"No shit." Comes from the shadows. Perhaps he should live here, in the quiet, where no one can find him. Perhaps he can learn to be invisible again, small and silent and demure enough that people will stop looking for him, looking to him for answers. For guidance. He is an assassin, no great hero. No Jonas Cousland, no Marian Hawke. This is not his life and yet, somehow, it is.

He'd rather it wasn't.

Zevran's voice is only slightly sullen when he repeats. "It is not my castle."

Even if it was, he wouldn't want it. A manor where it was warm, with beaches and lovely men and women naked and glistening under the sun- that is what he wants. Not this.