"Helping is what I do," Hawke replies dryly, though not insincerely, watching as the woman carts the goat off. She's had plenty of experience with plenty of things, but not so much goats. Or sheep. Or halla. A part of her wishes Merrill were here. Then she might have someone more used to dealing with animals.

"Call me Hawke," she replies, rather than say any of that. "Everyone else does."

Hawke shakes off some of the remaining hailstones, kicking a few back outside where they belong. They won't have hurt her permanently, but they have stung. If she knew of a decent healer, she might be inclined to go for a check-up.

"At this rate, I'll be shaking out hailstones for a week."