His grip is gentle, all things considered. Lightly cupping Lasulahn's wrist like a delicate bird, thumb smoothing across his palm- avoiding the edges of the anchor as he wouldn't dare presume to touch it. He might get cursed with similar luck or something of the like if he weren't so careful. Habit has him seeking out nodes of tension, gently smoothing them away before he can think about it- he's done much the same for those he was close to over the years. His fellow crows, The Warden and their party, Leliana, Josephine after one too many letters left her with a cramped wrist.

"And that is a useful tool on occasion, and a difficult hurdle all it's own on others." Zevran's lips quirk as he releases Lasulahn's hand before he gets any ideas one way or another. The man is lovely to be certain but he does not know how long he may remain and-

Well.

The hero always dies. That the warden survived is something of a surprise but heroes are not often that lucky. "I've dice if you know how to play, cards, tales from the Blight- those are often quite popular- in my room I've a mandolin if you wish for a more musical evening or-"

Don't offer it, Zevran, it will not end well.

Don't.

Do not.

"Massage oils. It is difficult to carry such weight at all times, is it not?"

Brasca.