself off the branch and slid down to land on the ground. Her knees bent slightly on impact, to further absorb the shock of meeting the earth under her boots. Tossing the fibered cable away, she jammed her hands in her pockets and walked towards the horses in an easy, rolling gait.
While an initiate of the Chantry, she certainly didn't dress like one. A comfortable, long-sleeved shirt was pulled over her head, secured further on her person by a black, sleeveless vest. A curved, metal shoulder-guard was strapped to her right arm, a tortoise shell design embossed upon it. Ash-gray breeches clung to her legs, tucked within the hems of comfortable black boots that had clearly seen better days. Tousled, dark-chocolate hair had been pulled in a careless twist at the back of her head, with stray tresses left at the front to frame a pair of hazel irises, a small nose, and the puckish bent of her mouth. The archaeologist was no great beauty in comparison to the finer ladies of court or even Denerim's ladies of the evening -- what marked her instead was a near-palpable air of restless energy caged in a body that may very well be too slight to hold it.
"Don't tell me there are blood mages hiding here somewhere. If I had known, I would've picked a better campsite," she continued conversationally, the future plight of some of Ferelden's most dangerous heathens implied by a tone more fitting for discussing the weather.