[The tips of his ears have gone red, not that anyone ought to be noticing. He certainly isn't going to draw attention to it, but there it is, stark against white hair as he busies himself with giving Possibly-Razikale some really good scritches. His legs have gone numb, but that's the price of having a wolf in one's lap.]

Beside you, then.

[Yes. Of course he'll stay. It takes no persuasion at all to spend the night here nowadays, with this person who has roused him from so many terrifying nightmares. It's been weeks, the two of them trading off, and sometimes Fenris ends up moving up to Astarion's bed, and then again sometimes he lingers on the floor. They don't talk about it, really— it isn't a forbidden subject, no, but most times it's easier not to think about the nightly horrors their minds put them through.

Anyway: Razikale, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he'd heard that name before. It's familiar. It's—]

You're going to name her after a Tevinter magister of old.

[An impatient wuff from his lap, and his fingers resume their steady pace.]

In the Free Marches. While we're at war with Tevinter.