Asmara Surana
The traces of concern immediately dropped from Asmara's expression, and she grinned winningly at her friends, nodding enthusiastically. "Spare robes sound like a good idea. As does soap," she replied, looking down at her own attire. Two weeks on the road had not been kind to the Tevinter-style green fabrics; she was spattered with blood and Darkspawn gore. She wouldn't be surprised if someone mistook her for a feral... what were they called? Blood mages? Something like that anyway. There were also several tears; she'd have to purchase more thread to use with the needles she already carried. Still, she seemed salvageable at the very least, so maybe only one more set.
She noted that Antius was making much the same inspection and shook her head good-naturedly. He really did seem to care an awful lot about his clothes. Maybe it was a Circle thing? She'd have to ask sometime. She wasn't sure why Circle mages wore their robes so long, either; wouldn't it be harder to move in them? She much preferred something a it shorter, with leggings. Warmer, and easier to move around in, too.
It would seem that the group had filtered down quite a bit, but she did not mind. Everyone probably had their own business to attend to, after all. She wondered if any of the people standing around here might know where they could find an armorer, or maybe a tailor. Surely one of those two sorts of people would sell soaps right? Wary but ultimately deciding that maybe not all towns were the same, Asmara approached the nearest non-local-looking resident, who just so happened to be a Chantry priest. "Excuse me, sir," she began politely, "might you be able to tell my friends and I where to find the nearest purveyor of clothing items and soaps?"
The man looked at her strangely for a split second before responding. "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond." He now seemed to be regarding her appraisingly, though she would not have noticed were it three times as obvious.
Instead, Asmara simply clasped her hands together with delight. She'd heard this before, from one of her teachers! Now, what was it that came next? Oh, right. "All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." The small mage hoped that was it; Uriel would be displeased if he ever found out she'd forgotten, and she did love his enchanting poetry so.
The priest nodded simply, and pointed to a storefront lodged in between a few houses a little ways off from the tavern. "And Eileen spoke unto the masses, 'My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.'"
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The store was small, but its proprietor seemed friendly enough, and did indeed sell soap. This preoccupied Asmara rather longer than it should have; she sniffed each one before making her choice. A few of them were a bit stronger and suitable for cleaning armors, but she wouldn't need those. Luckily, the elderly woman who ran the store also seemed to have a nearly-identical set of garments available, only in darker colors, which was probably good anyway, and these Asmara happily purchased as well. Alteration, like mending, was something she accepted as a fact of life; people could hardly be expected to carry everything in a suitable size, after all.