"None apparently, shh, Mi Pinga shh." He pats Jensen's shoulder kindly, shaking out a stolen sheet from one of the empty houses, shaking it out to drape across his chest, covering him to prevent hair from falling onto his clothing. "Zevran will take care of everything."

The cut does not sound terribly unfamiliar- he draws his fingers through the hair at the sides of Jensen's head, squinting. Contemplating his scalp, the length, the texture.

"And that is what you would like once again- or is that all you've a taste for?" Short would suit his face best, yes, and would be simple enough. Idly Zevran began massaging the nape of Jensen's neck, considering the bottles lined up on the table. "Mhmm. Listen, my friend. Listen. Can you not hear it? 'Please, please Ser Pinga, we are thirsty, we are dying-' The air is too dry, the weather too cold. Your hair splits if you look at it funny and as it is? A great many are looking at you funny."