Alistair glares as fiercely as he has glared at Zevran in nearly eleven years, because Zevran's sideways back-slipping means stepping directly into territory marked Duncan. But Zevran seems to know, already, not to push, so Alistair's eyes stay narrowed but his mouth also stays shut.

"Elfroot," he snaps instead of answering, not because he is clever enough to avoid a fight but because he's angry enough to want a break from looking at Zevran.

He ducks back out of the tent. It's a short walk to the supplies, and with air and distance his glare fades, his posture loses its furious rigidity. But when he comes back, lies about toothaches told and elfroot in hand, he's still sullen, holding out the herbs without comment.