"We will endeavor, as ever—" Kostos says from where he's wandered up to the back of the Inquisition cluster, then realizes he's rhymed unintentionally and pauses in order to hate himself, now, in addition to all of the other things about this he hates. The cold is one. (Only his face is visible, and there is snow frozen to his facial hair in small icy balls.) The chicken is another, though it would perhaps not be impossible to tell any local Fereldans on their way back north that it's a creature from Orlais. It seems like the sort of thing Orlais would come up with.

Not that being Orlesian would necessarily increase its chances of surviving Ferelden.

And if anyone is waiting for him to finish that sentence, they'll be waiting for a long time. It's ruined. Unsalvageable. He steps away from the group again to examine the camp and do a mental count of how many of them are here, and alive, and not eating the giant chicken or each other—impressed, but good luck figuring that out from his expression.