"How much choice do any of you have, with the act of conscription?" Slipping back and sideways and, perhaps, seeing injustices where there are none. Alistair might have made good with being a Warden, might have told himself he chose this life, but how much control did he truly have up until that point?

An old argument they have never truly had for Zevran knew better than to dig into it. He catches himself before the rest might spill out like so much blood and resumes dabbing away at the cut on his ribs. "I, apparently, cannot stop you. Do as you like."