He wearily rubbed his face, suddenly feeling decades older than he actually was, resigned to watching this Pavak abandon one life on the run for another. Thren helped gather the Wicked Grace deck, passed it back into Reara's hands. "I'll pay you back at the ship." He was careful not to say it by name, unaware who was listening now that they were standing.
He stepped from around the table, moisture gathering at the back of his neck. He glanced around the room, patrons didn't seem to take any notice of them.
Reara chuckled, lips quirking upward. "And Sev, and the kid, and probably Vi, because she had to witness such a pathetic game of Wicked Grace."
He wanted to pull Pavak by the arm, tell him that he'd talk to him later, or help him somehow.
Thren didn't. It wasn't a long trip, but it was still possible that the two apostates could kill each other. There were bands of Chasind, the rumored Rogue Circle, and there was likely a place for Pavak somewhere in Ferelden.
If Thren could help he would, and he didn't address the cold chill of irony against his spine. Could he really assure Pavak that there was a place for even a hedge mage in Ferelden? How could he find a place for a stranger before he found one for himself?