"Does anyone need healing?"
Arm searing from a lucky—unlucky for the fool that had injured him—swipe of a blade, Fenris stewed in his silence—and the blood of the unfortunate band of raiders stupid enough to attack them. Even so he expected the soothing rush of the mage's healing magic to sweep over him. Only it didn't.
"All fine over here, Blondie. Didn't even get blood on my coat this time."
Why had the mage not—Fenris turned away from the thought. It mattered not. He wanted nothing to do with the mage and his magic anyways.
"Ah yes," Hawke chimed, a teasing smile curving her lips. "The real reason you chose range over melee."
Varric shrugged with a grin, "We can't all bathe in the blood of our enemies like you and Broody."
"But it does such wonders for the skin."
"No healing then?" Anders said, pointedly ignoring Fenris. "We're all fit as a fiddle?"
"Yes, yes," Hawke responded. "We're all—oh. Fenris. You are hurt."
Whatever game the mage was playing at, Fenris would not humor him.
"A minor flesh wound. I will tend to it later."
"Or Anders could tend to it now."
"Tend to what?" Anders brushed some imaginary dusty from his coat. "Everyone said they're fine."
Hawke stared at him nonplussed, "Anders."
"Now if someone were to tell me they needed healing. Well that would be quite different."
The woman sighed and glanced over, "Fenris?"
Fenris glowered. He would not beg for the mage's aid.
Hawke crossed her eyes and made a face, "Right."