(now, while some taverns in the south of thedas might be considered shitholes, the majority of them are not! they're cozy. homey. a warm bright spot in an otherwise bleak landscape. well, at least the the frostbacks. it's shitawful out here, not as bad as the anderfels, but. nothing's really that bad.

anyway. the point is, is that it's offensive to call taverns shitholes just because it's not the poncey north. that's just rude!! so alistair would say, anyway.

it isn't long before alistair comes loping through the door; while his posture remains disciplined, there's a small rounding to his shoulders, a tightness to his jaw, that has nothing to do with the frigid air outside. the moment he spots dorian, he kind of feels as if this might be a bad idea or something of the sort. having a fun little chat at a distance is one thing, usually alistair can keep his bumbling to a minimum and not completely embarrass himself (usually), but sitting together is quite another. dorian is so skilled at disarming a person. he's well-bred and intelligent, a mage of high standing. what he's doing slumming around with some warden is a bit odd.

but, it's not like he can just turn around and walk out now.

nearing dorian, he parts his lips to offer a greeting but gets beaten to it (kind of?) and he makes a very intelligent) Uhhh... (before glancing down at his boots. that are a bit wet. and muddy. and have definitely made friendly with the pelt beneath his feet. maker, this is going well already, isn't it?) Bugger. Well, that'll be our little secret.

(he sits in the other chair, setting his pack beside. after a moment, he realizes he's been just staring at dorian, so he clears his throat and glances around as if that never happened.)

I'm not that late. But, I wouldn't fault you for starting without me.