Hair the color of spilled blood, yellow-wolf eyes, green vallaslin that curves branch-like across dark skin.
All these things Varric sees, cataloguing in his writer's mind for later. A story swirls around this elf, as of now unformed, unwoven, just waiting for the right person to spin them into a tale for the ages.
The elf doesn't give a name, his voice low and barely audible when he does speak.
It is a musical voice, lilting and soft. Varric wonders how old he is. Certainly considered an adult, at least by Dalish standards.
He seems to get along well enough with Solas, the only other elf in the party, calling him hahren. Only time will tell if this elf, this Herald, will be friend or foe.
Cassandra watches the Herald with dark brown eyes. She is still suspicious. How did he live when the Divine died? Was he really sent by the Maker?
He watches her in return, bright eyes following her as she trains. She ignores him, used to people observing her in action. And if she hits the training dummy a little harder than usual, no one comments on it.
He doesn't care for the title. He is no Herald of Andraste, no prophet of a woman who was burned at a stake hundreds of years ago.
He is bound to Mythal, the All-Mother, and he quietly ignores anyone who addresses him as Andraste's Herald. Solas begins to call him Da'assan, little arrow.
He allows this with a small smile. It is preferable to Herald. Though it is not his name.
Din'assan would be a better choice. The death arrow.
"What exactly is your name?" Sera asks as they ride back to Haven. "You've got to have one, ya?"
The Herald smiles, not saying anything. He only hums softly, nudging his hart forwards.
"Ena'vun," he says in that musical voice and it seems that the entire party quiets to hear him speak. "Lethal'lin, Ar nuva ma josa (kin, I wish you to run)."
The hart rears suddenly and dashes across the ground with a speed that is astounding to watch.
Cassandra knees her charger and gives chase, the rest of the party following after.
They manage to catch up with him at the pass. He is laughing, a bright and sweet noise.
He smiles, then abruptly become serious. "We'll talk to the mages. The Templars are not an option. Am I understood?"
Cassandra blinks and Varric can see the wheels turning in her head.
Solas inclines his head in acceptance and Sera just stares.
"Wot just happened?"
It is the following year as the Inquisition settles into Skyhold, that Varric sees a story begin to unfold.
Cassandra keeps stealing glances at the Inquisitor. And Varric has caught the Inquisitor, now nicknamed Arrow, glancing sidelong at the Seeker.
Bouquets of violets and snowdrops suddenly begin appearing on her training dummies one week after the Inquisition has finally sealed the holes in the walls and she flushes a brilliant red before carefully removing them. Varric is pretty sure she has kept every single one of them.
The two are walking along the battlements, so close that Varric could almost imagine their hands touching, when they start arguing.
He can't hear what is being said but the warrior promptly storms off, leaving Arrow on the battlements alone.
It is moments later that Cassandra returns, face flushed and barely able to keep her eyes on the Inquisitor as she says something that makes Arrow chuckle.
He smiles, and presses a kiss to her cheek. She flushes redder.
They are an odd pair, Seeker and Inquisitor.
"His heart beats faster watching her, bright steel in the morning light, voice raised in triumph. Brighter, bolder, eyes like arrow shafts, lips the color of rose petals," Cole says beside Varric, watching the Inquisitor sparring with Cassandra.
"Kid, what have we said about speaking people's thoughts aloud?"
"But he's happy. The word lingers on his lips. Perfect name almost slipping free. Vhenan. Heart of his heart."
"Kid…" Varric warns.
"And she's glad too. Bright eyes, calloused hands clasped in hers, lips soft, more gentle than she would have thought. Warm despite the cold ice. Sweet, kindness in a place she would have never thought to look. Not like her mage, but new. A good kind of different."
Below in the courtyard, the Inquisitor has deadlocked with the Seeker. He leans over their locked blades to steal a kiss.
"See?" Cole says, grinning. "Happy."
He stumbles, the ground packed and hard beneath his hands. The Anchor sparks, the power of a nearby rift calling to it. He pushes himself up, ignoring the pain. The rift is only a few feet away.
Cassandra yells something but he cannot hear her over the snapping and crackling of the rift. Something slams into him, a glint of steel and he falls.
Pain.
He gasps, lifting his marked hand up. The rift shudders as he brings the power of the Anchor crashing down upon it. With a screech, the green tear in the air slides shut.
He collapses, only now seeing the blade lodged in his side.
Cassandra is at his side, fear and anger and so many emotions swirling in her lovely brown eyes.
He tries to speak. Vhenan. The word just barely escapes him and then there is nothing but dark, inky blackness. And there is no pain.