"Doubt that," Alistair mutters, because nothing is ever dull when Zevran is involved, but he's sitting, he's being asked about—he shakes his head with a rueful little smile and rubs his eyes with one hand, pinching toward the bridge of his nose.

Does Thedas have adhesives? Whatever. Bandage, ripping.

"Warden-Commander Clarel called every Warden in the South to Orlais. We're all hearing the Calling. There was something about blood magic, and I... yelled." It was a lot like the Landsmeet, except he wasn't trying to leave. He tried to stay. He was going to fix it. But then—"then there were guards. Swords. Dead or alive. I made it out by pretending to be you."