Sabine takes in a breath that is clearly meant to be spent towards a you know what I mean, probably in Orlesian, but Alistair shuts himself up instead. She moves aside to collect up her bow and set it down properly rather than leave it on the floor, casting a look towards the filtering in of faces, old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, before turning her shoulder to them again.

"There was talking," she says, after a moment of studying him, his suppressed smirk and knowing why its there, "as you know, how it goes. Something happens, the talking begins," and she does a talky-mime with her hand, before it drops, "and we choose waiting. Hiding in the dark."

She looks him up and down. All limbs attached, all fingers. Can't speak for his toes, but she imagines those remain too. Hopefully other critical appendages.

"You are alright? No need of Wardenish silences when they torture you for secrets?"