The confirmation of her presence is enough to coax him from the doorway. Straw crunches underfoot, dust motes stirring idly in the roost's penetrating shafts of failing sunlight. Lanterns will need to be lit here soon if there's to be any light left to see by.

He pauses a few steps shy of her, right hand floating absently to hook at the seam of his sleeve. It's not a bow - she doesn't warrant anything like that -, but it's near enough to the start of one that the gesture evokes the sensation. Clearly there's some habit to it and one Marcoulf enjoys in some quiet way that he keeps doing it without much thought or question.

"I'm leaving for Ferelden in the morning and wanted to say as much so you knew not to look for me in the yard."

Simple enough, and all business.