The insult barely grazes him. Or maybe it wraps around him, more accurately, like a familiar old blanket. A wool one. Scratchy. Kind of funny-smelling. Not exactly pleasant. But familiar. He grins for a split second, but the bear and the boy both keep him from getting too comfortable. He looks at the child, sword still hanging unused in his hand, before Morrigan's ice jerks his attention back to their attacker.

Right.

"I'm from here," he reminds her, which. Doesn't actually negate her point. If His Highness kept Her Majesty from formally exiling Alistair from Ferelden, the general idea that he should keep his distance was at least implied. And there are no darkspawn in these particular snow covered hills. He has no excuse.

But on the other hand, he's from here. And on a third hand, this is not the time to argue about who should be where. The only place Alistair should really be is closer to the bear, cutting it.

He goes to do that. It's busy roaring in pain and confusion, swiping blindly with its claws--Alistair pulls his shield off his back in time to deflect one swinging paw and slash beneath its shoulder.