[ Cullen has always found himself uncomfortable during travel, regardless of the large part it plays in fighting for a cause. It was much the same as a Templar, but he felt at his best wherever he had been station. There is productivity in that, work being so difficult to accomplish while on the road. There is, also, the large discontent of traveling by ship. The act to moving forward seems to always be far more difficult than the act of battle, to him. This time, however, travel is a form of reprieve while at Neria's side. There is little time to be shared between them, but much more than what they had back in Skyhold. Short moments of privacy, enough for a gentle touch or embrace, nothing beyond a brief kiss that Cullen hangs onto and wishes time might slow down every time. Each night he would remind himself that their distance is only temporary, repeating in his head her promise that they will have their time. ]

[ Certainly, it is ever clear the reason for doubt of the necessity for troops. There is minor effort in their success, and both Neria and Cullen had been right about no true risk in casualties. Simplicity is a luxury in this time, and he can still at least appreciate the easy victory. ]

[ But at the very least, they have their time. As promised. It will be a few days before such victory is entirely sealed, and that much is made clear as he watches Neria reduce the Comte's letter to mere ashes. ]

Such is the culture patented by none other than Orlais itself. Talk has always been their strong point. Where the Inquisition promises both credible word and supporting action, I'm willing to place coin on the Dowager's terror.

[ Cullen turns away, board in his hand supporting the reports necessary for Skyhold. He glances it over once more, mindfully going over what additions he will make before sending it off by bird, then sets it down. ]

I'll admit, I'm quite disappointed in the lack of action as well.

[ He smirks at that a touch, shaking his head. ]