Zevran did not have it in him to be shocked that his little sojourn back to Thedas did not last -- but it did seem cruel, even by a god's standards, that he had not been given the chance to set eyes on his true home even once during his brief visit. He's beginning to think he never will again. It is a bitter pill to swallow, and he's been forced to do so twice in one lifetime; a third might surely be enough to kill that little glimmer of hope left inside of him for good.
(then there are the thoughts of his time in Kirkwall that continue to plague him in quiet moments, when he cannot busy himself with anything else)
And now this island has the audacity to snow.
Snow is something Zevran has never truly gotten used to, even after so much experience with the terrible stuff back in Fereldan. He is a man suited for warm climates. Beaches. Sun. Not this oppressive cold that seeps into his very bones and sends his teeth chattering. To think he had once found the idea of winter frost romantic. Now he's been spending much of his days curled up under blankets whenever he does not need to leave the apartment. It's pathetic.
He is in his little cocoon of blankets when he hears a knock at the front door. It is sorely tempting not to move, let the visitor take the hint that they should leave; particularly if they happen to be here for his roommate, who is not home. But he gets up to answer, anyway, probably looking every bit as grumpy as he feels.
@mageunderground