"I never would have guessed." Zevran's voice could not be more dry, but he will work with what he has available- which with Anders? Is not much. Mages do not make good rogues for a reason. "Remind me to give you oil for your hair before you leave. Seriously, conditioning, has no one in the south heard of it? It pains me to look at your ends."

A deep, horrible aesthetic pain. Eyes faintly narrowed Zevran takes Anders' hands by the wrists (gently) and turns them over to examine his palms and the pads of his fingers. Soft like most healers, no scarring from blood magic. (yes that is what he is checking for, no he is not going to make a thing of it). "I cannot make a duelist of you, nor an assassin. But I can show you how to move without being seen, how to pick locks, and how to lie convincingly. You call yourself Detlef and your thumbs twitch, as though you expect some sort of lashing. Say it. Mean it. You are Detlef, a simple Spirit Healer from..."