This is, of course, a great deal more pleasant than the last time he'd slipped from one reality to another- it is not so quick and strange as the Fade, not so obviously rife with demons. Aside from the dull ache of the shard in his palm, he could very well imagine that this was simply another shade of home. Zevran has made his way with care since his own arrival not long ago, hood up to obscure the tips of his pointed ears, the curling tattoos on his face marking him as (formerly) of the Crows.

Not that anyone here seems to know of them, which is surprising enough. Not that he's seen many other elves which is-

Odd, but not entirely unlikely. Alienages are a thing, after all, perhaps he simply has not found one here just yet.

Likewise he hasn't seen anyone that seems quite as other as he, robed and armored, everyone else wearing lighter, simpler clothing that does little to protect. At least until he comes upon a very fine fellow positively radiating magic that gives him pause. "And that isn't ominous."

Murmured from the shadows, Zevran slips out, hood up, eyes gleaming, smile wide, posture open. Harmless for all that he has the poise of a dancer, an assassin about him. "What has someone so lovely looking so preteurbed?"