He has to shrug at her words. Skyhold was something akin to a fortress, something akin to a blossoming city, and he had placed himself in a way as he had in a bar, fireside and with good company on either side, regardless of what the others thought. Tongue clicks before he speaks, glazing over the lay sister. “Poor Sparkler, it’s a losing fight considering everyone walks by that table.” There are more passageways now, thoroughfares and places still to be uncovered, he knows. However, the majority of the foot traffic still passes his table; not everyone stops there, but the hall is still new, the braziers have just been lit, and the chandelier goes up each night, lit and accompanied by applause. Things were still new and settling in places, the bar served swill, and Blackwall with Sera’s grand aid would try to beat the Iron Bull at darts, the one-eyed warrior somehow always ending up with the upper hand.
“Now, Inquisitor," it is near reprimand, more teasing bleeding into his tone and the laze in his actions, things nearly placed offside. “Isn’t gossip a sin?”
As if he would care or know, there were a few good swears hidden in there. Still, nothing held taught to the chest as one would with faith, rather it would be the faith in others, just like the woman before him, starting to crest over the echelons of fondness into true friendship, something rare yet alive out here in the snowy nowhere to everywhere, a fortress and a gateway all in one. A fortress they almost didn’t make it to, but that is shaken from his head; they are all hearty and hale enough, new titles and new bullshit aside. There is a mental note made, something he had tooled with over the dimming fires in the Frostbacks, the whole camp on edge about the next move, without a leader, until she was found - pulled alive out of the frost, and then he had shoved all else away, so now it resurfaces, a reminder to tell a little bit more about the story about the lyrium, about all of it, but not now.
However, that thought is again pushed aside with praise of all things, mainly for the crossbow that now sits beside him, rather than having any real work done on it, but he shrugs his shoulders. “Sera also realised she can’t lift her recently.” There is a need to dismiss the part about the bow; it’s not entirely true, as he’s more akin to weight and a trigger. It used to be harder, forcing him to think in numbers differently, but that had long since blurred into motion. “Not entirely sure about the last part, but if needed, I have a knife.”
There is a real laugh that is pulled from the depths of somewhere that escapes him when he stands, a huff of cool air materialising as he does it, fingers listing things off. “The Seeker thinks you’re holy, Blackwall was a recruiter that’s all he can do, and well, Tiny is…well, let’s say I find it harder to find a reason to punch him rather than Curl - your general.” He corrects. The chuckle that had come with those statements slowly draws into a hum, one that he swallows when her posture draws, playing into that rather than clearing his throat and gathering his thoughts. It’s only a few steps from the spot he had so dutifully claimed. Still, he tilts his head at her, her form and even the hold on the bow, reminding him that she was the one who had once knocked a trainee onto their ass for fun in training and that has somehow been replaced with something more complex and interwoven, harder than before; however, it is still her.
“These will be incredibly shitty pointers.” Varric reminds; there is almost a need to remind that he doesn’t remember the last time he’s shot a bow, yet that does not materialise. Rather he takes a moment, remembering what had been taught all those years ago, before weights and gearwork, other things taking over that place of knowledge. It is a minor movement, but his hand is careful, guiding her elbow just a bit lower. “There, your elbow is too high.”
“Almost as if your shoulder or your wrist is hurting.”
