[Pale eyes do not lift in greeting, the Forgemaster’s expression betraying no surprise at Zevran’s arrival. What acknowledgement he does offer is in the soft snort that escapes him and in his smile, fading at the edges as he mulls the words over. A rather impudent remark for one whom had virtually begged him for a hastier passage into death, he muses grimly, but this too comes as no surprise.]

‘tis not under my dominion. [A gloved finger absently nuzzles its chest-feathers and it croons, hopping onto his wrist.] It does and takes as it pleases… [He produces a small scrap of bread from under his cloak which is quickly plucked from hand.] …and offers a moment’s company in the hopes of receiving a little more. A clever little creature.

[Leaving the thought to hang in the air, he meets the elf’s gaze at last, a faint, lingering smirk on his lips.] ...You are late. [He observes in his lackadaisical, matter-of-factly tone.] I take it that it isn’t the bread you have come for. I'm afraid I haven't any left, anyway.