Removing mud takes less time in the frigid water than digging up a rock. Once the bait's secured, Alistair dunks his hands just long enough to scrub them clean.

(Water this cold is just begging to be flung down the back of some unsuspecting person's neck. Not Cullen's, though. Alistair isn't that much of an ass.)

As he returns, drying his hands on the hem of his shirt, his eyebrows rise at the sight of Cullen setting up their bedrolls. "Oh." With some surprise. "Outside, then?"