“All of Thedas is dangerous,” she says, sourly, and wears the thoughtless expectation of being followed when she walks as if it's more frivolously aristocratic than militarily autocratic- which would be convincing, in her manner, if not for the lightweight armor and the shifting sands of regard from her men. The sort of respect that can't be given without being earned; the hue to it in some quarters (the ones that know her less well-) that borders on awe.

A symbol, not a person, a needed thing in a troubled time. The person, with her boots on the ground and her hair bouncing behind her when she walks, is somewhat more difficult.

“Out of your frying pan,” he had been entirely too ready for battle, if you were to ask her, but it's fine if you don't because she's not known for being particularly retiring with her opinions, “and into my fire. This is the Greatwood, where apparently everything under the sky has said, fuck this woman in particular. I am giving very serious thought to solving our civil war by taking the throne. No one has ever expected Empress Celene to sweat her arse off gadding about after bears.”

Slightly louder,

“Not very seriously.”

Her sideways regard of him is critical, assessing. Eventually, “Did you conjure the knives or was it some sort of sleight of hand?” The question seems more worryingly practical than innocently curious.