"And you've always been prettier than all of us," Alistair says, not any less sincere for the rote and dutiful tone he takes on. He skritches his fingers against Zevran's neck as a reward for his loosened grip and slackened shoulders. "That's the story they'll tell. The Herald of Andraste stepped out of the Fade and tossed his beautiful hair over his shoulder, the odd glow of his elegant, tapered hand casting light onto his perfectly formed face..."