If one from this wonderful, muddy country was wrapped up against the cold- the resident Antivan was positively frigid. Layers upon layers of leathers and wool and cotton he wears and it is still blowing right through him. At this rate he is going to lose the tips of his ears and his fingertips. Ten years ago it was not this bad, was it? Perhaps he had put the memory from his mind.
Zevran trudges to the fire in hopes that it, at least, will do as it should when he sees Alistair.
Sitting. Staring. That same strange, wavering look he would get during the Blight when precious little could draw him back to the present. The song.
An answer to both of their problems presents himself when he walks around not to sit next to Alistair, but to nudge his arms and the blanket out of the way enough to drop into his lap and tuck his head under the warden's chin. There. Much better. "I am going to lose my toes to this cold before we reach our destination, just you wait."
Challenge Accepted!
Zevran trudges to the fire in hopes that it, at least, will do as it should when he sees Alistair.
Sitting. Staring. That same strange, wavering look he would get during the Blight when precious little could draw him back to the present. The song.
An answer to both of their problems presents himself when he walks around not to sit next to Alistair, but to nudge his arms and the blanket out of the way enough to drop into his lap and tuck his head under the warden's chin. There. Much better. "I am going to lose my toes to this cold before we reach our destination, just you wait."