It's remarkable that Lasulahn can find somewhere less comfortable than Haven, and yet, Skyhold seems to be precisely that. The stone walls feel as though they close in on him the longer he lays in the darkness, and the beds are so deep as to be suffocating in some strange way. He has admitted that part to no one, even Josephine. A mage and an elf both, Lasulahn can only imagine how people would talk about how the knife-eared Inquisitor is too savage to be comfortable in a proper bed.

He's grown used to the cold, a little, though not enough that he ever wears less than several layers- the only exception being his feet, with only a knit wrap that leaves his toes and heels bare. He'd tried boots as the humans wore, and to say he didn't care for it would be an understatement.

When Zevran joins him on the battlements, the Inquisitor greets the rogue with a smile- and a look of empathy. "Stone seems to hold on to the cold, doesn't it?" he answers, voice soft but tinged with humor. He tugs his cloak around himself a little tighter. "I miss the meadows and the forests of the Free Marches dearly. I'd happily take the summer insects for a warm night again."

For a moment, he too gazes outward, but soon returns his attention to the other. "I could light us a little fire, if you like."