All of this could be a lie. They have, so far as Felassan is concerned, recently and definitely established how much Solas trusts him and his judgment and how included Felassan might be in any further world-restoration endeavors. If Solas harbors any hope of returning to Thedas to finish the work, this Inquisitor of his attached by puppet strings and pet names, it would be reasonable enough — not necessarily correct, but reasonable — to fear Felassan might take a shine to her and give him away in the meantime.
It's possible. But Felassan's always had a good sense for people, what they're thinking and feeling, even when he hasn't been following them around for six thousand years, and Solas' reputation as a liar was always somewhat exaggerated. Solas seems genuine. The possibility of this all being a ploy seems distant enough for Felassan to set it aside. Not to throw it away, no, but to pocket it in case something else arises to warrant pulling it back out, and in the meantime carry on more or less as if it isn't there.
His smile is guarded and wistful and wry. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's close enough to the wall that he hardly has to tip back to rest his shoulder blades against it, the stone cooling even through his layers of shirt and tunic and cloak.
"Congratulations," he says. His tone is dry, but it's the dryness of any happily unattached man in history, mortal or not, saying you're in for it now to a friend with hearts in their eyes. "You always did like a woman with an army."
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It's possible. But Felassan's always had a good sense for people, what they're thinking and feeling, even when he hasn't been following them around for six thousand years, and Solas' reputation as a liar was always somewhat exaggerated. Solas seems genuine. The possibility of this all being a ploy seems distant enough for Felassan to set it aside. Not to throw it away, no, but to pocket it in case something else arises to warrant pulling it back out, and in the meantime carry on more or less as if it isn't there.
His smile is guarded and wistful and wry. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's close enough to the wall that he hardly has to tip back to rest his shoulder blades against it, the stone cooling even through his layers of shirt and tunic and cloak.
"Congratulations," he says. His tone is dry, but it's the dryness of any happily unattached man in history, mortal or not, saying you're in for it now to a friend with hearts in their eyes. "You always did like a woman with an army."