"It might take care of your hero problem, at least," Alistair says, dropping his arms to dangle over Zevran's shoulders. It would be nice to say that he doesn't hesitate for a moment to worry about how it looks—not for his own sake, he doesn't care, he has the luxury of not caring—before deciding that the corpsey-looking spirit boy and the Tevinter in the camp are probably keeping the gossipmongers preoccupied. For now. It would also be nice to say that he goes along with it for the sake of being comforting and not being comforted.

Alas.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, looking past Zevran's blanket-covered head to the fire. "Or we could wager how long it will take for you to get the—who do you like most? The Qunari?"