"How many times must I tell you, call me Zev. We are friends, are we not?" Of a sort. In what loose ways Zevran knows to have friends that are not, perhaps, meant to kill him and do not have any desire to own, direct, or fuck him. It is a strange feeling to be sure but- there is some shred of fondness in him for this particular strangeness of Alistair's.

Or perhaps it is fondness for something that is at last familiar. So much of this place is strange to him.

Braced between branch and trunk he pulls a length of rope from his pack, quickly fashioning a slip knot at one end and tossing the loop about Alistair. He floats, yes? So. He may float them both down.

Or they might crash together. Who can say?

"It would be a pity to break your very fine arse, this is true. Hold tight-" A sturdy branch lies between them, he loops the rope about it. "Let go. I will keep you up."

Or down, as it were.