"Do you know where the inn is? Mm? Do you have any idea where it is you are going? No. If you did you would've diverted left or right of the path ten steps ago, twenty steps ago to duck into one of the other houses." Zevran snaps, actually snaps, feet planted, head tipped up to face this fine featured fool, golden eyes narrowed. "It is cold. You are not dressed for it. Shall I leave you to freeze to death?"

It's tempting if only to spare him whatever shred of arrogance might follow. This is not how he handles people in the village. He plays kind, he plays patient, he is all smiles and good humor but this cold sinks deep into his bones, takes him by the heart and squeezes. It is a cold like death, like a frigid night at the highest peak, recalling Haven has never, ever brought him joy.

Not many endure their sins laid out at their feet with a wink and a smile.

"So. Unless you wish to become an ice sculpture to be admired once the snow melts-" He offers his hand this time. "Come with me."