Alistair looks up, shaping a faint smile. Before Cullen's hand slips away from his shoulder, he catches it, gives his fingers a quick squeeze, and lets go.

Once Cullen's departed, Alistair pushes himself to standing and stretches his arms high overhead. The extra weight of sword, shield, and proper armor has been a bit of a readjustment; old aches sometimes pop up that he'd nearly forgotten. Fortunately, his shoulder isn't among them. Maker willing, it'll stay that way.

He pads toward their tent.