There were times in the past where the Masters of the Crows would try to weed out the weak, and make everyone in the cell stronger. Times when they would lace their ale or food with poison. Some would die, many would become sick, but everyone felt the effects in some way. This reminds Zevran of the times when the fever hit, the cold chills came, and the aches begin.

He sits against the wall, his knees up to his chest as he rests his head against them. He feels so drained....and then the other man starts talking, something about medicine. Honestly he wasn't paying much attention.

"Have it then." He gives a tired shrug.