Alistair doesn't look up, at first; he comes in with heavy boots and carelessly slammed doors, an Alistair in its natural unobserved state—humming, too, absentminded and melancholy, but there's nothing sad to match it about his movements. The Wardens are still fucked, but the Inquisition is safe. He's been fed recently. He's sweaty. He's been helping clear rubble out of the fortress. He rubs a horse's nose in passing, strips out of his shirt without pausing his walk, and tosses himself face-down onto a well-used blanket on a pile of hay in the back corner. It all happens very quickly and noisily.

But then he rolls over, trying to get comfortable, and sees Zevran. The sight makes him flinch, but once he's done that and briefly pressed an overdramatic hand to his chest to demonstrate that Zevran scared him, he takes better stock of the scene—Zevran perched up in the rafters—and says, "C-caw."