Zevran landed light on his feet, silently as ever before shaking the rope back down. Rather than walk to Alistair properly he playfully reels himself in, head cocked to the side, eartips dipped as he squints.

More crows feet than he remembers.

A smattering of blond copper that might be silver scattered throughout his ginger mess of hair. A weariness to his bones that wasn't near so pronounced in their travels together. "What, I do not keep in touch? I do not write, I do not visit? How terribly rude of me."

It didn't fit. That he'd find...something of a family, such as he learned one to be, and abandoned it outright after saving the world? For some it fit. Wynne, Oghren, Sten. But, the witch, the sister, the warden?