He puffs at the accusation, even though he doesn't immediately recognize the woman making it. He does smooth his hands over his mustache and curls the ends, though it's more for show than any sort of actual concern. It's well oiled, after all. A bit of water isn't going to disturb it. He turns afterward, and pauses, staring. The last time he saw her, she was turning against the largest demon he'd ever seen, distracting it to enable their escape from the...Fade. Perhaps this was all an elaborate dream.

That seemed unlikely, though. His expression softened slightly, perhaps because the sparse clothing in which he'd found himself was starting to dry a bit.

"If a brief dip in a freezing fountain was enough to damage my facial hair, I'd have to rethink my entire facade, Hawke." And yet, it's a comfort to know she's here, that something here was familiar midst all this madness.