The rest of the way into the room, into the chair—and he would prefer tea. He takes it without hesitation and a mug-tipping gesture of thanks. Maybe there are people in this fortress who'd like to poison him, or maybe not. But if they haven't already done it, they aren't going to start while there's a Chantry Mother about.

His hand glows green against the mug. He is too tall and brawny to look entirely comfortable in any chair that isn't oversized, but once he crosses one leg over his knee he comes close.

"I love assisting," he says. The words could have been smarmy, but he says them with the slightly awkward, question-lilted air of someone who just does not know what to say. Certainly not yes, before finding out what it is.