( he might have jumped before. now he just flinches, a little taken aback—he wasn’t really expecting an answer, voicing his concerns to the winds, not even quite realizing he’s actually spoken. you’ll probably see it again. of that he has no doubt, though he’d really rather not to. death, undeath. seen through his eyes, bubbling cold in his blood. and so many corpses left in his wake.

he sighs, a sidelong glance offered. ) A bit grim, aren’t we. ( or realistic. he doesn’t know anymore. ) Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it looked prettier. ( corypheus, at least, had some sense of fashion. the thought is quick to make his stomach churn; he smiles for good measure, swallowing back the growing nausea. ) I’m Alistair. Are you with the Inquisition?