"Don't let them make me sound noble." He clings, hands fisting in Alistair's shirt. "Don't let them make me out to be something I am not."

Alistair would live to see the end of this, Zevran is certain. But with the thing on his hand, the Crows, Corypheus? He would not. And he would rather someone know him honestly and have some record of it than let them paint him into some sort of saint. He is no such thing. He would never be such a thing.