[ Felassan watches her face turn red with some regret. Some. Not too much. He's very old, is the thing; in a way he's older than Elvhenan ever could have made him, not even over ten or twenty thousand years. His dead friends out number his living ones a hundredfold or more. He's learned what pains are temporary and what hurts are survivable and what sharp edges will be blunted by time into something he can eventually touch again without bleeding. And he's learned what parts of his reputation are worth actually giving a damn about, to him. What's worth embarrassment. This is honest, and complimentary, and harmless — he'd say he'd die before he'd betray Solas, but evidence suggests he might instead betray him and then immediately accept death afterwards — so he smiles, tattoos crinkling around his eyes, and says, ]

Maker forbid,

[ in a perfect Orlesian accent. He refocuses on the clouds. She's near enough to nudge her leg with his knee, a friendly jostle to say nothing's different as best as he silently can. Less silently: ]

I was so pleased I had not made things awkward already, I got arrogant. Don't let me trouble you, holmelan.