Soon enough, the letter's done. Or as done as it's going to get without pulling out another four sheets of paper to cover with meaningless doodles. Alistair's pastry is done, too; all that remains are a few crumbs, which he picks at with his thumb and forefinger.

He could stay long enough to write another letter. He owes one to Mia. No harm in checking in on Warden Cousland, too -- he hasn't heard much from her since that letter she sent the Inquisitor. He could tell her about Lel, assuming the news hasn't reached her yet. (It may not have. It's recent enough that Alistair still devolves into wordless confused noises if the thought crosses his mind.)

Or he could free up the table for someone else and leave Cullen be.

A quick shuffle through his remaining paper proves the latter option's the best one -- he doesn't have enough left to write anything of substantial length. Gathering his things, Alistair rises.

"I'll be in our room." Soft. "See you later?"