Alistair was keenly aware that the sergeant's men were watching him with a great deal more caution than their leader possessed, but he tried to ignore their pressing stares and continued to casually walk alongside the dwarven woman. He wasn't here for a fight, and body language said a lot more than words; rather than display tension, he kept his hands at his sides, and posture relaxed as he listened to their story. It wasn't until they had drawn closer to camp that he felt suddenly apprehensive; if he weren't already following Lythe's stare, his head would have whipped around to find the source of his alarm as it was being cast.
He was a Templar-in-training once; he had studied mages and could still sense their magic at work, almost like it was a faint odor that was triggering distant memories. This unexpected display had sparked an old instinct that was hard to resist -- his fist clenched and he caught himself about to reach for his sword, but stopped before his twitch could go too far and he would cause others to startle and draw their own weapons on him or anyone else. No one was in danger, and this was not blood magic. But it was still something worth investigating further with caution.
"Maker's breath..." he gasped, watching the petite woman's hands glow blue with a spell that he'd become all too familiar with over the years, though the lack of scars it left allowed for no evidence of this fact. His pace quickened without much thought to those following behind, and soon enough he had closed the gap between himself, the little healer, and the subject of her spell. That feeling still lingered in the cold air. Alistair found himself gawking down at the dwarves, amazement plain to see on his face. His thoughts were racing faster than his mouth could catch up to: "Did you just... You couldn't-- You're a-- But we didn't think-- Dagna did it, then. She really did it."
Once again, he was stumbling, tripping, over his own tongue -- not that this was a situation that shouldn't have shocked him into incoherency. Alistair had to remind himself to breathe and show some manners. In addition to staring at them and sputtering, he had also just barged in on what seemed like a private moment, if they had hidden themselves out of the sight of most of the clearing's occupants. Then again, it was a wise choice not to make a public display of her powers -- she didn't appear to be a maleficar, but she was still an apostate. Though he didn't think that they would just happen across a random Templar any time soon, it was better if the Chantry didn't know about her immediately, especially if the Grey Wardens could...But he was getting ahead of himself.
"I apologize for my rudeness. I am Alistair, Commander of the Grey Wardens," he bowed slightly, in the same awkward manner that he had done with Lythe. Introducing himself as such would never sound any less weird to his own ears. "Well, in Ferelden, at least. But I digress. That...glow, that was a healing spell, wasn't it? You're really a mage, aren't you?" The alternate question might have been 'you're really a dwarf, not some disproportionate human mageling, aren't you?', but that was also probably the less appropriate option. It was hard to keep the disbelief and astonishment out of his voice and his expression, brows raised in spite of himself.