She'd pack her a lunch. The Inquisitor would pack her a lunch. It was so absurd, just thinking about it startled a sharp laugh out of Hawke. "Only if they're those little Orlesian cakes that look like the wrong end of a nug." Maker, she was hungry. Though it perhaps shouldn't have been all that surprising when another person took up arms in the next moment. This sort of situation seemed to happen a lot around the Inquisitor. Well, that and the rift thing. Bad luck.
Hawke swung her staff to angle it behind her, eyeing their field while the Inquisitor gave orders. She wondered what it had been like for Varric traveling like this—whether it reminded him of all those scouting trips along the Wounded Coast or the late-night raids in Lowtown's darker corners. But thinking about Varric always made Hawke's chest hurt, so she pushed it aside. For now, anyway.
"How much time d'you need to close that thing?" When any demon skittered too close to the elf, Hawke froze them into statues of ice.