Not that important. He doesn't smile—let's not get crazy—but the responsive skeptical slant of his eyebrows isn't entirely ill-humoured. Possibly the happy talk of murdering slavers carrying him through the downer of mage rebellions. (He can't begin to conceive of a Hawke who supported the Templars. No one ever chooses that route in the game anyway.)

"I think it would take more than one person to divert Anders from his course," he says, dry.

But it's Hawke's name everyone shouts. And even if Hawke—Marian—was herself not a mage, there was Bethany to think of. He assumes that's a constant as well. He rolls the hilt of the sword in his hand, blade turning back and forth to catch artificial light. His guard lowers just enough to allow one foot to fidget against the floor, which isn't very far, but still a bit.

The cat lies back down, half out from under the bed, and watches Hawke with placid interest. It's used to strangers by now.

Fenris hesitates. It's a very obvious hesitation: a glance away at nothing, twitching ears. "Was I—he—" This is very confusing. "—very insulting?"