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When Cullen comes across the body, as he hikes in from the north, he gets the message immediately: this is not a place where he can reveal himself.

In the rain, oiled hood pulled over his head, Cullen crouches by the corpse. Female. Elven, he thinks. Circle robes. No one he recognizes. Probably came to Kinloch after the Blight. Five or six arrow shafts still in her chest.

In this weather, it's hard to get anything to burn. Even with magic. The best he can do is hope a wandering demon won't decide to take possession -- undead are one thing. Arcane horrors are something else entirely.

Not for the first time, he feels the swell of frustration, followed by a wave of guilt: there's so much he doesn't know, so much he could use to protect people --

And you could have learned it. If you didn't run.

Even then, Cullen knows it's not true. Not the way things were going in Kirkwall.

He straightens and hefts his pack again. If he's to find shelter before nightfall, he's got to get a move on. There are caves, he knows, all through the country. One of them should do for the night, if it's free of spiders. He should start looking past the keep, where all the bandits are.

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Alistair sighs again. "I've survived on far less before," he points out, but tucks the food back into the parcel rather than insist Cullen take it.

As he nibbles on his own share, he makes himself tune into the noise of the crackling fire; it's either that or listen to the sweetly horrifying music circling around his mind. Since striking out on his own, Alistair's spent more than a few nights talking to himself like a madman just to drown out the Calling; he's not about to do it with another person present, though.

Which means his chewing slows, eventually, and his gaze unfocuses as he watches the fire, briefly lost to the world.

Alistair doesn't seem offended enough to -- to do anything untoward.

Slowly, carefully, Cullen starts to shed layers. The cave floor is clean enough; he stretches out his coat, so it can dry. Same with his jerkin. His linen shirt is -- damp. But it's not three wet layers. It's just one. Linen dries quickly.

"Should do the socks," he mumbles to himself, and starts with his boots.

Alistair blinks, gaze refocusing. (It takes a little effort.) "Hm?"

Cullen's head shoots up -- and then he colors.

"Sorry. Just... reminding myself. Of what to do." He gestures toward his half-unlaced boots, and goes back to work. "Long day."

Which is, all things considered, an impressive understatement.

Ah. His mouth quirks in a half-smile.

"I've been there," he says. "Prattle on as much as you need. I don't mind."

"Even if it's about wet socks?" he mumbles to his boots.

"Even then."

Still with that crooked smile, Alistair taps his temple.

"It's better than what I'm listening to up here."

Cullen lifts his head, brow furrowed.

And then his expression lightens, just a little.

"Rain's not natural, is it," he offers, going back to work. "Part of that hole in the sky."

A quiet chuckle -- and a brief, grateful look.

"I'm only surprised it isn't as green as everything else that's fallen from there," he says. "Or that it's not -- I don't know, turning to cheese halfway down. Much more preferable to the damp."

"As long as the velocity isn't too high," Cullen says, after a moment to consider this, and also to peel off his socks and lay them out. "You'd get a nasty knock on the head."

"Depends on the type of cheese, too, I'd expect." Thoughtfully, after he's taken another bite of his food. "A nice solid chedder, absolutely, you'd be laid up in the healer's for days. Brie would just splatter about, though."

Cullen sticks his feet toward the fire, wiggling his toes.

"The higher you go, the colder it gets. So who's to say it wouldn't be frozen when it fell?"

"Fair point. A very fair point."

He grins, fleeting but geniune.

"Might have to change to cheese three-quarters of the way down instead, just to be extra-safe."

Alistair is -- friendly?

The set of Cullen's shoulders eases a little.

"Only mostly frozen, then."

"The better to preserve it on a long journey."

He polishes off his share of the jerky.

"Maybe that'll be Corypheus's next attack if we ask nicely. Or start a rumor that everyone in Thedas is terribly allergic to cheese."

Cullen -- well. Cullen inches a little closer to the fire.

Cautiously: "Is that the magister? The one who..." He points a finger straight up.

Alistair nods.

Quieter: "He's begun ripping into the Wardens as well." He drags a hand over his hair; quirks a rueful eyebrow at Cullen. "Which is why I'm living in a cave at the edge of town, waiting for the moment someone yells 'aaah, a mage!' and gathers a friendly mob to come say hello."

Feet properly toasty, Cullen draws his knees closer to his chest.

"Why the Wardens? -- if you want to talk about it," he says hastily. "I can -- I don't know. Something about the weather. Something else."

"I'd talk about my dead mother just to make conversation right now," says Alistair, still wry, but smiling. He throws a glance over his shoulder toward the makeshift desk; sighs, a little, as the humor leaches from him.

"I don't know yet," he admits. "He wants to use us somehow; that much is certain. But why us, specifically -- I don't know."

He looks back to Cullen.

"Not too long ago, every single Warden in Orlais began to hear their Calling. Not a true Calling, though. I did enough digging to find that much. Corypheus might simply think we'll all run scared, and run straight to him for protection. Seems like an awfully simple plan for an ancient magister from the dawn of time, though."

Cullen furrows his brow. "That's -- a way to control Wardens, then? This Calling?"

"Through fear, perhaps."

Alistair scrapes at the ground with a thumbnail.

"The Calling means we're close to death. It means it's time to say our goodbyes and head to the Deep Roads to fall with our weapons in hand, slaughtering as many darkspawn as we can on the way down. Our last noble hurrah." He shrugs. "We all face it gladly, but it's not as if we wake up every morning and think, 'wow, I hope today's the day I start hearing the song of my own impending demise!'"

"It's a literal song, then, isn't it." Questioning. "You really would rather I talk. It helps."

"Yes."

Another crooked smile.

"It's the best way I can explain it to someone who'll never hear it: a damned annoying song you can't get out of your head."

Cullen rubs at his face. "That's..." Visibly searching for a word. "Awful."

Then he draws himself up. "Right. Well. Conversation. What d'you want to talk about?"

"Well..."

He settles in more comfortably, knees half-drawn to his chest, one arm slung across them.

"Crestwood's a rather miserable place, we can all agree. What brings you through here?"