"Oh, you know," Alistair answers Teren, not quite managing a whisper himself. He takes hold of the bars for balance. "A little of this, a little of that. But they seem nice, otherwise. I think Ashton fancies me..." He trails off.

At the word that he'd rotated a forearm to display a small wound that's no longer bleeding but still sticky and wet, and maybe he means something by the gesture, but when he looks down at it he winds up blinking at it like he's never seen it before. Or is too tired and easily fascinated by the process of scabs forming.

Without looking up, he raises his voice toward Anders: "Has to be. He's already boring me. That's a level of talent that can't be faked."

Sharp words, maybe, but his tone is blunted by drowsiness.