"If you like thinking small, maybe," Alistair says, all fake sniffing Orlesian-y disdain. He puts a hand around onto Zevran's shoulder and gives it a massaging sort of squeeze. It's been a long night. And Zevran is definitely more famous than he is now—probably has been for ages, probably more famous than Cousland—but he doubts that's something Zevran wants to hear. "Are you all right?"