No easy solution. Fine. There never is one. But Alistair is disgruntled about it, anyway, briefly ducking his head down alongside Zevran's, nose to shoulder, to make a frustrated sound. Tevinters should stay in Tevinter. That's not xenophobia, it's just practical.

When he lifts his head, a passing scout glances at them and does a double-take. Not at him—at Zevran, maybe his hand. Maybe a bit at the fact he's using Alistair as an armchair. Alistair doesn't move. "He's Antivan," he says, snappish, which should explain everything, and she hastens to keep walking.

He feels a little bad. A very little.

"You should probably get some more sleep."