It's funny the turns life takes occasionally. Here he is, chasing down an apostate like he thought he never would and enjoying it too.

Alistair is utterly focused on his target as he pounds after Anders, gaze fixed on the mage's back as he darts around flower beds and kicks up snow. He's gaining on Anders, sure that victory is near at hand, the pair of them racing towards the centre of the gardens.

And suddenly Anders swerves to the side and Alistair is skidding, trying to turn away from the fountain looming up before him. His own momentum carries him forward, legs hitting the wall at the edge painfully and sending him tumbling through the thin layer of ice and into the water with a splash. Just as quickly as he falls in he scrambles back out with a shout, landing on the ground in damp, pathetic huddle.

"Maker that's cold!" Plucking at his wet clothes he looks around for Anders, pouting miserably in case his opponent is thinking about pressing his advantage. If he looks pathetic enough it might dissuade any further attacks. "I surrender! You win, I give up." This on top of the snow down his back is more than enough for one day.