Margot traveled with the group of warden recruits to the encampment somewhere in the middle, not following to closely on the heel of Duncan, the man who saved her from the large group of Templars in Orzammar, and she also resisted the urge to fall to the rear of the group during their travels. As they had come to a stop at the foot of a large bridge, Margot looked around her, drinking in surroundings. There was a light breeze that lifted strands of her raven hair from her face as her piercing green eyes scanned the area. 

She stood immobile for several seconds, turning in time to see that their group was dividing into the camp with seemingly no agenda. Her brow furrowed for a moment, as if wrapped up in her own thoughts before she let out a loud sigh. Clearing her throat, she strode past the elven mage, her nose scrunching from the smell of decay flooding her nostrils. As Margot reached the other end of the bridge closest to the camp, she hesitated and glanced over her shoulder at the paling recruit. Her teeth caught hold of her bottom lip, before shaking her head to herself and continuing into the encampment. 

Margot paid no attention to the rest of it's inhabitants. Instead, she sought out an untraveled clearing, taking her staff between her hands and beginning her combat practices as she had grown so used to doing. In silence, she swung her staff in precise movements, but cast no magic with them. Her eyes had seemed to glaze over while she practiced, and anyone who watched her would probably think that she was under some sort of trance due to the amount of focus she was exerting. Her movements for fluid, moving from one into another and her hair flew around her face as she face one direction for a swing of her staff only to spin on her heel and attack another with very little effort.