As he pulls the shirt over his head he finally lets out that breath, long and shaky. Cullen's right side is the color of an angry sky about to let loose: dark and brooding blue and purple. There's no particular pattern to it. No way to say for sure how it happened, just by looking. He might have been thrown. He might have been hit by a behemoth.

Thanks to the elfroot potion, the wound on his left at his waist -- made by a red templar sword just low enough to get under his breastplate -- isn't bleeding any more. Just a flesh wound, he knows; same goes for the shallower cuts aimed at the vulnerable points between pauldron and breastplate that didn't land in the right spot.

Voice tighter than he intends, he says, "It's fine."

He's taller than the chaise. He can't sleep there like this. The ladder's out of the question. If he can just get Alistair out of here, he can do -- something. Tug his jerkin back on long enough to make it to an empty room in the guest quarters, maybe.