Alistair, on the other hand, will just grab one of the furs and wrap that around himself instead. Hey: they're right there, and he's established through rigorous testing throughout the day that they work as well as a cloak.

Off to the tavern they go.

In the absence of so many people, the noise in Herald's Rest has sunk to a low murmur. Cabot's busying himself with wiping out glasses that don't look like they need much cleaning; Maryden's quiet, enjoying a drink sans audience. They have their pick of tables.

First, though, Alistair's going to fetch the drinks: ale for himself, and Whatever It Was for Cullen (if Cabot can supply it).