"When we can afford it, probably not." He can see it happening eventually, making it a column, a statue plinth surrounding the real statue, monument to the fallen. Something, anything other than what sits exposed, a nightmare given form.

It's somewhat surprising to hear him critical of his homeland when he has seemed defensive at other times. His esteem raises in Cullen's eyes. He appreciates practicality and a willingness to face and speak truths, especially difficult ones. His hazel eyes light with amusement, although he's controlled enough not to laugh. "You don't want much, do you? Good luck catching him at home. I believe it's the queen who tends the home fires while her husband wanders." It could sound disparaging of Anora, he realizes, when nothing is further from the truth. She's the shrewd steady hand on the reins, Alistair by some accounts a perpetual child who would rather keep adventuring than shoulder the responsibility of a kingdom. If it works for them and Ferelden, who is he to criticize?

"I hope you like dogs." More amusement. More than any other complaint he ever hears of Ferelden, it's the smell and the noise. Mud, dog shit and wet dog, and constant barking.