( A tilt of the hand - tattooed, now, where it hadn't been before - before he uses it to sort out the tea that they've been given, going about the business of pouring and distributing with the ease of one familiar with both tea as a process and a social ritual. He doesn't quite fit in his surroundings, but he wears them well enough all the same, eases into the space like it will grow accustomed to him. )

Would've been, if I'd stuck around.

( In a mass grave to be burned, yeah. His tone is wry, and his shrug - what it is. ) Civil war's good for no one, but there's coin in it. I finished up shepherding nervous nobs back to their houses now ( exaggerated airquotes are even better when he's holding a delicate bone teacup in one hand ) "everything's sorted right out" and blew out with the next wind to the Inquisition.

I wouldn't rush back.

( Being an elf and a foreigner, besides. Orlais will bite the hand that feeds and tell it to be grateful. )