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The human body is full of blood. I mean, fucking full to the brim. Gushing with the stuff. Elves and dwarves too, actually; elves may be thin and dwarves may be short but they're swimming with the stuff, same as us humans. People are just bags of skin made to hold a body full of blood.

And let me just say that the stuff will get everywhere. I didn't quite believe how far that shit can spurt, not until I sunk a dagger into someone for the first time. Geysers. Rivers. Fountains of blood. I've tried to keep my distance from a kill since then. I've always got my knives holstered to my hips, I'm not stupid; but bows are much more my speed.

Arrows can do quite a bit of damage. Don't dare write them off; otherwise I might take advantage and clock you one between the eyes. Not being in the thick of a fight can facilitate some punishingly critical shots.

I breathe out: a sharp little stream of air over my teeth, past my lips. The index and middle fingers of my left hand extend in perfect unison. The bowstring slackens. The wood of my bow relaxes and seems to let out a breath too. A deadly thin splinter soars away, wobbling with the slightest spiral as it arcs toward the target I painted. I hear a scraping of metal on metal as the tip slides between his armor's scales. The piercing of flesh sounds wet and squishy even through all that layered iron. This all happens faster than it seems it should, certainly faster than my target could contest with. He doesn't have time to expel his dying breath or call out to his Maker. But his body compensates for that; blood surges from the wound like a tidal force. I think it makes an unholy amount of noise: all the sound and fury of a soul leaving its vessel. Crimson waters evacuate with a desperate force; maybe that's what the spirit looks like, what it is. It gets all over, even from this distance. I'm soaked. Somehow I always get soaked.

"You're beautiful when you're bloody." Varric Tethras says next to me. We always fight side-by-side, bringing up the rear of the battlefield.

"You're bloody when you're beautiful." I tell him. He gets it. We stow away our weapons.

The Hanged Man. If you're anyone worth knowing in the Underworld, it's your favorite tavern. I throw myself so hard against my usual seat that it complains. If you're anyone worthy of interest, you've got a usual seat. Varric takes the seat against the wall. If you're anyone important, your usual seat is the one overlooking the whole tavern. Varric is by and large the most renowned, interesting, and important man in the professional Underworld; high compliments for one so low to the ground. But I can't help but gush over him, literally over him. I even say he's taller than the average dwarf. He likes that. I know he does. It's harder to hide a smile without the customary braided beard.

"You're such a manly man." I tease him because he's lounging against the wall like some kind of king, surveying his territory; so very handsome and perfectly posed. He's laughing. It's his way; but he sits straight as soon as I mention it. We're the same height when we're here at the table. I tell him he has such gorgeous eyes and to not hide them from me. He likes that too, but he's not about to let me monopolize the teasing in this conversation.

"So exactly how many of those thugs did you know by name?" He's talking about our scuffle in the Lowtown streets with Hawke earlier. He's asking how many I know, or knew rather; I'm a second too slow on a retort.

"Oh, I get it: you must have lost count."

"I'll take that as a compliment to my skills." I'm quicker to reply this time. A smirk comes to my lips when called. Varric holds up his hands.

"I'm not foolish enough to ever do anything but compliment you, my dear." He pauses for emphasis, "Have I commented on your ravishing and cruelly distracting beauty yet today?"

"Well, not yet in the form of badly written poetry." I joked. My eyes demanded it though.

"Bah! Only the most soulfully exquisite poetry for you." Varric scoffed, "Isabela has the corner on bad poetry, I think."

I turned momentarily to listen in on the only noble in the tavern tonight; he insists on lavishing her with romantic verses of his own design that manage to be both touchingly heartfelt and nauseatingly graphic vignettes of morbidity. I'd invite her over to the haven of our table if I didn't also believe he would frolic along any path she took. I liked the pirate just fine, but who wanted her plus-one around? Varric wasn't arguing. Smart move. But Varric never makes anything but smart moves, to be sure.

Varric is a powerful friend to count on your side. Plus he's more than easy on the eyes. I like to tell him so. I like that he likes it.