"As I thought." Zevran sniffs, recounting the steps he has taken under his breath before shouldering onward. He'll consider the cost of his frustration later. For now it is far too cold to linger on the slip, far too frozen about his boots to bother with patently false kindness. He'll sugar coat the means after he is tucked by the roaring fire, soup in hand, wine warm in his belly. Onward they trudge, onward he hauls this slender slip of a human man, human noble if he were to take a guess at it, his features too well formed and his grace one of gravitas and that should leave him wary.

It is hard to worry about putting his back to the man when he is just as lost as the rest of them in this snow.

Ten, fifteen steps more finds them on the porch. Zevran shoulders the door open and hauls his wayward duckling into the heat and warmth of the in, stalking directly to the roaring hearth for warmth. "Here. Sit."

Kindness now in shards, perhaps. He shucks his coat to drape it across the back of a chair, leaving his ward long enough to fetch two mugs and two bowls, balancing them carefully as he wanders back from the kitchen, wrapped bread tucked under his arm, a knob of butter balanced on a plate with some cheese on his head. Table set he sits, slumps, and sighs for the warmth. "Now you may bitch about the weather and propriety."